#i hope y'all love it as much as i do

[aparticularbandit]

Of An Endless Infinity: Technical Memory (IV)

Summary: What does it mean to be the Ultimate Hope?

Is it only hope on the big scale?  That the world is not so dark and depressing and destructive as the villain in front of you says it is?  That you can win, even when everything else says that you can’t?  That maybe it is better to live your life, even afraid, than it is to keep yourself sequestered away, alone?

Does it not also mean hope on the small scale?

Or: Makoto sacrifices himself in the hope that the other survivors might be able to help Junko. It remains to be seen whether this will actually succeed.

Chapter Rating: T. Fic Rating: M for Danganronpa reasons.

This chapter comes with mood music. I would suggest listening to it while you read.

TW for implications/references to sexual assault.

AO3

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MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

“Will you leave a mark?”

Kyoko blinks twice.  “Huh?”  She glances up, unsure that she’s heard Junko correctly, unsure that she even knows what that means.  What, like a scar?

Junko just points to the spot where the line of her jaw meets the slope of her neck.  “Right here,” she says a little more clearly.  “Can you leave a mark?”

Oh.

“You mean a hickey.”

“Yeah.  Duh.”  Junko rolls her eyes.  “But that sounds so crude.  So impersonal.  A mark sounds like….”  She laughs lightly.  “Well, like you’re leaving a mark.”  Her eyes light up, lip curling with merriment.  “You could bite me instead, but that doesn’t seem like your style.”

Kyoko ignores that comment and stares at the soft stretch of skin beneath Junko’s bright red fingernail.  “I’ve never done that before.”  Her gaze flicks back up to meet Junko’s.  “I’m not sure I know how.”

“Oh, it’s easy!”  Junko flashes her a bright grin and then leans close, breath hot against Kyoko’s skin.  “I can show you.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

After The Tragedy.

“Junko isn’t on the list.”

If Kyoko were anyone else, if she allowed her emotions to get the best of her, she would move to her father’s the headmaster’s desk, slam both of her hands on it, and then lean forward in as intimidating a manner as she can.  She would argue her case with a clear sense of blatant logic.  Not that she believes he’ll listen to that.

No, the headmaster believes that each of the Ultimates he has already chosen are those who can survive this Tragedy, even if they’re attacked, even if they’re somehow torn out of their safe building; the Ultimate Soldier, Martial Artist, and Baseball Star to defend them if the worst should happen (Leon can throw a grenade just as well as he can a baseball); the Ultimate Pop Idol, Writing Prodigy, and Fanfic Creator to inspire the world (Toko can fight about the legitimacy of fanfic all she wants, but after the world is destroyed, anything goes); the Ultimate Moral Compass, Biker Gang Leader, and Affluent Progeny to lead them once he was gone (as if they wouldn’t argue every step of the way); the Ultimate Gambler, Luck, and Clairvoyant to help direct them when they can’t figure out what to do next (risk everything, apparently, and hope that luck saves them); the Ultimate Detective to root out the worst among them (to find Ultimate Despair); the Ultimate Programmer for obvious reasons; the Ultimate Swimmer for less obvious ones.  It would be easy to argue the use of the Ultimate Fashionista; someone has to know something about clothes.

But Kyoko doesn’t go that route.

She doesn’t use herself as bait, either.

“Mukuro won’t agree if Junko doesn’t go with her.”

The headmaster clasps his hands together on his desk and sighs.  “We don’t have enough dorms.  Are you suggesting I leave one of your other classmates out?  Or perhaps she and Mukuro should share a room?”

Kyoko doesn’t even hesitate.

“She can share with me.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

“Show me?” Kyoko echoes, eyes widening.  She searches Junko’s blue-grey eyes, the calm just before the storm, and notes the sparkle like rainfall within them, the grin on her lips.  Her heart pounds.  “You didn’t ask just so you could leave a mark on me, did you?”

She knows the answer to that question, but she has to ask.

She needs to hear it.

But Junko’s grin disappears, which means she doesn’t really know the answer at all, and she plops back flat on the bed, arms crossed beneath her head.  “You’re no fun, Kyokyo!” she whines.  Then she pushes herself back up, presses a sloppy kiss on Kyoko’s cheek, and collapses again.  Her eyes darken as she stares up at the ceiling, the sparkle within them now lightning instead of gentle rain.  “That’s an added benefit,” she admits.  “Mostly I just want people to know that…that I’m taken.”  Her lips press together.  She searches the ceiling as though counting the popcorn bits, then sighs.  “I have another one of those stupid interviews tomorrow, and….”

“All of the boyfriend questions, right.  You’ve mentioned that,” Kyoko murmurs when Junko’s voice trails off.  She reaches over and gently tugs strands of Junko’s soft pink hair through her gloved fingertips.  “Won’t leaving a mark make it worse?”

Junko snorts.  “It’ll make the creeps leave me alone.”  Her eyes grow even darker.  “Most of them, anyway.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

The Tragedy.

“What’s…what’s Ultimate Despair?”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

“What’s the big case you’re working on?”  Junko flops onto her stomach, legs up in the air, feet kicking every now and again.

There’s a movie playing in the background, but the movie isn’t important.  It’s just background noise.  They’re supposed to be working on their homework, but it’s clear that Junko’s been half invested in the movie and half doodling on the paper she’s supposed to be writing her essay on.  More doodling than paying attention.  (Sometimes she says a line before one of the characters does, which warms Kyoko to her.  It makes her smile – a soft, small thing.)

Not that Kyoko can really say anything.  She’s been sitting with her homework out, unable to focus on it, focusing instead on the mystery of Izuru Kamukura and the Tragedy of Hope’s Peak Academy.  She doesn’t believe he’s the culprit.  That’s too easy.  Besides, Yasuke Matsuda was involved; he’d hidden bodies of the Steering Committee members, even if he likely hadn’t murdered them outright, which means he was working with someone (or protecting them).  If only she’d been able to contact him—

“Client confidentiality,” Kyoko answers, even though technically speaking she doesn’t have a client anymore.

Junko rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue.  “Boo.”  She glances over her shoulder.  “If you told me, I could help you!  We could be partners!  Wouldn’t that be great?”  She winks.

No.

It would not be great.

The last time I had a partner—

Kyoko avoids the question (it’s a joke, so she’s not sure it counts as avoidance) and instead asks, “You were friends with Matsuda, right?”

“Yeah, sure.  He was my best friend before he, you know, ghosted me.”  Junko raises an eyebrow.  “Why do you ask?”  Then she scoots closer.  “Is he part of your big case?”

“What can you tell me about—”

“He is, isn’t he?”  Junko grins, bright and loud and full of nothing but herself, full of everything that makes her beautiful.  “What do you want to know?”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

After The Tragedy.

“They said we can’t go outside.”  Junko rests her head against Kyoko’s chest and stares up at the ceiling.  “Something about air pollution.  You really think it’s that bad?”

Kyoko brushes her fingers gingerly through Junko’s hair.  It’s just as much a soothing motion for her as it is for Junko; she listens to her gentle hum and calms.  “I don’t know.”

Junko curls on her side and props herself up on one elbow.  “Do you think we’re going to die here?”

She smells like blue raspberries.

“I don’t know,” Kyoko repeats, softer this time, fingers pulled away, to themselves.  All day, her mind has been whirring over the mystery of Ultimate Despair.  Who they are.  Where they came from.  How they whipped up the Reserve Course Students into such a frenzy.  What their ultimate goal is. How Izuru Kamukura might be involved, if he even is involved, although something tells her that’s half of a red herring.

Yasuke Matsuda is dead.  She’s certain of that.  Mukuro still won’t say anything about him.  And Junko—

“You know, if we do die locked in this old school building,” Junko says, glancing up at Kyoko fondly, “I’m glad I was with you.  It’ll be the best way to die.”

“You won’t die.”

Not again, not again, not again.

This isn’t like Yui, this isn’t a challenge mailed in a black envelope with all of the means and the location of the murder written in some fancy script like this is some sort of game, this isn’t another moment where someone she love falls because she didn’t pay enough attention.

She couldn’t save Yui.

She will save—

“How can you say that?  You said you didn’t know—”

Kyoko leans down.  Kisses her.  Tilts Junko’s head back.  Meets her eyes.  “You won’t die.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

“I thought we weren’t telling anyone,” Kyoko murmurs, uncertain.

“Oh, I won’t mention you.”  Junko reaches up and boops her nose lightly.  “I won’t say anything about it at all!  They’ll just….”  Her expression falters.  “They’ll know that someone….”  She sighs, leans up, and brushes her hair back over one shoulder.  “It’s like how Matsuda used to go with me to events, when I was just starting out.  Like my own personal bouncer.”  She giggles, then grows somber.  “We had to stop when I got big; he didn’t want all that attention, and we weren’t, you know, ever actually together, but like.”  The sigh – full of longing – escapes through her lips.  “Guys left me alone.  I miss that.”

For not the first time, a strong sense of hatred for a boy she has never met rushes through Kyoko.  Junko needed you, she thinks, and you just left her.  How could you do that?

But she can’t – won’t – say any of that.

Instead, Kyoko’s brow furrows, and she returns to the primary topic at hand.  “If you show me,” she says, still uncertain, “where would you leave your mark?”

Junko draws one of Kyoko’s gloved hands to her, pushes back the edge of her sleeve, and places her fingers on the inside of her wrist, just over her mottled blue vein.  “Here.  Where the only one who would ever see it is you.”  She glances up at her through her thick lashes.  “Or did you have somewhere else in mind?”

“No.”  Kyoko’s heart beats once, hard, in her chest.  She licks her lips, swallows.  “Show me.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

“Hey.”  Junko grabs Kyoko’s tie and pulls her towards her.  “Your tie’s a little sloppy, Ms. Ultimate Detective.”

Kyoko scans around them.  There’s no one she can see.  That’s the good thing about the campus: between the new building and the courtyard and the dorms and the stores, there are a lot of places they can hide from prying eyes.  She relaxes, lips curving into the gentlest of smiles.  “Will you fix it for me, Ms. Enoshima?”

Junko hums.  Her fingers walk up Kyoko’s tie.  “I suppose,” she murmurs, tightening it deftly, “but you’ll owe me a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

“I believe you know exactly what sort.”  Junko bats her eyes at her.  Then she tugs on Kyoko’s tie again, drawing her into a kiss.  She brushes her nose against hers as they part, breath hot on Kyoko’s lips.  “Meet me at mine after class?”

After Junko leaves, Kyoko finds out they weren’t as alone as they thought.

When Mukuro beats her near senseless, she doesn’t say a word.

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

After The Tragedy.

“You were just using me for research?”

Junko throws Kyoko’s notebook at her, but Kyoko dodges it deftly.  For all that her girlfriend does just fine in their phys. ed class, her aim is absolutely atrocious.  Still – her eyes are red-rimmed, tears pooling but not spilling over.

“I told you never to read my—”

“Because you were just using me,” Junko asserts, voice raw and choked.  She crosses her arms, holds herself together, but doesn’t go anywhere.  “I should have listened to Mukie,” she spits out.  “She always said you were a bad egg.”

Kyoko hesitates.  Part of her wants to walk over to her girlfriend, to try and comfort her, but she’s never been very good at physical comfort.  Besides, she isn’t sure that’s what Junko wants.  So instead, she sits on their shared mattress and asks, “Do you know why I wear my gloves?”

Junko glares at her.  Sniffs once.  “No.  Because your hands are all scarred from burns or something.  No.”

“When my hands were healing, they helped me from scratching the skin off.  My doctors thought the additional pressure would help, too, and that they would keep my burns from getting hurt while they were still healing.  I have nerve damage, so everything is still sensitive to everything.  Sometimes it hurts to touch anything, although I’ve grown used to that.”  Kyoko lets out a huff of a laugh. “And the scars are extremely ugly.  I didn’t want to deal with any pitying looks, and I didn’t want people to ask about them.  They’re not there for them.  They’re there for me.”

As a reminder of what happens when she fails.

As a reminder of who bears the consequences.

(As a reminder that it isn’t her.)

“Why are you telling me this?” Junko asks, gaze softening, arms still crossed. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“The other benefit of wearing gloves is much more specific to my Talent.”  Kyoko hesitates again, then forces herself to continue.  “I’m a detective; wearing gloves means that I never leave my fingerprints on anything and so cannot contaminate any evidence by touching it.”  She presses her lips together.  Hesitates a third time.  Then she slowly takes both gloves off.

“Kyoko—”

Kyoko holds her hands in the air, stares at them, presents them to her girlfriend.  “When I’m with you….”  She shakes her head.  “I can’t say it.  Even in my head, it sounds cheesy.  Worse than those romance movies you pretend to like.”

“Pretend to like?” Junko echoes as she finally sits next to her, as she takes Kyoko’s hands careful in her own.

Kyoko meets her eyes.  “I can tell when you get bored, Junko.  You stop paying attention within the first fifteen minutes.  Sometimes you quote lines before the actors can say them.”

“Because I love them.”  Junko runs her fingers along Kyoko’s scars, gentle and soft, but it doesn’t matter; her touch is still sharp along her sensitive skin, sharp and sometimes numb.  “Say it anyway.”

Kyoko takes a deep breath, removes one of her hands from Junko’s, and lifts it to cup her face.  It’s softer than she’d imagined it would be.  She rubs her thumb along her skin, and Junko leans into her touch.  “I want to leave my fingerprints all over you.”

Junko hums, curves, kisses the palm of her hand.  “Then why don’t you?  It’s not like I’d mind.”  She laughs, a choked sound.  “It might be nice to be contaminated by someone like you, for once.”

When Kyoko kisses her, she feels the tears trickle down Junko’s cheeks, tastes the salt of them, and thinks—

404: Memory Not Found.

Rebooting.

3.

2.

1.

….

404: Memory Not Found.

Rebooting.

3.

2.

1.

….

404: Memory Not Found.

Rebooting.

3.

2.

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

Junko sucks at her skin like drawing poison from her veins.

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

“You need to see someone, Kyokyo.”  Junko runs her fingers light along the blackening bruise at Kyoko’s ribs.  When they brush against one rib, Kyoko flinches in pain.  “I don’t think Mukie broke anything, but she might have cracked a rib, or you could have some real bad internal bleeding that might come back to bite you later – and not the kind of bite you like.”

Kyoko pulls her shirt back down.  “I don’t like being bit.”

“Oh, right.  That’s me.”  Junko traces her fingers along Kyoko’s face, thumb soft along her already swelling eye.

Kyoko flinches again and grits her teeth.  “I don’t want staff to get involved.”

Junko grins.  “I know just the person!”  She ignores the raise of Kyoko’s brows, the flinch – again – and the way Kyoko’s lip curls.  “Mikan Tsumiki – she’s from Class 77-B – she’s the Ultimate Nurse!  Has a whole thing in her dorm for students who get a bit fucked up.”  She takes Kyoko’s hand in hers, gives it a gentle squeeze.  “She’ll take real good care of you.  And she won’t say anything at all!”  On an impulse, she kisses the tip of Kyoko’s nose.  “Just tell her I sent you.”

“You spend time with upperclassmen?”

“Ultimate Fashionista.”  Junko rolls her eyes.  “Half of them have my clothes, another half want to be me, another half hate me, another half hate how much they want to be me, another half of them think they have a chance….”  She ticks off each half on a finger.  “Which is a lot of halfs, but not nearly enough because they all overlap.”  She sighs, rolls her eyes.  “Even the Reserve Course students love me.  It’s honestly kind of obnoxious.  If you ask Sayaka, she probably has the same problem.”

Kyoko situates her shirt back in place, smoothing its wrinkles, and doesn’t say that whatever problem Sayaka has with popularity it isn’t on the same scale as Junko.  “And which one is Tsumiki?”

Junko shrugs.  “A lot of them.  Mostly, she’s in love with me.  It has its uses.”  She flicks something off her thumb.  “If you tell her I sent you, she’ll take care of you, even if she’s never seen you before in her life.”  Her hands gently touch Kyoko’s shoulders but don’t squeeze.  “So you should.  See her, I mean.”  Her lips curve, impish.  “But stay with me a while first?  I can’t kiss it and make it better, but a girl sure can try.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

After The Tragedy.

“I’m not going to help you teach everyone the Time Warp.”

“Why not?”

“I hate that movie.”

“I’ll help you get everyone through a Lord of the Rings marathon.”

“….”

“The extended version.”

“…do I have to do the Time Warp?”

“Kyokyo, that’s half the fun!”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

After The Tragedy.

“Ultimate Despair?  Here?  With us?”

Junko’s voice takes on a shrill that Kyoko has never heard before, not even when they first found out about the Tragedy.

(They were all quiet then, eyes focused unbelieving on television screens filled with death and destruction they’d imagined but never really thought could actually happen.  There’d been no time to be shrill, only a vague sense of slowly increasing panic.

But all of that has passed now.)

((It will never pass.))

Kyoko nods solemnly.  She takes Junko’s hands in her own.  “I don’t know who, but I think the mastermind…I think somehow….”  Her brow furrows, and her voice trails off.  She’s not sure how to put it into words, not sure she can.  The footsteps of the Shinigami are never wrong, but she doesn’t feel as though she is in danger, which doesn’t make sense.

How can she explain that?

Junko searches her eyes, trying to understand anyway.  “Could you maybe be wrong?”

“No.”  Kyoko shakes her head.  “My intuition is never wrong.”

“Okay.”

Junko’s gaze drops.  Her hands fidget in her lap, fingers tapping together.  She takes a deep breath, slowly lets it exhale.

Something is wrong.  Junko is never anxious like this.  Something is wrong.  And for a moment, Kyoko thinks this might be it, that she might leave, that somehow more than reading her notebook, this certainty that Ultimate Despair is with them when they’re supposed to be safe, like she’s some sort of conspiracy theorist, is what will break them.

Then Junko says, slow, quiet, “Kyoko, there’s…there’s something I need to tell you.”

That feeling grows, and Kyoko can’t stop the thought – something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong she feels sick she’s going to be sick this can’t happen again something is WRONG – because it isn’t her intuition that’s causing Junko’s discomfort, it’s something else.

But Kyoko’s eyes don’t widen.  Her heart skips a beat, and she can’t breathe, but she pretends that she can because she doesn’t want to make whatever this is worse.  (Don’t assume the worst, don’t assume the worst, she can’t be, she isn’t, she won’t be—)  Instead, she listens.  Waits.  Ready for whatever Junko is about to say.

(She’s not ready, she’s not ready, she’s not—)

Then Kyoko reaches across and gently takes Junko’s hand in her own.

Junko focuses on their hands and nearly smiles.  “You took your gloves off for me, so I’ll…I’ll take mine off for you.”  She turns her hand beneath Kyoko’s, and when she interlaces their fingers, Kyoko gives her hand a gentle squeeze.  Then she takes another breath and says, “Hope’s Peak says that my Talent is Fashionista, but that’s wrong.”  She keeps her gaze on their hands, swallows.  “I’m actually….”  She tugs her lower lip between her teeth, nibbles on it, and then glances up.  “I’m the Ultimate Analyst.  And I think…I think if you’re certain that Ultimate Despair is here with us, then…then working together....”

Kyoko wants to push.

She doesn’t push.

Junko’s expression grows the most serious that Kyoko has ever seen it, her eyes hardening.  “I think we’ll be able to root them out.  We can save everyone.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

Kyoko circles the singular bruise Junko left with the pad of her middle finger.  Purple, just like so much of the rest of her, but with a ruddy red undertone.  She smiles.  Fond.

“I-I-I’m sorry!”

The dorm door before her bursts open, showing one of the other Ultimates, an upperclassman Kyoko’s never met: a girl with long, uneven, unkempt hair the color of a fading bruise.  Her eyes are squeezed shut, hands squeezed together tight near her neck, tears at the corners of her eyes, anxiety wafting off of her in waves.  “I-I-I wasn’t trying to make you wait!”

Kyoko’s smile fades.  “I wasn’t waiting that long.”

“M-M-Mikan Tsumiki!” the girl says by way of introduction as she opens her eyes – a lavender shade, darker than Kyoko’s own.  “Um!”

Kyoko searches those eyes, finds nothing wanting, and says, “Kyoko Kirigiri.  Junko – Junko Enoshima – said you could help me?”

(As though there is any other Junko at Hope’s Peak Academy; as though there is anyone else she could mean when she says Junko.)

At the mention of Junko’s name, Mikan’s entire demeanor changes.  “Y-yes!”  She smiles like a lighthouse, a soft blush spreading like freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her tightly clenched hands finally relax, fingertips just touching each other.  “C-c-come in!”

404: Memory Not Found.

Reboot?

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

After The Tragedy.

“You try so hard, Kyoko.  I think you should rest.  Just for a little bit.  You can afford to rest, can’t you?”

“….”

“I’m worried about you, Kyokyo.  You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up.”

“….”

“You can’t protect everyone, Kyoko.”

“….”

“Our most loyal knight.  Dedicated to her cause.  The great defender of those of us still left.”

“….”

“I love you, you know.”

“….”

“When you’re out there, trying to track down Ultimate Despair, remember that, okay?  Remember that I love you.”

“….”

“Got it memorized?”

“Junko, even Hifumi acknowledges that game series is hopelessly convoluted.  Why would you—”

“It’s better than Rocky, right?”

“No.  They’re both bad.”

“Fine.  Fine.  Let me say it this way, then: Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

After The Tragedy.

Outside, the sky bleeds.

She needs a few minutes outside every day, now that they’re allowed out, and she stares up at that open wound like it’ll pour life into her mouth, like the pitch black clouds will drip anything other than toxic sludge.

There isn’t much to enjoy outside anymore, but Kyoko likes the way the feeble breeze pushes through Junko’s hair, pushing it back like the memories of better days.

Most of the time, they’re quiet.  The outside world demands that now.  There are no birds, no squirrels, no racing cats or barking dogs.  Everything is devoid of life.  Just them – and sometimes, just out of reach, the other surviving classmates.  Some chosen to stay in the old building, her father’s the headmaster’s hope for a brighter future when all of this is finished.

(It will never be finished.)

“What do you think I should do?” Junko asks into the silence, voice quieter than a hush but cracking through the silence all the same.

Kyoko squeezes her hand into a fist.  She stares down at her leather glove, hears the creak as the leather tightens, as it releases.  “If you don’t stay,” she whispers, “you’ll die.”

Junko snorts, the softest of laughs.  “Sometimes, I don’t think death is such a bad thing.  Everyone’s so scared of it.  But I’m sure it tastes so sweet.”

The feeble breeze carries the faintest scent of lilacs back to her.

“I’m not sure I want to be locked inside for the rest of my life,” Junko murmurs, staring out at the broken world around them.  “All the windows covered.  Barricaded.  Unable to see the world heal.”

And blue raspberries, sometimes.

When she says it, Junko doesn’t look back.  Can’t, maybe.  “But if you want me to stay…I’ll stay.”

Kyoko breathes in air that tastes of ash and fire and breath.

(At least this time, it doesn’t taste of snow.)

“Stay.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

Kyoko runs a finger through the thin sheer of saliva left on her wrist, tracing the edges of what is now swollen, what is now bright red, what is already beginning to purple.

“Your favorite color, isn’t it?” Junko asks as she runs her fingers through Kyoko’s hair.  She pulls a few strands out – three – and begins to braid them together.

Kyoko flinches.  “What are you—”  She turns from the mark, looks away from it, up at Junko.  Her heart beats rapidly, panicky, uncomfortably, that side left unbraided meant like a shield around her, like a promise meant to be kept, but not by her.

At her clear discomfort, Junko pauses.  Those three strands of Kyoko’s hair stretch between her fingers.  “Is something wrong?”  She blinks twice.  “I just thought having another braid on this side….  It would frame your face really nicely.  I always wondered why you only had the one.”  She searches Kyoko’s eyes, cautious, wary.  “Should I stop?”

It’s been years.

Yui isn’t coming back.

She knows that.

She knows—

“No.”  Kyoko shakes her head and turns back to the mark on her wrist.  “Don’t stop.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

After The Tragedy.

“You can, you know.”  Junko burrows against Kyoko’s collar bone, brushes her nose along her skin.  (It tingles, more where her lashes flutter just so.)  “If you…if you want.”

Kyoko takes a sharp breath.  It’s impossible to not react to the gentle nuzzling against her; she’s sensitive there, and Junko knows it.  “Can what?”

Junko doesn’t immediately answer, instead peppering kisses up her neck, along her jaw.  “Don’t play coy, Kyokyo, when I know what you’re thinking, and don’t make me say it!  It’s crude.”

“Like you don’t enjoy saying crude things.”

“I don’t when it’s us,” Junko says between kisses.  “I don’t like being crude about us.”

“What’s—” Kyoko pauses, gasps, threads her hand through Junko’s hair (and it’s still so soft against her burned hands, like the softest velvet, like the tip of a feather, like the inside of a cat’s ear; that hasn’t changed, no matter how long they’ve been locked in here), and tugs just enough to make her stop.  “What’s crude?”

Junko pulls back and searches Kyoko’s face with an equal expression of confusion.  “You….”  Her eyes widen.  “You really don’t know what I mean.”

Kyoko gives a small shake of her head.  “No.”

“You’re hopeless,” Junko mutters.  She won’t meet Kyoko’s eyes as she tucks her hair back out of her face.  It takes a moment before she finally says, voice soft, “Ruin me,” as though that explains it.  “I know that’s not what people want to call it anymore because ruining implies that I’m no good anymore afterwards and my value as a human being is not defined by whether or not I’m a—”

“Sex.”  Kyoko gets it all at once and cuts off Junko’s rambling with her own uncertainty.  “You mean sex.”

But Junko still won’t meet her eyes.  “Yeah, sure, that, although it sounds super crude to say it like that.  You’re supposed to use phrases like…like ruin or make love or…or something.”  She continues to thread her fingers through her own hair.  “But if…if you want me, or if you…if you want me to take care of you, then—”

“No.”  Kyoko doesn’t hesitate, and the word is out of her mouth before she even thinks of the possible effect it might have on Junko.  “No.  I don’t want that.  I’ve never wanted that.  I don’t ever want that.  Ever.  I—”

“Great, thanks, I got it.”  Junko turns away from her and slumps against their shared mattress.  “My girlfriend is so disgusted by the idea of having sex with me that she has to say she never ever ever wants that.  Multiple times.  Like I wouldn’t get it the first time.”  She curls up on her side, as far away from Kyoko as she can get.  “Best answer ever, Kyokyo.  Such tact.  Very wow.”

“It’s not you.”  Kyoko gently curls against Junko’s back, wraps an arm gingerly around her, and then rests her chin tentatively on her shoulder.  When Junko doesn’t push her away, she kisses her cheek.  “I love you.”

Junko still doesn’t turn to face her.  “But you don’t want to have sex with me.”

“No.”  Kyoko considers this for a moment, considers her words, chooses them carefully, and then says, “I’ve never wanted to have sex with anyone.  It’s not like when I wasn’t sure if I was interested in your or not, and it seemed best to try it out; I’m sure that’s something I don’t want to do.  Not with you.  Not with anyone.  Ever.”  She pauses, then asks, “Is that important to you?”

Junko stills.  “No.”  She curls closer into herself, and when she speaks again, it’s so quiet that Kyoko can barely hear her.  “I just didn’t know never was a choice someone could make.”

“I see no reason why it couldn’t be.”

When Junko draws into an even tighter ball and doesn’t say anything more, Kyoko hesitantly asks, “Junko…the creepy guys you mentioned.  They never—”

Junko laughs – a harsh, barking sound like broken glass.  “They never got that far, no.”  She takes Kyoko’s hand in hers, focuses on it, rubs her thumb back and forth along the scarred skin.  “I just always thought…that was part of the plan.  Didn’t matter if I was interested or not.  I’m curious sometimes because everyone is so obsessed with it, but….”  Her voice trails off.  “You’re so gentle with me.  No one has ever been this gentle with me before.  And I thought….”

Kyoko waits for Junko to continue, but she doesn’t.  She can guess at what she intended to say, at what she isn’t saying, and so she asks, gentle, “Is it something you want?”

“No.”

“Is it something you want me to want?”

Junko laughs at that.  “No.  Honestly, I think I’m kind of relieved.  Like – I didn’t hate the idea, you know, and if that’s what you wanted, then….”  Her voice trails off again, and she turns in Kyoko’s grasp so that she can face her, so she can look up at her with an aching fondness.  “You’re an interesting person, Kyoko Kirigiri.”  She reaches up, brushes strands of hair back out of Kyoko’s face, then leans up and kisses her, gentle.  Always, always gentle.  When she parts, she nearly smiles.  “And I love you, too.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

Junko pulls out a ribbon of lilac so soft that it might as well be white and ties it at the top of Kyoko’s braid.  “There.”  She kisses her forehead, waits for Kyoko to say something, and then, when she doesn’t, lets her gaze drop to the mark she’s left on Kyoko’s wrist.  “Do you not like it?”

“No, I….”  Kyoko’s lips press together, voice caught in her throat.  “Why me?”  She can’t stop the words from slipping out, no matter how she wants to keep them locked behind her lips, no matter how long she’s been able to do so before.  Her finger traces the mark again.  “You could have chosen anyone.  Why me?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Junko smiles, fond, but does not meet Kyoko’s eyes.  “Because I need you, Kyokyo.  No one else will do.”  She tucks more strands of Kyoko’s hair back behind her ear.  “Besides, love’s not like that.  You know that, right?  It’s not like you consciously chose me or anything, either.  Right?  Sometimes stuff like this…it just happens.  And you take advantage of it for as long as you can.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #001 Found.

Password: ************

Incorrect Password.

Attempt #1 of 5 Before Permanent Lock.

Try Again?

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

Without a second thought, Kyoko leans up and presses her mouth against the spot Junko indicated.

(If she could drag everything bad out of her kicking and screaming, she would.)

Junko’s breath hitches.  Catches.  Off guard.  Stutters as she draws it back in.  Then she angles her head, stretching the skin of her neck, and lets out the softest, softest whine.

Kyoko considers.  Then she tugs Junko’s soft skin between her teeth.  (Junko likes being bit.  She’d said that, hadn’t she?)

The whine drops octaves, and her breath grows ragged.

(If she could devour her whole, she would.)

Junko finds Kyoko’s hand.  Squeezes.  Tight.

“Thank you,” she whispers between breaths.  “Thank you.”

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Near The End.

“…Kyoko?”

That voice so fragile and small, the flute of birds’ bones beneath clipped wings.

“When they…when Ultimate Despair comes for me....”

Waiting.  Not interrupting.  Not saying a thing.

Ache and fire burning in the back of her throat.

“Promise me.  Promise me you’ll come find me.”

404: Memory Not Found.

Reboot?

~

MEMORY UNLOCKED.

CONTINUE?

YES | NO

Memory #??? Found.

Password: ************

Memory #??? Unlocked.

Memory Downloading….

Between The Tragedies.

When Kyoko finishes, she brushes her nose against the tender spot, presses a softer kiss just where it reddens.

“My love,” she whispers.  “My precious.”

(Take advantage of it for as long as you can.)

[bookshelfdreams]

yk when you see someone share a finished handmade item that they clearly spent a lot of time and money on and it's just. The absolute tackiest thing you have seen in your life. And then you ask yourself why someone would waste all those resources on such an eyesore.

(no, of course you can't relate to that because you're a much nicer person than me)

In any case.

BEHOLD!

A wool coat!

The top fabric is handwoven and handspun, the whole thing is sewn by hand, too.

Leftovers. Barely anything, all things considered, which is very satisfying.

This thing took me well over 3 years to make, on and off. And now I'm done.

Thank you for your attention.

[saragrosie]

I have been sketching. So much tma. Here's some expansions on my Jon and Martin designs I've been doing.

Another note I forgor to mention is I love how after hearing Simon go "it's enough to make your hair turn white" about Martin's office in s4 many of us collectively agreed his hair turned white because of his association with the Lonely. The shared consciousness is real and we use it to play hot potato with the communal brain cell dedicated to the sillies.

Closeup of apocalypse boyfriends (also to the person who said they love my s5 Jon's fancy white girl updo: I think about that every day)

[greyennui]

not gonna lie, I'm really excited for chapter 11 of Don't Commit because it's one of my favorites that I've written, but I'm also so nervous for everyone to read it. I've rewritten so much of it, and it's still not quite where I want it yet, but I'm determined to make it work before Monday.

[lemoncholy-stars]

2024, on hope and trying to assume the best <3

Mary Oliver ~ North Country / Joy Haro ~ Remember / tumblr user @kosmogrl / Florence + The Machine ~ Dog Days Are Over / tumblr user @spiderversegf / Gang of Youths ~ Achilles Come Down / Zoe Adrien @discoidal ~ What Comes After / Taylor Swift, The Civil Wars ~ Safe and Sound / me lmao, i have a canva problem, quote by Alfred Lord Tennyson / Sue Zhao / Antavia Mason ~ I'm No Seamstress / me again with my canva problem / Taylor Swift ~ Long Story Short / tumblr user @grass-breath

[mattodore]

birthday boy 🎂

[nyoomerr]

Just months before the Immortal Alliance Conference, Luo Binghe discovers the cure to Without-a-Cure. With his own heritage still sealed and mostly unknown to him, there seems to be only one solution: Shen Qingqiu must receive the cure from the last known Heavenly Demon, Tianlang-Jun, even if it means that Luo Binghe has to grit his teeth and set his precious Shizun up with another man. Shen Qingqiu does not want to receive the cure from Tianlang-Jun. He doesn't particularly want to receive anything from Tianlang-Jun. Shen Qingqiu somehow ends up fake-dating Tianlang-Jun anyway, if only to swindle the System into delaying the Endless Abyss plot for as long as he can.

🌹 bingqiu 🌹 no-abyss AU, misunderstandings, light-hearted 🌹 lbh tries to get his shizun medicinally laid 🌹 10k, 1/5 chapters, updating weekly!

i've finally completed my FTH fic! everybody say thank you to the wonderful @/mock-arts, who prompted this fic and was then very patient with me as i took half a year to write it. i hope you all enjoy!

[veinsfullofstars]

🍭 Kirbtober 2024 Day 31: Darkness 🍭

(ID: Kirby series fanart of Kirby - dressed as a mummy - happily dashing by and carrying Gooey - wearing a purple, star-striped witch hat - on his head, each holding an Invincible Candy and leaving a sparkly trail of other treats in their wake. END ID.)

Happy Halloween!

Previous Day | Compilation | Prompt List (made by @/paintpanic)

Started on 10/20/24, finished on 10/21/24. | Kirbtober 2023 Comp

[so-i-did-this-thing]

One of my cosplay traits - which extends to home decor - is to insert little details for whom I am the primary (if not only) audience, but nonetheless (I hope) inject a sense of authenticity into my projects, if not necessarily that of screen-accuracy.

And that is why an envelope of genuine business receipts from the 1940s recently arrived (Crow was very perplexed by the customs declaration), just so I could stuff one or two (which you can barely see in the back) into Siegfried's accounting system. 😅

Please take a look at the ones I did not use, some stellar ephemera here:

[grapejuicegay]

Cooking Crush making sure to focus on the cooking along with the crushes

[libraryofgage]

Spiderpool Steddie Part Two

Part One

This series is about to become secret identity shenanigans lmao

As always, if you see any typos no you didn't ^_^

Between Steve's glasses, the crowd surrounding him on the subway, and the rattling of the train against the tracks, a killer headache is starting to form, pressing relentlessly behind Steve's eyes and the bridge of his nose. He shuts his eyes, trying to take a deep breath to calm his senses, but he's just hit with the horrific and confusing smell of multiple bodies pressed together in a small space. Steve grimaces, opening his eyes once more. He considers removing his glasses, but he'd rather not risk losing them.

A garbled, muffled voice echoes through the train, the presence more than the words announcing the approach of the next stop. Steve sighs with relief, determined to get off the train ahead of time, and starts to awkwardly push his way toward the doors of the train. He's just two more muttered apologies away from them when he tenses, his nerves dancing with warning of an inconvenience about to come. Steve doesn't know what that inconvenience is, though, until someone else moves and their over-stuffed backpack smacks him in the chest.

Normally, it wouldn't actually have any effect on Steve. But now, between the headache and being mid-step and trying to breathe through his mouth so his nose isn't further assaulted, Steve loses his balance. He braces himself to fall on his ass (somehow, people on a crowded train in this city seem to have a sixth sense for getting out of the way of someone falling) but finds himself being caught around the waist, instead.

A strong arm holds him steady and the smells from the train are muted by the overwhelming scent of smoke and denim and something metallic. Steve blinks, tilting his head back to look at the person who's still holding him with no sign of letting go. He's met with a playful grin and amused eyes framed by untamed hair.

"Eddie?"

It's a question, but Steve knows it's him without a doubt, especially when Eddie raises an eyebrow and asks, "Have we met before, big boy? I think I'd remember if we had."

Steve tenses, pulling away as much as he can before turning around. They're still too close because of the crowd around them, but just a tiny bit of distance helps. "I, uh, I'm a fan. Of your band. Corroded Coffin," Steve explains, wincing at how stilted he sounds.

Eddie slowly looks Steve up and down, taking in the soft yellow sweater with a white collar peeking out from underneath, skinny jeans, worn-out messenger bag, and dirty high-tops. His gaze travels back up, lingering on Steve's glasses before saying, "No offense, but you don't look like you listen to my music."

"Well, I do," Steve replies. It's true enough. He did spend a whole day researching Corroded Coffin and listening to every song he could find. Some of them were way too loud for him, too much chaotic music clashing together into something his overly sensitive ears couldn't actually process. But he'd found the lyrics online with fan-made sheet music and, using the older-than-him keyboard in his older-than-his-father apartment, he'd recreated the melodies and found himself appreciating the music.

Eddie raises his hands in surrender, flashing a slightly apologetic, slightly playful smile. "I believe you," he says. "So, what's my number one fan's name?"

Steve tenses once more, reaching up to grip the strap of his messenger bag as his brain speed runs the risk of telling Eddie his name. They've met once while he was in his suit, but Eddie doesn't seem to recognize his voice or body or anything else. It probably wouldn't hurt to offer his name; Eddie will probably write this moment off as meeting a fan and never think about Steve again. In fact, Steve would wager that there's a 79% chance Eddie will never see Steve again.

He won't even bother wasting energy on trying to figure out the chances of Eddie seeing Spider-Man again. The likelihood is high, considering Steve likes relaxing on Sister Margaret's roof.

"Steve. Harrington. Steve Harrington."

Eddie's grin becomes a bit more genuine, his hands shoved into the pockets of his vest as he leans forward slightly. "Nice to meet you, Stevie," he says, his voice soft and just barely audible even to Steve's enhanced hearing.

Heat surges across Steve's cheeks, his heart picking up speed, and he silently curses how much of a sucker he is for pretty brown eyes. "Yeah, nice to meet you, too," he mumbles, glancing up when that garbled voice once announces the approaching stop. "That, um, that's my stop," he adds, a nervous laugh following the words as he keeps himself from meeting Eddie's eyes once more.

He sounds like a blushing virgin, and Steve wishes he could bash his head against the side of the train. He's far more confident when he's wearing the mask. If he were Spider-Man right now, they'd be bantering with playful tones and clever quips.

Well, if he were Spider-Man right now, he wouldn't be riding the subway in the first place.

"Oh," Eddie says, frowning slightly. He's silent for a few seconds before grinning once more. "You wanna get coffee sometime, sweetheart?"

The question is so sudden that Steve's brain grinds to a complete halt before rebooting itself. He should say no. Just meeting Eddie by chance has threatened his secret. So, Steve should absolutely say no.

But he likes Eddie. Steve thinks he's funny and pretty, and he knows they would have a good rapport if only Steve could get his head out of his ass and communicate like a normal person. And it's just one date. There's no guarantee it would even go anywhere or that Eddie would even show up. Besides, if he plays his cards right (bats his eyes just right, brushes his fingers along Eddie's arm, laughs at his jokes), coffee could become a free lunch, and Steve isn't going to say no to potential free food.

"Sure," he says, an eager smile that he can't help tugging at his lips.

Eddie lights up, holding his hand out to Steve as he says, "Lemme see your phone. I'll put my number in."

Steve nods, pulling his phone out of his pocket and opening it to create a new contact. Once he's typed Eddie's name into the proper field, he passes it over, watching as Eddie puts his number in, double-checks it, retypes something, and then passes it back.

A quick glance at the now-saved contact shows that Eddie has added a bat emoji to his contact name. Steve snorts and sends a text message to the number, glancing up as Eddie's phone pings at full volume. It's muffled and blends right in with the chaos of the train, but Steve still raises an eyebrow at him.

"Listen, I'm in loud places constantly," Eddie says, tugging his phone out with a grin. "How else am I gonna hear when cute boys text me?"

"There are other cute boys texting you?" Steve asks, feeling a little more at ease. What was he so worried about before? It's hard to remember when he's focused on Eddie.

"Well, no, actually, but a guy can hope, right?" Eddie asks, winking playfully. "Besides, now I've got a gorgeous boy texting me. It's even more important to hear when your messages come in."

Steve rolls his eyes at Eddie as the train comes to a stop at the station. "Yeah, sure, gorgeous," Steve says. He knows he looks good (a person can't spend so much time on their hair alone without knowing it, he thinks) but "gorgeous" is probably going a bit too far. "This is my stop. Text me."

Eddie nods. "Assume I'm dead if I don't text you within two hours," he says, utterly serious, and Steve laughs.

He shakes his head at Eddie, waves to him, and then starts pushing his way toward the slowly opening doors that will let him into the station. Steve sighs with relief once he's off the train, and the somewhat fresher air makes him realize what he's just agreed to.

He doesn't regret it, not at all, but he suddenly can't shake the feeling that his life is about to get...chaotic. Even more chaotic than being Spider-Man makes it.

-----

Steve carefully sets the bag of tacos down on the roof before collapsing and leaning against the walled edge. He sighs, pushing his mask to the bridge of his nose, and lets the vibrations of the building soothe his adrenaline-spiked nerves.

The music plays uninterrupted for a few minutes before subsiding, the building going still despite Steve still being able to hear the crowd inside. A few more minutes pass before the music starts up again, but Steve can tell there's something different about it. Before he can figure out what it is, the door to the roof flies open.

"Spidey!"

Steve huffs out a quiet laugh, waving at Eddie as he walks over. "I got tacos," he says, gesturing to the bag.

He feels weird seeing Eddie as Spider-Man just hours after he'd been texting Eddie as Steve. Actually, the only reason they'd stopped texting was because Steve lied about going to sleep, wanting to ensure he wouldn't be distracted by his phone while patrolling.

Eddie grins and sits on the other side of the bag. This is only the second time they've hung out on the roof together, but Eddie snatches up the bag like he's done it a million times before. "Where from?" he asks, pulling out three tacos before placing the bag back down.

"Taco cart on 7th," Steve says, grabbing a taco for himself.

A comfortable quiet settles between them as Steve takes a bite of his taco. Eddie somehow inhales two of his three in less than a minute, making Steve wonder if he's even breathed or tasted the tacos. Before he can jokingly ask, though, Eddie suddenly says, "I've fallen in love."

Steve chokes on his carnitas, eyes watering as he coughs through the sudden, cilantro-scented ache in his throat. A steady hand pats his back, helping him through the coughing fit. Once he's finally able to breathe again, Steve looks at Eddie and asks, his voice rough, "You what?"

"Fell in love. Been hit by Cupid. Seen the fucking light, even."

Steve almost asks if their coffee date is canceled. It was supposed to be that weekend at a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop Steve had never heard of before. And then he remembers the mask he's wearing and the whole "secret identity" thing. He pushes down that question and asks a different one instead. "Oh, uh, congrats. What's their name?"

Eddie gets a dopey smile. "Steve. He looks like a stereotypical prep, but apparently, he's a fan of the band."

For a brief moment, Steve wonders about the ethics of discussing himself with Eddie. Then again, it would be more suspicious if he didn't, right? And he has to keep his secret identity intact. Steve clears his throat, wincing at the dull pain before asking, "Where'd you meet?"

"Subway. Some asshole hit Steve with their backpack and I caught him."

Steve can't help snorting when he hears it from Eddie. "How chivalrous of you. What, are you gonna say he literally fell for you next?" he asks.

Eddie's grin tells Steve that, yes, he was going to say that. Since Steve beat him to it, though, he just says, "He was so cute and flustered, Spidey. And sweet fuck, his hair? His hair is incredible. I wanna know how long he spends on it so I can really appreciate messing it up when we make out. He's got, like, moles and freckles, too, right? And they're so fucking cute. I wanna play connect the dots with them. We didn't get to talk much on the train, but I can tell he's sarcastic and funny. Plus, like, he gives off this really caring energy? Like, hand Steve a baby, and he'd be in his element."

Okay, hearing Eddie talk about him like this is weird. Steve's mouth feels dry and he shoves the last of his taco into his mouth before pulling his mask down. He's lucky Eddie is looking away, otherwise, he'd see the bright and obvious blush spreading across Steve's cheeks and down his neck.

"He sounds great," Steve manages, relieved his voice doesn't sound as strained as he feels. "Maybe he used to babysit?"

Steve did, in fact, used to babysit. He still babysits, actually. Granted, not as much as before, but there are a few single moms in his building that he helps out whenever they need.

Eddie nods in agreement, his smile becoming smaller and more genuine. "Yeah. I can't wait to get to know him," he says, his voice softer, and Steve thinks he might be jealous of himself if he wasn't so fascinated by seeing this side of Eddie.

"So, uh, when's the date?" he asks.

"Saturday. We're gonna get coffee, but if I play my cards right, I bet I can take him out for lunch, too."

A laugh manages to escape Steve as he wonders if Eddie read his mind on the subway. "If you do, there's a good Thai place by the park," he suggests. "It's called Thai Cottage, I think."

It's Steve's favorite place for Thai food, actually. But Eddie doesn't need to know that right now. He can just find out when Steve tells him on Saturday.

Steve once again finds himself wondering about the ethics of telling Eddie how to make the date go well when Eddie doesn't know Spider-Man and Steve are the same person.

Eddie grins brightly at him, and Steve finds he doesn't care about the ethics. "Thanks, man," he says, elbowing his arm gently as the watch on his wrist beeps twice. "Ah, fuck, break's over."

Eddie pushes himself up, stretching his arms above his head, and Steve hears several pops along his spine. "Time for the next set?" he asks.

"Yep. Still gonna be here when it's done?"

"Nah, I've got plans tomorrow, but I'll listen to the first song at least," Steve promises, hoping his smile is obvious enough despite the mask.

Eddie nods, looking like he doesn't mind at all. "No worries, man. I'll see ya next time, Spidey," he says, waving over his shoulder before heading to the stairwell again.

Steve watches him go, waiting until the door has shut before he sighs and slumps against the edge of the roof. He stares at the sky for a moment, briefly prays that he'll be able to juggle Eddie knowing Steve and Spider-Man, and tries to ignore the impending sense of chaos that has taken up residence in the back of his mind since he walked off the train.

---

Tag List (please let me know if you'd like to be tagged, too)

@soaringornithopter, @suikatto, @murdblurdock, @starman-jpg, @somegirlsomewhere, @heaven428

[bittybeanie]

oh boy! time to post a new fic! I can't believe it's been *checks calendar* ....oh. uh. oops. ignore that! it's the fourth and final installment of (this) aspec reigen series, complete with a lite™ version of a couple different kinks and finally getting to touch the peen! this one's real long, folks, clocking in at about 9,500 words, so you might wanna get a nice beverage and settle in.

content notes: thigh riding, themes of consent, drunk almost sex, a discussion about the drunk almost sex in the following scene, praise kink, a very loose (literally) definition of bondage, and so so many pet names. minors please don't interact!

also on ao3!

It takes more than a couple tries for you to get settled on the bed. You’re too close, then too far, and Reigen can’t get comfy, and your hand keeps sliding out from under you, and he can’t decide how he wants your leg angled, and there’s too many clothes, then all at once so few clothes that it feels like too much at once and you hastily agree to put your shirts back on, not wanting to break the already fragile layer of quiet hope.

Finally, finally, everything is perfect.

Awkward, stilted, and a little tense, and you’re not sure how long your leg will let you keep it just barely raised like this before it cramps up, but he’s here, embarrassed but steadfast, breath coming out in shivery gasps, hovering over your thigh, one hair fisted in the back of your hair. If he tips over, there’s no way you’re not going with.

Perfect.

His thighs shake as he holds himself up, deciding which direction he wants to move. You reach for the small of his back to steady him. "Does this count as keeping my hands out of the way?" He nods, so you test the waters by sliding your other hand up his thigh.

"As long you don’t- just no direct touching. Close to is fine, just not… well." He moves a hand back and forth across where he’s hovering over your thigh.

“Keep off the goods. Gotcha."

"The goods? Awful. You're awful, I swear."

You slide your hand up, just barely skimming your fingernails over his hip when you catch the hem of his shirt, and his cock twitches in his boxers.

"The goods don't seem to agree."

"Oi." Despite his protests, the laughter loosens him, and he relaxes enough to lean back into your knee. “Fine, fine, just stop saying goods.”

“Alright.” He raises an eyebrow. You lift both hands in surrender. “I promise! I will never again use ‘the goods’ to refer to your perfect, gorgeous, suckable-”

“I get it! I get it.” He grabs onto your shoulder - maybe in an effort to distract you, or maybe just to keep his balance - as he shifts closer. You can practically feel the heat radiating from his ears. “Here, actually, can you-? Hm.” He presses a hand against the inside of your other leg, thumb digging in as he gives a shove. He slides a knee into the newly free space between your legs, leaning forward to get a better angle. Your hands settle back on his waist.

“Better?”

“Much.” He lets out a little hum as he pushes his hips forward, and you have to stamp down a whimper at the feeling, his dick heavy and warm even through fabric.

“Didn’t mean to just push like that, though. Sorry.”

“S’okay. I’ll survive a little manhandling, as a treat.” You hit the last “t” sound with a click of your tongue, and he falls into your neck with a laugh. You trace patterns on his hips as he moves, tracking the motion as you press your fingers into his skin. “God, how do you get your hips to move that smooth? It’s sorta mesmerizing.”

“Hm? Oh, I don’t know, I’m just- I wasn’t thinking about it. S’just what f- ha, feels good.” His breath fans out across your collarbone, warm and fast.

“Yeah? You like using my thigh, baby? No thoughts other than what feels good? Your own personal toy to get yourself off against?”

“Oi.” His hips stutter once before he falls back into a slower rhythm. His fingers dig into your shoulder as he pulls you closer.

“Too much?”

“That’s not how I think of you.”

You can’t help but laugh, a light chuckle coming out in a breath against his hair. “I know, ‘Taka, I know.” You slide your hands under his shirt, over his stomach and up to his collarbone. “But would it really be so bad to belong to you?”

“I- fuck.” There’s a moment of worry when he shoves you away, but then he’s scrambling for the hem of his shirt and pulling.

“Are you sure?” It’s a formality, uttered even as you’re already reaching to help slide the fabric over his elbows, but it’s one you can’t even imagine going without.

“Very.” He lifts himself off of you to push his boxers down, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he shimmies them all the way off. The mattress shifts and pitches him over, and you hurry to grab his arm.

He crawls back over to straddle your thigh, the tip of his cock tapping lightly against your side before he leans back onto his ankles.

“Do I need to get-?” You chuck his shirt into infinity and gesture vaguely to the bedside drawer. He’s technically never told you that he started keeping lube in there, but he hasn’t made much effort to keep the secret either.

He shakes his head. “I’m close. Won’t matter.”

He tries to go back to rutting against you, anchoring his hands on your waist to tilt his hips this way and that, but something about the new angle is off, and he can’t get any good contact.

“Oh no, now horrible, your dick is just so hard it won’t stay down on its own.”

He clicks his tongue at you as he scoots to sit closer, flush making its way from his ears to the edges of his cheeks.

“That gorgeous curve probably isn’t helping, either. In this case, anyway. Be an absolute treat to have inside me, though.” You press your thumbs in just above his knees, encouraging him to spread his legs more, and he jumps with a squeak, hands flying to grab yours. “Sorry, sorry, di-”

“No, it’s-” He pulls your hands together, just in front of his stomach, and the tip of his cock brushes against you. For a moment, you think he’s going to pull down, but he guides your hands back to his hips, pressing them into his skin as he rolls his hips. “Here.”

He gives up and puts his hand flat over his dick, pinning it down against your leg. He lifts himself to adjust the angle, just his tip dragging along your skin until he bumps into your hip, precum rolling out in a thin line over your thigh. When he pulls back, he grinds down insistently, coating his length and covering what isn’t already marked of your thigh so he can slide more easily. After a few impatient jolts of his hips, he settles back into a rhythm, smooth and fluid, and lets up on the pressure of his hand. He slings his other arm over your shoulder to pull you closer, and he falls forward to bury his face in your neck, whining into your collarbone.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was close, because it only takes a few drags of his cock against you for him to seize up, body tensing before going boneless, cum rolling over his hand and onto your hip as he slumps against you in a mess of pants and sighs. You slide your hands up his back to support his full weight, pressing kisses to his hair as he catches his breath.

“Just… gimme a second, I can cl- get you- god, my legs.” He rolls off of you with none of his usual grace, limbs falling everywhere at once, lightly smacking your arm as he goes limp.

You laugh and push his hair back from his face. You don’t bother to untangle your legs from his, accepting your fate of needing a shower later in exchange for getting to lean down to kiss his cheek.

“Eh, let it dry.”

“I’m starting to think you like it more than tolerate it.”

“If you haven’t gotten the hint by now that I want you to absolutely cov-”

He gives you a shove, rolling his hand so there’s no real force behind it, but you seize the chance to topple with a dramatic moan, one hand falling theatrically across your forehead as your eyes flutter closed. 

“Oh, stop it.” He crawls over and props himself up on his elbows. You can feel his breath fanning over your collarbone, stilted like he’s trying not to laugh. You crack one eye open, breaking into giggles when you see his forced serious expression, eyebrows pinched together and one cheek sucked into his mouth to keep the smile off his face. He breaks at your laughter, breathing out through his nose and pressing his forehead to yours. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Oh, you could take me anywhere, handsome.” You waggle your eyebrows suggestively, and he rolls onto his back with an exasperated groan. You laugh again and sit up, pulling a blanket over him so you can settle in without accidentally brushing somewhere he’d rather you didn’t.

“Hey, Arataka?”

“I love you, too.”

“That, too.” You chuckle. “But I have a real question this time.”

“Oh.” He turns his head. “Sure.”

“After you… when you took my hands earlier, were you…?” The fleeting moment of contact between him and your hands floats through your mind. You can’t help but wonder what he was thinking in the moment he hesitated, but it feels weirdly invasive to ask so bluntly. “Sorry, never mind, this is a weird line of thought.”

You lay down beside him, craning your neck to rest your head on his shoulder. His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together as his thumb smooths up your wrist.

“Do you mean…” He takes a steadying breath, grip tightening almost imperceptibly. “Do you mean after the clothes came off?”

You nod. For a moment, he stills, not even breathing.

“I was… I wanted so badly to let you touch me. I thought if I didn’t have to say it, if I could just… imply, then I could get around it, but,” he sighs heavily, and he sounds tired when he continues, “I panicked.”

You’re both quiet, long enough that you startle even yourself when you finally break the silence.

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“...Panicking?”

“No, angel. Implying.” He presses his cheek to the top of your head. “Maybe you just have to imply for a little longer.”

“I’m not following.”

“What if you left your hand on top of mine? That way it’s like- it’s the same as when you do it, but it sort of, hm, bridges the gap? All the sexy, none of the surprise.”

For a long moment, you’re not sure if he’s quiet because he’s thinking or because he’s falling asleep.

He hums, shoulder rolling under your head, and he pulls you tighter against his side.

+

"Okay." You shift nervously, tucking your foot underneath yourself, then deciding against it and unfolding your legs. "Walk me through the zones again."

"I'm not a city planning map." He rolls his eyes, but he takes your hand. You’re not sure which one of you the gesture is supposed to comfort.

You shift back onto your knees.

"Here up, anything goes." He points at the middle of his chest. "But try to stay- so more like, well, from maybe..." He gestures to his collarbone and wags his finger up and down. "Here to here, really."

When he looks back at you, you can tell he's waiting for something. You settle for a small nod.

"Right. A-and then, here to here," he points from his chest to just above his hip, "Hands are fine. Doing... whatever." He steadies himself with another deep breath and rushes through the rest. "Legs, stay still, and anything... direct we'll do the- on the- yeah, got it, that's all."

You let him sit for a moment to make sure there's nothing he forgot. His grip on your hand tightens, and you swear he moves to pull you closer, but he must decide against it at the last second.

"Whose hand is going on top again? Sorry, we've swapped it so many times I can't remember if we decided."

"Oh. Right. Um." He hovers his right hand over his left, then swaps them, then swaps them again. “Yours under mine.”

“Got it.” You reach for him, letting him pull your hand up to his collar. "And you know you can tell me to stop at any time?"

"You tell me that every time."

"It's important every time."

He swallows thickly and traces a circle on the back of your hand with his thumb. "Yeah. I know."

You shift to pull your legs off to the side, then cross them again, then sit back up on your knees. Gently taking the collar of his shirt in your hands, you trail one thumb along the edge of the fabric until you reach the top button. "And can I do this, or would you like to?"

He nods before realizing there were two options in your question, then points at you, then at your hands, then flashes you a thumbs up. "Yeah. Go ahead."

"Well, now hold on, I have manners. I'm not going straight for the goods." He laughs and shimmies to sit up straighter, letting his legs straighten out in front of him. "How about the pants later?"

"Uh, right, that's, I didn't think about that. I mean it would make sense that you're going to be- I mean it's not like-"

"Arataka."

"Yeah." He swallows.

"I'm not going to be offended if you’d like to take off your own pants."

He pauses, staring down at his knee. Eventually, he shakes his head. "I want you to do it."

"And your-?"

"Just do it at the same time."

"Got it." You take a steadying breath of your own. "I won't stay there, but is it okay if I straddle you for a little bit? I wa-"

His hands are pulling at your waist before you can get your legs properly unfolded, and you almost tumble over him. He laughs an apology as you move on top of him, hovering over his legs to avoid making any real contact.

You brush his bangs back from his face, following through with the motion until your fingers tangle in the shorter strands of hair at the back of his head. He tilts to follow your hand, craning his neck to keep you from pulling.

"Ready?"

He nods slightly.

"I’d like a verbal yes for this one, lovely."

He swallows. You watch his Adam's apple bob.

"Yeah, yes.” He nods again. His hand jerks, taking yours with it, and he awkwardly lets your hand fall into his lap. You do your best not to move. “I trust you."

You drag your gaze back up to his face, searching for any last signs of reluctance. A bead of sweat trails down his temple, and you’re certain if you put your hand to his cheek you’d worry he had a fever. Sure enough, when you slide your fingers along his jaw, he’s hot to the touch, and the tips of his ears are turning brighter shades of red by the second.

He clears his throat, pushing his jaw into your palm. “Are you gonna-?”

“In a minute.” You swipe your thumb across his bottom lip. “I’m savoring.”

He scoffs at that, the same scoff he uses when he sees somebody do something stupid in public, and you take the opportunity to catch him by surprise, surging forward to push him down onto the bed. His hands go to your shoulders on instinct but he pulls them back almost immediately, hovering awkwardly in the space between you. Using your grip on his chin, you angle his head so you can lean down and kiss him without knocking your noses together.

Once you’re sure you can support yourself without falling on him, you allow your free hand to trail down, tracing down the muscles in his neck, across his collarbone and back, finally settling on the first button of his shirt. It takes a little effort to get it undone with just one hand, but you manage it, and you allow yourself to dip down as you settle into a rhythm, lips ghosting along Reigen’s skin as you uncover more of it.

He’s shivering, hand shaking where it hovers over yours on the last button of his shirt. When you slide your hand back up along his side, his hand falls back to the bed, pulling at a wrinkle in the sheets.

You kiss along his jaw, savoring the feeling every time his breath catches in his throat under your lips. Your hand trails down along his side, wrapping around him to hold his waist when he arches up into the press of your thumb. He hums, eyelids fluttering, and you dare to slide your hand down, ever so slightly, thumb brushing over his waistband and back onto bare skin.

He grabs for you, grasp tight around your wrist, almost painful before he slowly relaxes and drags your hand back up toward his chest. You push yourself off him, swinging your leg to kneel beside him.

“Here, let’s try this.” You guide him to sit up. Once he’s situated against the headboard, you settle in by his thigh, your knee pressing gently into his hip. One hand traces circles and patterns as you trail down to his stomach. “Still good?”

He hums, but he scrambles for your wrist again, holding on tighter and tighter the closer you get to the button on his pants.

“You’re allowed to change your mind, y’know. I can let you do it.”

“That’s not- mm.” He relaxes his death grip on your arm but keeps his thumb hooked around it. After a few tries to let go completely, his head tips forward into your shoulder. “I thought I would… I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and slowly pull away. “Nothing to apologize for.” You cup his face with both hands and gently turn him, but he doesn’t hold your gaze for long. 

“Do you want to keep going? Should I…?”

He opens his mouth, but says nothing. His expression is pinched, tight with something you’re not sure how to label. His fingers press together, thumb and index, thumb and middle, thumb and ring, thumb and pinky, over and over as you lean back, nodding softly.

“Stay in bed?” Your voice is shakier than you’d like. You swear he flinches, and you clear your throat. “Or move to the couch and watch something?”

“Couch.” He nods once, stiff and harsh, and swallows thickly. “Thanks.”

He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, and slides out of bed, starting to button his shirt back up as he wanders into the other room.

You keep nodding as if in a trance, and you follow him out. 

+

Despite the now faint memory of some friend of a friend forcefully inviting you, there's not a single soul at the party you recognize. With the exception of a few people dancing by the kitchen, closer to the speakers, everyone has settled for taking a seat and awkwardly bobbing their head. You’ve repeated the same three lines of small talk more times than you can count, it's just cold enough that you've had the chills the whole time while still managing to feel overwhelmingly stifled, and the music is so awful you wonder how somebody hasn’t tried to change it yet. But there's alcohol, the good stuff that somebody is clearly very particular about, and lots of it. You can't remember how much you've had, and that fact is enough to tell you it was probably too much, but it doesn't stop you from taking whatever the host is passing out when they wander through.

You think Reigen might be the only person doing worse than you. He looks... woozy. His face is flushed and his eyes are lidded like he might throw up, pass out, or both at any moment. At one point he took a tumble when he tried to sit down, graciously ignored by everyone else, and you had to throw your arm around his waist to keep him from sliding down the front of the couch again. He's leaning on you for support every time he moves, and if there were anything left in his can you’re sure he would be spilling it on you right now.

He's restless at the best of times, you know this, but even through the fog you can tell something is off. Not wrong exactly, but he keeps giving you this sideways glance, digging his fingers into your thigh to steady himself and then yanking his hand away, knocking his head into your shoulder and muttering something you haven't been able to make out.

He laughs - way too loudly at something you're not sure was supposed to be funny - and stands abruptly. Your hand around his waist falls limp on the couch, and he sways without the support.

"I'm going to the re- the ba- I gotta piss."

Nobody but you pays him any attention. He takes a wobbly step forward, knocking his foot into the leg of the coffee table, but he doesn't seem fazed. His knees bend at a weird angle as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, then he straightens back up and whirls around to face you. The momentum sends him tumbling back down, and you manage to catch him before his nose smashes into your jaw.

"I guess you better help me there."

"Yeah." Your voice crackles from dehydration. You have to clear your throat and try again to get a recognizable sound to come out. "Alright." You do a quick mental scan of your legs to make sure they'll support you before you motion for him to get up so you can stand. He does, grabbing your wrist and pulling with the conviction of somebody who does not need help walking.

The gears in your head start to turn.

He drags you along, glancing over his shoulder as he rounds the corner into the hallway, only stumbling once when he has to screech to a halt and back up to yank a door open. He pushes you inside, pulling the door closed behind him after he follows you in.

It's pitch black, and you're not sure if the overwhelming lemon smell is coming from Reigen or something in the room. You reach out to find him, but your fingers brush against something cold and smooth instead, and it's not until it tilts and hits you in the head that you realize it's probably a handle for something. Reigen's hand whacks into your arm and he holds on tight, fingers digging into your shoulder as he pulls you forward.

"I don't think that was the right door."

"Hm? Oh, sure." You can feel the air beside you moving until eventually his other hand finds your face, one finger dragging across your cheek until it hits your nose. "No, I- yeah, I know."

"Then wh-"

He pushes, hard and sudden. You fight to keep your balance as you adjust to the weird backwards lean you find yourself in. Reigen hisses as he pulls his fingers out from between you and the wall.

"Dumb, that was so dumb. Sorry." He fumbles for your waist to guide you backwards, and you feel his hips press against you when he reaches past your head to lean on the wall.

Everything clicks together all at once.

Your hands fly to where his waist should be. Once you find him, you're not sure if you want to shove him away or pull him in closer.

"You're super drunk. I don't know if-"

"Tha's the point." The hand on your face slides around until his thumb catches your bottom lip. He sways, like talking about it has made him remember how much he's had to drink. When he leans against you, he's heavier than normal, like he can’t support his weight anymore. "Liquid courage."

"I’m drunk." 

"Mm. Shit." He pulls away, just barely, and he nods. "Do you mind?"

Your mouth drops open uselessly. All your thoughts feel like static, indecipherable noise screaming for you to do something, if only you could figure out what. He's squirming now, like it hurts to stay still. You realize he's whimpering at the same time you realize he's grinding his hips against your leg.

“M’fine.”

He lets out a sigh of relief and drops his hands as he shuffles around. You take the chance to stand back up. When you finally bump into each other again, he wraps his arms around you and squeezes, his breathing coming out in pants against your chest.  He hooks one leg around yours, tapping his foot against your heel to bring your leg forward. You make a strangled humming sound when he grinds against your thigh.

"Hey, where's your hand?"

"My...?" You suddenly remember you have hands. You allow yourself a moment of silence for all the time you could have been holding onto him before you push one hand forward. It smacks into what you think is his stomach. "Sorry. Here."

"S'kay. Stay put." You keep your hand pressed against him as he leans backward. You're not sure when he stopped holding onto you, but one of his hands is suddenly over yours, and a loud zip cuts through the sound of you both breathing. He slides his hand down, dragging yours with it. Your fingers glide along his skin, smooth and soft, until you brush against a patch of hair.

A sobering panic cuts through you.

He must realize what he's doing at the same time you do, because you both freeze. His grip tightens. He guides your hand away from him slowly, stopping when he makes contact with your side.

"Stay... stay put."

He turns and scrambles for the door. Something falls beside you when he misses the doorknob, then you're squinting as light floods in from the hallway. You can make out the silhouette of him sprinting into the room diagonal from where you're standing, and then there's the unmistakable sound of vomiting.

Your place is only two blocks away - no more than a ten minute walk.

You call a cab service.

+

It smells like coffee.

When you try to sit up, the room spins. You end up in a sort of half sit, half lean as you grab onto the side of the mattress, willing everything to stay still. You take stock of the things that are clear enough to look at, slowly making sense of what happened once you got home.

You're laying on top of the covers, still in your clothes from last night. One shoe is in the doorway, and the other is nowhere in sight, probably somewhere closer to the entrance. The coffee smell, growing more enticing by the second, is a good sign Reigen's in the kitchen.

You slide onto the floor beside your bed, not trusting yourself to stand up without falling just yet, to rummage for more comfortable clothes. Once you manage to get changed, you stand up slowly, and make your way to the kitchen.

Reigen must have grabbed a set of pajamas at some point last night, though you can't remember when. His back is turned to you; he's lazily stirring something on the stove. Two steaming cups of coffee sit on the counter beside him. Before you can decide whether you want to say something and risk startling him, he seems to sense you standing there, and he turns around with a weak smile.

"Hey."

"Morning?" It's both a greeting and a question, because you have no idea what time it is.

"Yeah." He lets out a breathy chuckle. "How, um, how you feeling?"

Your head is throbbing so bad your teeth hurt, your legs and back are sore, and you have a looming sense of guilt.

"I think I should be asking you that."

"I'm fine, really." He clicks off the fire and reaches for a bowl. "I told you, I felt basically back to normal after I- well, um, you know. Thanks again, by the way, for car- for carrying me."

You nod softly, feeling a little useless as he hands you what looks and smells like a very delicious soup.

"Reigen, I am so-" "I didn't mean-"

He reaches for a second bowl. "You first." When you start to shake your head, he rolls his wrist in a "go on" motion. "Please. I'm not actually sure how to say mine yet."

"Right." You swallow thickly, fidgeting with your spoon. Deep in thought, you miss Reigen slipping past you. He clears his throat and gestures to the seat across from him. You slide into the chair. Your spoon clanks against the bowl as you set it down. "I, um. Shit, I'm so sorry."

He seems surprised, a spoonful of soup halfway to his lips.

"What for?"

"Wh-" You blink. "Every... thing? I- I know sorry doesn't even cover it, but I-"

"Whoa, hey, okay." He shakes his hand in front of him. "Never mind, I'll go first, because I think you got the wrong idea and I'm not gonna let you apologize for anything that happened."

"But you trusted me, and I-"

"And I still do. That's- that was the whole- look, I-" He sighs. His spoon clanks as he sets it down, abandoned in favor of wringing his hands together. "I set you up."

"You-?"

"I didn't mean to! I thought- It was stupid, and I should have just told you what I was trying to do, I know , but I- I wasn’t exactly thinking straight, and I thought if I could speed up the process, then- I mean, there's only so many times you can put up with almost getting to- if I could- ugh, sorry, hang on."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. You swear your headache is reacting sympathetically, because pain shoots between your temples, dull but persistent. He goes to retrieve the coffees from the kitchen, just cool enough to drink, and you down some as soon as he hands you a mug.

"You've been so patient, and I know you would never do anything I didn't want, but I... I keep overthinking it. And I thought it would be the perfect excuse to... to not have to think about it at all. I mean that's- that's just what people do at parties, right, and- I mean, it was... ugh." He sits back down, his posture unnaturally rigid. He chooses his next words carefully, pausing between words as if he’s testing out different sentences in his head. "I trusted you… to not take it further than I was comfortable with… more than I trusted myself to… not panic over nothing. So, I- I saw the chance and I..." He gestures weakly, hand falling back to the table with a soft thump.

"Liquid courage."

He takes a sip of his coffee and slumps forward, holding his chin with one hand.

"You... got drunk on purpose?"

"Not originally, but, uh."

You nod slowly. Your stomach grumbles, and you realize you haven't actually eaten any of your soup. You take a reluctant spoonful, chewing slowly as you take everything in.

"When you froze up, it- I realized how little I had thought it through. I- it wasn't fair to you. You didn't do anything to- I never should have put you in that position in the first place."

"I... would have appreciated a warning, yeah."

"Sorry." He runs his hand through his hair and leaves it against the back of his neck. "I'm really sorry."

"Apology accepted." Reigen relaxes into his chair. As he stretches his legs out, one of his feet bumps against your ankle, and you laugh softly. "I'm still sorry, too. I should have asked more questions. And I didn't... I think I noticed something was wrong but I didn’t realize it was that frustrating for you. Before, I mean. I never wanted to make you feel like you had to do something like that."

"It's exclusively a me problem, I promise. I thought something would have worked by now. I don't... I don't really know what’s getting in the way." He shakes his head, breathing out sharply through his nose.

“I mean, literally speaking, your hands.” You laugh and take another sip of your coffee. He tilts his head. “Because, you know, y-you always grab my hand before I-?” He stares, unblinking. “Sorry, too soon to joke, probably,” you mutter into your cup, taking another sip just to have something to do.

When he moves again, it’s with a jerky start, sitting up and leaning forward. “My hands.”

“Yeah, I-”

“No, my hands.” He throws his elbows onto the table. The bowls clatter and his coffee sloshes; his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. His wrists come together in front of you, palms up and fingers curled loosely, as he stares, silent, waiting for a glimpse of recognition to cross your face. It takes a moment, but when he finds it, he grins. “My hands.”

“If you want to stop-”

“Saying so has always been enough.”

You stand, leaning to match his eye level. You consider him, searching for hesitation, but you find none.

You take his hand, and you start pulling.

+

“This is… mine?” An old black tie lays across Reigen’s palms, the ends hanging loosely over his thighs.

“Yeah, you left it here. A while ago, I guess.” You shrug. “You never really liked it, though, plus you’re here all the time anyway, so I didn’t get around to giving it back, and it’s just been here ever since.”

As you slide the drawer closed, he catches a glimpse of an old t-shirt he left on his first night in your place, folded neatly in the back corner, under a small collection of his dress socks. 

There are signs of him everywhere, really, if he looks. His toothbrush in your bathroom, a blanket he bought you for your birthday draped over the back of the couch, his favorite sweater of yours hanging on the handle of the closet, never out of service long enough to make it in with the rest of your clothes.

He’s struck with the realization it’s not just in your things, your home, but in you, the way you gesture with an extra dramatic flourish that wasn’t there before, the unwavering, tight smile that settles on your face when you talk to clients, the softness in your voice when you welcome the kids into the office, quietly clearing a table for them to do homework on, the flashes of movement in the kitchen as you dash back and forth whenever you make recipes he taught you - favorites from when things were harder and uncertain and cooking was his escape, before even the hardest parts of his life were laced with joy.

He’s wearing off on you.

He’s known it for a while, but he’s never put it all together like this, never seen it all so neatly represented in a single black tie, satin and unassuming and full of possibility. You kick your abandoned shoe out of the way, pushing the door shut with a soft click that startles him just enough to draw his attention.

“Still okay?”

He wonders how you’ve worn off on him, which parts of him weren’t there before that he doesn’t notice, can’t notice.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I’m ready.”

He smooths his thumb over the fabric, watching it wrinkle and crease where he applies pressure. It slides across his palms, dragging slowly as you wrap one end around your hand, until he’s left with empty air, hands outstretched between you.

He feels light.

You take his hands in yours, turning them in toward each other, and start to lay the tie across his wrists.

“Oh, wait!” You pull back right away, and he holds up one finger. “Not- we should take my shirt off first.”

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!” You laugh and settle back onto your knees. “Yes, okay, let’s- yeah.”

Reigen stops halfway up. The fabric stays bunched when he lets go, and he pulls your hands to the exposed patch of skin. He can feel the tie, still wrapped around your palm, pressing against his side, cold and smooth, and he swallows thickly. As you drag your hands up, it slides up with you, and a shiver wracks through him when you finally pull the shirt off his arms.

He cups your face, pulling you into a kiss, fingers coming to press at the back of your neck to keep you against him as he topples backward. You catch yourself on one hand, the end of the tie flipping to rest over his shoulder as you climb to straddle him. He’s insistent, both hands tangling in your hair, little sighs and puffs of breath against your mouth as he refuses to pull away for air.

You press a kiss to his cheek to soothe the loss when you lean back. He drapes his arms over your shoulders, locking his fingers together behind your head.

“We could stay like this? My hands are… close-ish together.”

“I can’t see behind me to tie it, but,” you pull his hands around your head, “I’m sure we can figure it out after that.”

He nods. You turn his hands back toward each other and his fingers curl, knuckles pressing together as he relaxes. You drape the tie around his wrists, trying a few different ways of looping it but not finding anything you’re satisfied with.

“Sorry. I just wanna make sure you can get out if you need.”

“It’s alright. I like the attention.”

You freeze, a wobbly grin taking shape as your face heats up.

“‘Taka, I’m supposed to be the composed one!”

“I’m just trying to be honest!” He flexes his wrists, pressing his knuckles together to crack them.

“Don’t worry,” you press both ends of the tie between his hands and motion for him to hold them still, “I like giving you attention.” You fold the middle of the tie over to make two loops and start twisting them in on themselves. “And I wanna hear about it as much as you can bear.”

“You seem plenty composed to me.” He pinches his thumb between two fingers and squeezes.

“Quick recovery. I learned from the best.” You wink and put your fingers through the loops. “Here, hands in here.”

He flattens his hands to squeeze them through, stopping to let you shimmy the tie the rest of the way over. You hold the ends of the tie and give a quick tug before tying them together.

“There, it’ll have to do.” You slip a finger in each loop, making sure there’s enough room to be comfortable without him being able to slip out without meaning to. “It’s a little loose, so don’t pull too hard, okay?”

“Sure.” He folds his elbows down, letting his hands come to rest on his chest. He jerks one hand up toward his hair, pulling his other hand with it, and the tie snaps taut. He has the courtesy to look sheepish. “I’ll try.”

You roll your eyes, smile still wide.

“Hands above your head, please.”

“Hm?”

“I’d like to get at your neck.” You press up on his elbows, and he unfolds his arms. “Those were in the way.”

“O-oh. Right.”

You lean down, tilting his chin up with one hand, and press a kiss to his throat, savoring the way it moves as he swallows. You trail down until you reach his stomach, dragging your tongue along his skin on the way back up. He exhales sharply, breath moving your hair as you get closer to his face. He forces out a laugh, and he rolls one shoulder.

You glance up. The tie is already starting to come loose, untwisting in the middle, but his hands are clasped together, the tie held in place between his wrists, fingers over the ends.

You kiss him, quick and breathless, and slip your fingers under his waistband. When his breath hitches, you smooth your thumb along the bone there, a reassurance you won’t move yet. You can feel him tense under you, pressing up into your touch, then slowly settling back onto the mattress.

You’re both reluctant to acknowledge the fact that you have to get off of him to take his pants off. You do your best to shimmy them under you, and he lifts his hips to help, but you need both hands to make sure his boxers stay on for now, and you want to make sure he can move his legs, so eventually, begrudgingly, you climb off him.

He takes the opportunity to stretch, his back arching off the bed as you throw his pants off somewhere to worry about later.

“Ooh, pretty. Think you can do that for me again?” You press a thumb to the inside of his thigh, at the edge of where his boxer leg has ridden up, and he jumps, hips rolling against your touch.

“Trickery.” He squirms, a whine that refuses to come out shining through in his voice. “Not fair.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty more chances.” You trail your fingers up his thigh, along the “v” of the bone, up his stomach. He shivers when you trail back down, your fingers catching on the waistband of his boxers to drag it over his skin before letting go, settling your hand lightly over the bulge in the fabric. It’s slightly damp against your skin, and Reigen chokes back a moan when you press down. 

You pull, grinding your palm down on his cock as the waistband moves until you can see the base of it, then you slide back up, tracing the outline of him with your fingers. When he whimpers, you’re too slow to hide your grin, and he glares halfheartedly.

“Having fun down there?”

“Oh, lots, thanks.” You slip your thumb below the elastic. “Seems like you are, too.”

“Hm.”

“Sorry, what was that?” You lift your hand with mock alarm, and he scrambles to reach for you, slowly lowering his arms to his chest when he sees your smile.

“Yes.”

“So, just to make sure, you are having fun?” It’s just as sarcastic as it is serious, and he seems to take it in equal measures, because he scoffs at the same time he nods. Both hands are on his hips now, both thumbs in his waistband, and you pull up gently to get him to lift his hips.

“Good boy.”

You’re not sure you would have felt it if you weren’t holding him, but he definitely shudders, trembling where your fingers press into his skin.

“Arataka.”

“Hmm?” He sounds breathless, and his chest heaves with effort, the rest of him as still as he can keep it.

“Should I keep calling you a good boy?”

“Um. If you want.” He jerks his hips up, and you take the hint to slide his boxers off, keeping an eye on his face as you do. You climb between his legs and lean over him, wrapping your hand slowly around his cock, firmly but gently, your thumb over the tip.

He squeaks, and he tenses, but he doesn’t reach for your hands.

“You’re doing so well, ‘Taka.” He swallows, and he shifts his hands, twisting the tie so he can lay his arms closer to his hair. “Such a good boy for me.” Precum oozes out of his slit, and you feel it roll down your hand.

“Mhm.” You lean back on your heels. “How about this? You tell me what feels good, and every time you do,” you pull your thumb down, spreading the precum along his length, “I’ll let you know just how much I appreciate it. Sound good?”

He nods, and you stop moving.

“Can I hear you say it?”

“Yes,” he breathes, pressing his wrists together, “yes, sounds good.”

“Good job.” When you lean to kiss him, grip tightening to keep his dick down against his stomach, his knuckles brush over your hair. “So perfect.”

You start slow, focusing more on touching every inch of him then keeping any sort of rhythm. When you trail up the vein on the underside, he shivers, and he gasps when you squeeze the base, and his hips jerk up when you pass over his slit, one leg coming up to press his ankle against your side. It’s not until you slip your other hand around him, though, arm passing through the space created by the bend of his knee to settle on his outer thigh, that he says anything.

“Fuck, that, more of that. P-please.”

“This hand?” You press your fingers into his thigh. He presses back.

“Yeah. I need… just, hold onto me.”

“Okay. Yeah, of course, sweetheart.” You scoot closer to wrap your hand tighter around his leg, spreading your legs to slip your knee underneath him. Once he relaxes, the full weight of his leg on yours, you press a kiss to his knee. “Good boy.”

“Shit,” he laughs, squirming closer to you. “S’not close enough.”

“Let me try something, then.” You slide backwards, reluctantly letting his leg fall to the bed, and you shimmy onto your stomach. When you pull his leg over your shoulder, he immediately hooks his ankle into your back and lets out a breathy moan. The pressure makes it a little harder to reach back around his thigh, but he relaxes into it easier, and the view is incredible. “There you go, perfect.”

You start up a little faster this time, twisting your wrist as you move up and down, and he bucks up into your hand. You risk a kiss to his thigh and his hands fly to your hair, the ends of the tie flowing down against your cheek.

“Sorry, too much?”

“Not enough.” His voice is scratchy now, and he gives a little tug once he gets a hold of you. “Can you, don’t put it- but, closer?”

“You want me here instead?” You press a kiss to the underside of his cock, flipping the loose ends of the tie out of the way to lay across his hip.

“Y-yes. Yes, fuck.”

“Gladly.” Between words, you pepper kisses along his shaft, following the trail of your hand up and down. “Thank you for letting me do this for you. You look so beautiful like this, feeling so good.”

He starts to make a noise of protest, but it quickly shifts into a stifled groan when you press a kiss to his tip, just barely letting your tongue drag across his slit as you pull away.

He whines and bucks his hips to follow you, and you can’t help but let an incredulous laugh slip out. “Alright, love, I’m gonna give you a choice, okay?”

He swallows thickly, then nods.

“Option one, you can tell me exactly how you want me to make you come. If you want my hand or my mouth or to go faster or slower or anything at all you just have to say the word. But I won’t do anything you don’t tell me, so you’ll have to say exactly what you want.”

His breathing is ragged, and he twitches in your grasp. “And option two?”

You grin and lean over him, propping yourself up on one hand. “I do whatever makes you the loudest, and if you stop making those pretty noises for me, I stop.” He seems to flinch at that, and you brush his hair back. “Just for a little while.”

He takes a shaky breath, eyes fluttering closed, and he pulls his arms in and down to drape one across his forehead. The tie was never really secure in the first place, but after quite a bit of pulling and flailing, it’s fully undone by now, nothing but luck and stubborn determination holding the loops in place around Reigen’s wrists.

“Both options, of course, come with all sorts of praise and admiration.” You slip a finger under the fabric and give a light tug. He lifts his hands to let the tie slide free.

When he opens his eyes, a shudder running down his spine, he sees you absent-mindedly tying the tie around your neck, uneven and loose, hanging down between you to brush against his stomach. He’s sure you just needed somewhere to put it, something to do with your hands, but it flips a strangely possessive switch somewhere inside him. Not because he’s seeing you in his clothes - he’s had the privilege of that many times before - but because you’ve taken the thing that was supposed to restrain his ability to fuck up the situation, taken something he left safe for you to keep track of without even realizing he’d done it, taken the symbol of his presence in your space and your time and your life, and you’ve put it on without a second thought. He thinks of his misguided reasoning that got you into this situation, that he trusts you with him more than he trusts himself, and he knows what he wants.

For once, words are failing him, which just makes the choice even easier.

“Second one.”

Your eyebrows raise a little, like you’re surprised at his answer, and he almost takes it all back, but then you’re grinning and leaning down to cup his jaw, kissing him like he’s giving you the only air you could ever breathe, and he moans into your mouth.

You lean away just enough to pull in a gasp of air, fingers sliding to tangle into the base of his hair.

“Just like that, gorgeous.”

He laughs, sucking in a shaky breath as you wrap your hand around him again. It pinches into a sort of strained whimper as he starts to quiet himself and thinks better of it, and you start moving.

“That’s it, good boy, just let me take care of everything.”

For all he got into his head before, breaking the seal of touching him seems to have removed any last bits of hesitation, because he relaxes into your touch almost immediately. Your experimenting earlier left you with a good idea of what will get the best noises out of him, and he doesn’t hold back. You’re silently thankful, not only because you get to hear him, but also because you’re not sure you could have followed through on your threat of stopping. And if he’s exaggerating for your sake, all clipped moans and raspy mumbling and bucking hips, well, you’re not going to complain.

After a particularly tight stroke up his cock and a brush of teeth up the inside of his thigh, he pulls one arm over his mouth, pushing it against his lips with his other hand. You’re still deciding if that counts as muffling his sounds enough to slow down when he bites his wrist and yelps, a loud, desperate, frantic noise that seizes what little of your attention isn’t already on him. His head tips back as he struggles to prop himself up on one elbow, hand flipping to clamp down over his mouth, and you can see the bite mark, lines pressed into the pale skin just below the jut of bone where palm meets wrist. It takes you a minute to realize he’s saying something, your brain struggling to piece his noises together into words.

“Can I have your hand?” You hum, scrambling to extract your hand from his leg. “I just- I need,” he opens and closes his hands, “something.” When you hold your hand up blindly toward him, he takes it quickly and holds on tight, fingers lacing together with yours. He gives a few tugs, and you hurry to sit up.

“Please, I need- I can’t take it anymore.” He looks frantic, eyebrows pinched together and his chest heaving with ragged, shaky breaths. His hips buck wildly, quick and shallow into your curled fingers. You realize you’ve forgotten to keep moving as you were watching him, and you quickly correct your mistake, reveling in the shiver that racks through him as your thumb swipes over his tip.

He’s begging now, your name falling out in pieces between gasps and cries; he’s still tugging at your hand like you can’t get close enough, pressing his lips to your jaw like he can’t quite remember how to leave kisses there. He pitches his hips up and presses against you, knees coming together to press into your sides, pinning your hand against your torso as he lets out a final shuddering whimper.

He comes across your fingers, his whole body tense as he holds himself up, back arched and head rolled to the side. He moves to wrap his arms around you, forgetting that his elbow is supporting him, and he pulls you down with him as he falls the short distance to the mattress.

You do your best to roll off him without letting go of him during the aftershocks, but you’re not exactly paying attention to where you’re still holding, and he yelps again from the overstimulation. You yank your hand away with half an apology, smoothing your hand up his side as you lift yourself up on your other arm.

“Nono, wait, don’t-” He scrambles to grab you wherever he can, and you intercept him before he can smack you across the face.

“It’s okay, ‘Taka, s’okay. I’m not going anywhere. I just didn’t wanna crush you. Let’s sit up so you can get some water, alright? All that noise can really make your throat sore, I know.” You slip your hands under him, one at the small of his back and one between his shoulders, gently lifting him toward the headboard. “That’s it. You’re okay. I gotcha.”

Once he’s upright, a glass of water in two shaky hands, you lean over the side of the bed to fumble for a washcloth. When he doesn’t slow down on his own, you start to reach for the glass, but he pulls away for a big gulp of air before you can.

“How you feelin’?”

He doesn’t answer right away, leaving you to fidget with the cloth, slowly reaching for his thigh. He lets his eyes slide closed as you start to wipe him off, smoothing an apologetic thumb over his hip when he hisses from the sensitivity. You wipe your hand on a mostly clean corner before you chuck it in the general direction of the hamper, silently relieved when it makes it in.

“I think I died.” His hands are still shaking as he goes to set the glass on your nightstand, and you gingerly take it from him, lifting yourself up to set it on the far corner where neither of you can accidentally knock it off later. “I understand you now.”

“You didn’t die, I promise.” You allow yourself a smirk and pull a blanket up from the end of the bed. “That’s high praise, though.”

“You’re high praise.”

“You’re the one that liked it so much.”

He rolls his eyes, too tired to argue. As you pull yourself up the bed to sit beside him, he leans over, one hand sliding behind you to rest on your hip. Now that he doesn’t have the distraction of everything else, you can tell he’s starting to think, because his ears are tinting pink and he’s fidgeting with a string on the edge of the blanket.

“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t happy to oblige.”

You scoop his hand into yours, leaving the blanket’s seams to live another day, and examine the bite mark on his wrist.

“I can’t believe I did that.” He scoffs, shaking his head a little as you turn his arm over. “The hell was I thinking?”

“Obviously you weren’t, which is both the point and very hot, so hush.” He turns away stubbornly, but he looks pleased. “You could probably say a spirit did it. Biting seems like an evil ghost thing to do, right?”

“With clearly human teeth?”

“Maybe it… stole them?”

He laughs, pulling away from your grip to get comfortable against your side. Just as you start to drift off, soothed by the sound of his breathing slowing and his weight settling on you as he relaxes, you feel his fingers walking down your hip, making their way to your thigh. You crack one eye open, and he looks away with obviously fake innocence.

“Where you going with that hand, darling?”

He smiles, bright and daring, as his fingers dig in. “Your turn?”

You consider it. You’re not quite capable of fully ignoring how turned on seeing him like this has made you. There’s a bit of nervous energy, buzzing over what’s left of your hangover, excitement, the joy that bubbles up in your chest at seeing him smiling at you like that, everything coming together in an overwhelming, swirling feeling of wanting whatever he will give you. But there’s something else, a calm undercurrent to it all, coating the emotion in quiet and directing it all back to a single point, solid and unwavering and right .

More than anything, you are content.

He sees your expression and laughs, must know what you’re going to say the moment you decide, because he mouths the words along with you as he pulls his hand back up to your hip.

“Maybe next time.”

[beneathsilverstars]

It's hard, taking care of a kid when you're still growing up yourself, but Pétronille does her best. She's not sure it's good enough, but what else can she do? A series of scenes following Pétronille and Bonnie, from the first time they ran away to the second.

Rating: Teen and Up Category: Gen Characters: Pétronille, Bonnie Tags: POV Second Person, Minor Original Character(s), Specifically various citizens of Bambouche, Child Neglect, Child Abuse, Bipolar Pétronille, Suicidal Thoughts, breaking the cycle, kitchen mishaps, Shoes both remembered and forgotten, Drowning imagery, Bonnie's protectee guilt, Bonnie's A+ spelling Words: 10,541

[katsigian]

── ⁺⭒*˖ ☽ ˖ 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝘼𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 ˖ ☾ ˖*⭒⁺ ──

I was tagged by @gothimp @strafethesesinners @aceghosts @onehornedbeast @amalkavian @cloudofbutterflies92 @simonxriley thank you! ♡♡♡

𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙊𝘾, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮'𝙙 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙧

𝘼 𝘿𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙮 𝘼𝙪𝙧𝙤𝙧𝙖

"ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ

ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɪꜱ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ

ɪ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴇ ᴍᴇᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴛʜɪɴɢ"

𝙎𝙪𝙜𝙖𝙧 𝙗𝙮 𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙏𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣

"ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴡʀᴀᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀɪɴꜱ

ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴ

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ, ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴡ"

𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙃𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙮 𝙗𝙮 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙚

"ɪ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜱᴡɪɴɢɪɴ' ᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀ ꜱᴡᴀʀᴍ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇᴇꜱ 'ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ

ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʜᴏɴᴇʏ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ

ɪ'ʟʟ ʀɪᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴍᴀꜱʜ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʀɴᴇᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ?

ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ, ɪ'ʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ

ɪ'ʟʟ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ 'ᴛɪʟ ɪ ɢᴏᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ"

𝙄𝙩 𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝘽𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙗𝙮 𝙃𝙤𝙯𝙞𝙚𝙧

"ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴍᴇ

ᴊᴇꜱᴜꜱ ᴄʜʀɪꜱᴛ, ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ʜᴏɴᴇʏ, ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ, ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ

ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴜɴʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴏᴏʀᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ, ɪ'ʟʟ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀʏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ

ᴏʜ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ, ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴄʏ ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴋɪɴᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴀꜰꜰᴏʀᴅ

ɪ ᴡᴀʀɴ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙᴀʙʏ, ᴇᴀᴄʜ ɴɪɢʜᴛ, ᴀꜱ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʙᴏʀɴ ʏᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴡʟɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴏᴏʀ"

𝘽𝙖𝙙 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙗𝙮 𝙅𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙩

ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴛʀᴜᴇ

ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ

ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴅᴏ ʙᴀᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ

ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴅᴏ ʀᴇᴀʟ ʙᴀᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ

[All of these songs I really associate with Valen in some way - they apply to some part of his life or character. Bad Things and Sugar apply to his husband and the stuff they get up to 🫠 Black Honey, It Will Come Back, and Dangerous Thing speak directly to Valen's character and the things he's done]

𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙑𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙣 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙧

[He dresses pretty simply - a lot of dark colours and the words 'comfortable', 'tactical', and 'utilitarian' come to mind. Valen doesn't mind spending more on items that he really likes and knows will last him for a long while. About 40% of his attire is gear for work; lots of tactical clothing that gives him a bit of protection and holds his other gear. Such as holsters, tac vests, and other related things.]

[firenati0n]

wip wednesday <3 :)

hello friends :) happy wednesday, hope you are well! happiest of birthdays to my babygirl Alex Claremont-Diaz, love you endlessly my beautiful big brained bisexual disaster with a heart of gold

thank you to @jellibuns @junebugclaremontdiaz @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @piratefalls @bigassbowlingballhead @leojfitz @ships-to-sail @suseagull04 @dragonflylady77 @kiwiana-writes @onthewaytosomewhere @wordsofhoneydew @priincebutt @magicandarchery @leaves-of-laurelin @eusuntgratie @duchessdepolignaca03 @saturntheday @itsmaybitheway @captainjunglegym @indestructibleheart @oxfordslutphase @tailsbeth-writes for the tags this week and on sunday :)

here's a snip from a tiny spy au coming this week if i can wrangle these men into submission:

“I'm serious, Alex. No theatrics. Certainly no blood. What's the code for trouble?” “Barracuda.” Henry clicks his tongue. “Too many syllables for my taste.” “Your name is too many syllables for my taste, yet you don't see me complaining.” “Touché.” He grasps Alex's shoulder, taking a long look into Alex's eyes. Henry's body is serene, but his eyes are always his tell for Alex. They're cloudy, tense; murky waters. “Be careful, please. We both know how dangerous these men are. Manu is unpredictable, even as the mafia equivalent of a middle manager.” “Aw, worried about me, sweetheart?” Alex grins, but it's a little unsteady, faltering at the edges. “Henry. This is easy. And if I’m lucky, no dicks will have to come out.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. He really, really doesn’t want any dicks out this time. “See you in five, okay?” He squeezes Henry's arm, then slips out of the supply closet. Back to work.

xoxo roop

+ no pressure tags below the cut and open tag as always <3 tag me if you use :)

@ninzied @cha-melodius @sparklepocalypse @cricketnationrise @orchidscript @getmehighonmagic @myheartalivewrites @welcometololaland @anincompletelist @nocoastposts @tintagel-or-cockleshells @sherryvalli @lizzie-bennetdarcy @heysweetheart-writes @inexplicablymine @onward--upward @celeritas2997 @affectionatelyrs @14carrotghoul @rmd-writes @cultofsappho @anchoredarchangel @candyspandemonium @porcelainmortal @kj-bee @nontoxic-writes

[aioliravioli-69]

Detective Noir AU

Alright, this au has been sitting around, waiting for me to finish it but chances are, I never will :((

So instead, I'll just post what I have so far

This was inspired by that one comment on the au post the author made(at this point you could consider me a stalker for the amount of hours I've scrolled through her feed💀)

First things first, none other than our main character himself, Detective Hollow!

I made him the detective in this one mainly because I was basing it off of the theory that if there was no heroine the keyholder would simply become the hero instead(don't remember where I read this but I'm guessing it was the webtoon comment section).

I also my have just really wanted to draw him in an overcoat

gonna be honest, I did little to no research going into this AU, the thing I most tried to learn about was the femme fatale so I could get a good view on how to design Buddy

Speaking of the femme fatale:

Seems like someone got caught in the spotlight!

And before you ask, yes, those are pants. Weird ones, but pants nonetheless. I swear, I hate lighting when it's from the front. Frontal lighting can go fuck itself. Please ignore the little help lines I put in

Honestly, Buddy's outfit was probably the hardest part of this one. I wanted him to look slutty, but I didn't want to make it TOO slutty, but I feel like I may have added WAYY too many folds in his pantsuit and I kinda messed up on the overcoat lol. The diamond on his chest was inspired by the diamond on the villainess key more than anything and I tried to incorporate that into his gloves too.

Anyway, have some potential outfit sketches I made:

the two I thought might come off as too slutty and

the ultimate winner of the outfit ideas

As you can see the diamond chest window and fur coat were a mut in this outfit and I'm pretty happy with the end result

Y'all know how the femme fatale usually has to seduce the main character a.k.a. the detective?

Well, y'all know me so have an extra just for you <33

But I'm not done just yet!

Remember how I said that I made Chase the hero because of the lack of a heroine in the story? Well...

I did some more surface level research(and I mean very surface level) and decided to adapt the trope of the girl-next-door archetype for him!!

Don't think it suits him, since they usually just sit pretty and wait for the detective to notice them, but they do have badass roles once in a while and I live for those!!!

The one Chase has taken on doesn't though sadly :')

I decided to go with Charlie Hollow for this one because it sounded more like something the timid and 'pure'(yuck I know, but sadly film noir movies often prop up comparisons between the femme fatale and the girl-next-door, this being one of them) girl next door would have

Overall I tried to make this one as cutesy as possible because, why not lol

Lastly(I apologise, I made this in a rush because I was running out of motivation)

The distance between Buddy and the detective sure did close QUICK-

Originally I was planning on adding Deacon as a police officer and now that I think about it I could technically fit Prunella in here as well, but I just don't have any willpower left to keep this thing alive

My art blocks been acting up recently and I can't even pick up the pencil without immediately wanting to put it down :((

I wish I could have continued this and maybe I will someday, but until then this'll just stay in my drafts