#kind of mirror images of each other in a lot of ways

[whetstonefires]

Thinking about the parallels set up between Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu, and how actually most of them are oddly specious.

The sketch of the backstory lines up, but on close examination they're mirror images.

Wei Wuxian wasn't kicked out of his sect, he left it. Wei Wuxian didn't hate the house he grew up in, he loved it, and getting the people there killed was the absolute last purpose for which his dark powers were ever intended.

Jiang Cheng was no Mo Ziyuan--his jealousy was a complicated thing all twisted up with love, and while he would lash out at Wei Wuxian both as a casual means of shit communication and more damagingly in moments of high tension, he had neither the desire nor the ability to bully him, and in general respected his boundaries almost too well.

When Wei Wuxian destroyed himself about Jiang Cheng, it was to give him cultivation, and protect his life and happiness. He would never have killed him.

Madam Yu was a domineering aunt-like figure, who hated Wei Wuxian for reasons of reputation, and because she had resented his dead mother, but she crucially did not have the power to actually disrupt his lifestyle to any significant extent.

Mo Xuanyu was shut up in a small room to rot; Wei Wuxian didn't even attend classes unless he wanted to. Mo Xuanyu was weak and disliked; Wei Wuxian was brilliant and popular.

Mo Xuanyu's uncle is a cipher of a figure, without character or agency, a nonentity who is resented to death apparently mostly for what he didn't do; in theory he is the master of the house, but he certainly never protected his wife and son's punching bag from them.

And this is what got me thinking along this track: because people keep interpreting Jiang Fengmian as this, as exactly like Mo Xuanyu's nameless uncle, a nonentity who lets his wife make all the decisions, and is contemptible therefore.

He shows up in fic characterized this way all the time, handled narratively as a gap rather than a person, an absence where there should have been a parent, and it's...totally inaccurate? The man only has a few scenes but the things that are most firmly established about him are:

he regularly goes out of his way to protect Wei Wuxian

he's extremely fond of Wei Wuxian

he cares a lot about ethical behavior

he's conflict-avoidant and gentle

he can and will overrule Yu Ziyuan when he's made up his mind, and there's nothing she can do about it

his communication skills are mediocre at best

he doesn't understand jiang cheng

he has a dumb sense of humor

Now almost none of this made it into cql besides point 4 and maybe 6, 5 is technically there but buried by the cinematic framing, so I totally get why the fandom on the whole struggles to characterize him well, and it's easier to write him off.

But it keeps bugging me to see him and Yu Ziyuan squashed into the mold of the Mo, because not only is that boring and reductive and kind-of-missing-the-point, it's like. Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng's characterization suffers a lot when you alter the environment and take away the influence exerted by their shared father figure.

Jiang Fengmian was Wei Wuxian's primary adult role model and it shows.

Jiang Cheng's relationship to his own sense of ethics is fraught because 'teaching him good ethics' was his dad's number one parenting goal, but they misunderstood each other so badly (partly because Yu Ziyuan kept loudly misinterpreting them to each other, which is so realistic I can't get over it, that's exactly how it works good lord) that Jiang Cheng has a direct association between the concept of 'doing the right thing even when it's hard' and a feeling of personal inadequacy.

The fact that Wei Wuxian got their dad-person's approval for being exactly himself and Jiang Cheng not only couldn't do that, he couldn't even get that same level of approval when he really pushed himself to rise to expectations, because Jiang Fengmian did not intend that warmth as a 'reward,' and so never realized he was withholding it, and therefore misunderstood Jiang Cheng's visible jealousy as a dangerous sense of personal entitlement that had to be carefully restrained, which reinforced his distrust of Jiang-Cheng-the-person and fed into a shitty loop where they were less and less able to relate to one another--that's fantastic. That's so human! I love it so much.

Both their failures are their own but at the same time it would never have gotten so bad if Yu Ziyuan hadn't been interjecting herself in there, in the middle of their relationship, fucking it up. That's family, baby.

I would ofc like if there was more fic engaging with the subtleties of all this because it's so good, mxtx did such elegant work here and it is not sufficiently appreciated. But it's the kind of thing that's hard to write good fic about; I am struggling with it myself.

So mostly I wish there was just more fic that didn't impose Mo Xuanyu's cliche angst backstory on Wei Wuxian, who has a whole different thing going on.

[neurodivenport]

tbh i have a lot of thoughts about skase but not a lot of people ship them so i keep it to myself 🫡

[princedetectives]

ok but really even without all the dramatic au stuff i like doing to them, i really think atlus accidently made one of the most interesting dynamics from what was definitely just supposed to be a cameo. the second coming of the detective prince and he's so different from the first. from how he is you'd maybe expect akechi to not really care about the title or even be kind of bitter about being placed in the shadow of someone else he hasn't even met, but no,

he actively mirrors naoto. this sweater is the only canonically confirmed callback but i've sniffed out others, even down to the way they hold themselves.

like, clothing is one thing that could just be for the public image, but come on. it's part of his SELF image. his status as the second detective prince is vital to his view of himself.

and q2 all but proves he respects naoto deeply. and it all makes sense because he really is proud of being a detective, of course he'd be a fanboy of one of the most well-known young detectives out there. i can imagine he relates to the image he has of naoto a lot.

and it's not like it places him to live up to the achievements of naoto or anything, to a degree maybe yes, but not enough to the point that it's a burden. because he's piggybacking off of his legacy and blowing it out of the water. akechi is FAMOUS, much more than naoto was, i imagine. people would hear about the first detective prince and go, "who? i only know akechi." the title only benefits him, publicly and personally.

and it'd be so interesting if they met, because it's not like one is living in the others' shadow. akechi has to live up to naoto's reputation because he's the successor to naoto's legacy, placed on his shoulders by the force of the public. naoto has to live up to akechi's reputation because he's the new big thing, he's what everyone is interested now, he's who was chosen to succeed him. they live in each others' shadows. it's an ouroboros of reputation.

i just think they're neat. they'd get along too, i bet. they definitely got along in q2! they're the only ones in the whole world who can relate to each others' experiences of growing up as a detective prince. they're both big nerds. they're both competitive. PLEASE imagine placing these two in the same room together. it would be so INTERESTING.

and don't even get me STARTED on how Crow looks a hell of a lot like naoto's persona

[ms-demeanor]

Do you know of any resources for physical film photo manipulation? Not sure if there's different terms for non-digital stuff, but I'm having a hard time finding anything.

Okay so there are, I'm going to say (casually, informally, and inexpertly - photography experts feel free to correct me or add on to what I've missed), four major types of photo manipulation that are common with non-digital photography. They are: exposure manipulation, compositing, actually photographing weird bullshit, and just straight up painting.

Exposure manipulation gets you things like Ansel Adams "Moonrise." This is what it looks like if it's evenly exposed:

And this is what it looks like with significant modifications to the exposure:

That is. Like. SEVERAL layers of different exposures for the final print. This can be achieved through processes called "dodging" and "burning." "Dodging" is creating a physical mask so that the parts of the negative you want to remain darker are exposed to less light. "Burning" is creating a physical mask so that the areas you the negative you want to be brighter are exposed to more light.

This is a process that is really, really easy to do in photoshop, and really really hard to do in film.

Here is a very comprehensive writeup of how to dodge and burn, and why you might want to.

Compositing is a fancy way of saying "copy/paste". But more so. And with more techniques. Compositing is basically combining two or more images to create one new image. You can do this by making multiple exposures (exposing the negative to light multiple times), splicing film negatives together (physically cutting the negatives and taping pieces to each other), or by combining negatives and prints into a new print. For instance the image below is made up of six different photos, which were composited into a single image by Henry Peach Robinson in 1877.

This is an article written by a photographer who walks you through the process they used to make a composite print in 2020. It involves a lot of planning, cutting, pasting, masking, dodging, and burning. This is a writeup from a photographer who uses a more blunt method of splicing negatives together to create more abstract images.

Actually photographing weird bullshit is what I'm calling "in camera effects." There are all kinds of tricks that you can use while taking a photo to create surreal or magical effects. One that a lot of people know is the speeder in Star Wars:

The floating speeder wasn't achieved through later manipulation of the film, but instead through mirrors hanging in front of the wheels and vaseline smeared on the camera lens to create a blurred effect.

Light painting is perhaps the most commonly used of these kinds of effects:

That's a 6-second exposure, the first three seconds were of the cup and saucer still, then the light was lowered as the cup was lifted and light was swept up when the cup was in place to make it look like it was floating.

The Cottingley Fairy Hoax is one of the best known examples of manipulating photos by just photographing weird bullshit. In 1917, two girls cut pictures of fairies out of a book and took pictures of themselves with the paper fairies propped up in trees, then swore up and down that they actually found fairies.

This seems crude, but hey they couldn't reverse image search the fairies or anything back then. Some of the photos also make good use of forced perspective, which is something that we still use for in-camera manipulations (it was how a lot of Lord of the Rings was filmed in order to make the hobbits look small)

Here's a listicle with a bunch of "hacks" for using your camera and for testing out some types of in-camera effects.

Just Straight Up Painting is what I'm calling photo retouching. It's a bit of an exaggeration to call it "painting" but yeah sometimes it was literally putting paint on negatives or etching away parts of negatives. It's how you end up with photos like this:

Here's an article about retouched photos of Joseph Stalin (maybe the most well known examples of pre-digital photo retouching) and an article about the art of portrait retouching. These examples are relatively subtle, but you can also use these kinds of retouching and airbrush techniques to exaggerate parts of an image or add objects to an image (see the text added to the flag in the article about Stalin).

I can't think of any comprehensive resources offhand, but photographers love to tell you how they pulled of their photos (which is why quite a few of the links above are from photographers discussing process). This is by no means a comprehensive list of non-digital photomanipulation techniques, but hopefully it's enough terminology to get you started on what you're looking for.

[karlatakicker]

RUIN SPOILERS!!

i’m very attached to roxanne, and after the dlc i am very attached to cassie too! so here’s my thoughts on the both of them and why their relationship is just so unbelievably special to me

1. it’s implied that they both don’t really have any friends, as sad as it is. Roxanne says to Cassie in their conversation that she thinks that her friends will come to her party this time, which obviously means Cassie’s friends are either nonexistent or aren’t very nice. it’s also implied that Roxanne is disliked by the other children in the pizzaplex because of her desire to win and lack of empathy thus unawareness that children are upset by the idea of losing. so, the idea of them both becoming friends and acknowledging each-other is truly special if they have nobody else.

2. Roxanne’s desire to win on her race track is overridden by her kindness and feelings towards Cassie. in their conversation Roxanne remembers Cassie because she beat her twice on the track, which leads to Roxanne almost sounding proud despite being beaten which she usually expresses anger for. (I’ve been told this doesn’t mean what I think, Number 1 twice refers to Cassie’s birthday, but you can argue that it still shows something between them by the fact Roxanne is willing to say Cassie is Number 1, despite Roxanne constantly wanting to be Number 1.)

3. Cassie’s clear empathy towards Roxanne as her favourite - she pities and feels for Roxanne when she’s crying in the salon. despite seeing the horrid conditions that all the other animatronics are in, Roxanne as Cassie’s favourite is the only one she truly feels for.

4. Roxanne’s infatuation with herself does not inflict with her remembering details about Cassie. Roxy asking about and sharing Cassie’s love of carrot cake (and remembering her birthday) shows an attachment that Roxanne seems to have with no-one else, as thinking of herself does not conflict with thinking of Cassie.

5. in the cutouts of Cassie and Roxanne standing side by side, they’re mirrored. Cassie has similar makeup on to Roxy, and is holding her mirror the exact same way. Cassie wants to be exactly like Roxanne, to the point of copying her actions and being dolled up like her. these images of the two of them are simply to establish a connection between them, so it hurts a lot more when it comes down to de-activating Roxanne.

6. Roxanne, despite being so angered at the idea of not being pretty and being so damaged, has no hesitation in jumping to save Cassie despite possibly getting more damaged or even being completely broken because of it.

7. the line “it has been some time since i saw you last” can be interpreted as Roxanne had thought of Cassie since the last time she had been to the pizzaplex. it makes their reunion all that more heartbreaking because when Roxanne meets her again, it’s for Cassie to deactivate her.

8. Roxanne asking if Cassie had booked her party yet, is essentially Roxy asking if Cassie was going to come back and see her - Cassie, the only kid that Roxy is shown to have a connection with.

9. Cassie stroking Roxanne’s fingers before deactivating her, as if to give her the last comfort she’ll ever feel.

anyway that ends my rant. they’re just so special to me despite them having like 3 interactions. they are the true little sister/big sister animatronic and human pairing we needed. if I don’t get an ending where they’re sitting on the hill eating carrot cake, the developers are going to get a very strongly worded email.

(just to clarify months on from this post, the developers have received a very strongly worded email.)

[daycourtofficial]

Falling in Love on the Fourth Floor - part 14.1

Pairing: Azriel x reader | WC: 3.5k | previous part | masterlist

Summary: Out of an act of desperation, you move in with a guy you kind of know who happens to have a really hot brother who lives next door.

Author’s note: okay babes I’m desperate to get this out bc this part is going to be so fucking long I had to break it up into parts

“Rhys, stop!”

Feyre’s shriek of annoyance draws your attention to the front, your eyes watching Feyre chastise Rhysand for driving almost 30 miles per hour over the speed limit. You and Azriel were in the backseat of Rhys’s car (“It’s a Tesla,” Rhys would correct), Feyre in the front seat making several comments about the way Rhys drives as if he is attempting to murder all of you.

Mor and Cassian drove separately in Cassian’s truck - you and Azriel snickered at their less than covert attempts to be alone in the apartment. The six of you had been about to hit the road when Cassian had ‘forgotten his driving sunglasses’ and Mor had immediately offered to help. Rhys had rolled his eyes, telling Cassian the four of you were going to head off instead of waiting for them.

Rhys’s lake house was about an hour and a half away, so you and Azriel had spent that time in the back mindlessly chatting, showing each other silly videos of mostly cats. Feyre sat in the passenger seat, deeming herself in charge of the music, the three of you not caring what she put on.

Whenever Rhys and Feyre were too preoccupied in their own conversation to notice the two of you, you would slip your hand into one of Azriel’s, playing with his fingers or just squeezing lightly before pulling away.

“When do we think Cassian will show up?” You ask, making eye contact with Rhys in the rearview mirror. He scoffs, turning his eyes back to the road, “no telling. He’ll get hungry eventually, so he’ll probably show up around dinner.”

The six of you met up around two, you and Azriel almost arriving late because of your lunch date taking too long. Neither of you wanted to pretend there wasn’t something between you two, but both of you wanted to wait a bit before telling everyone, causing the two of you to linger in the parking lot for far too long, neither of you wanting to keep up the charade.

The impending deadline didn’t stop him from kissing you as if he were going off to war in the parking lot of the cafe you two went to, though. You could still taste the coffee he had on your tongue.

Feyre sighed, looking out the window, “maybe I shouldn’t have put my bag in his truck.”

You laughed, partly at her melodramatics, partly at how foolish she was to leave her bag in Cassian’s truck, “I don’t think you’re seeing that bag for a while, Fey.”

She turns her head to look at you, a scowl on her face, “you make it sound like this is my fault.”

“Well, we did put Cassian and Mor in a car together, so maybe the group is at fault. Just be thankful they didn’t pull over and have sex on top of your bag.”

Her scowl deepened, a look of disgust on her features, “my poor bag would never be the same. I would never be the same.”

“You’d have Cassian butt sweat on it.”

“Ewww, stop.”

“Or worse, his butt hair.”

You laugh as Feyre whips her head to scowl at Rhys, “and how do you know about his hairy butt?”

“Cassian spent our teenage years with a new approach to life - he was determined to be naked at any and every opportunity.” You giggle at Azriel’s words, his ears reddening a bit at the attention you were giving him.

“My mother considered kicking him out because he kept walking around naked and standing in the windows.”

You and Feyre giggled at the image, but Rhys continued. “Our neighbors kept calling and complaining. I’m actually not sure how she got him to stop.”

“She probably bribed him. It’s the only way with him.” You quirk an eyebrow at Azriel before he continues, “nothing ever got to him as a kid - yelling, getting in trouble, praising him. But bribery always worked on him.”

You turn to Azriel, pointing your head in the direction of the front seat, “what was Rhys like as a kid.”

Az huffs, “same as now. Spoiled and annoying.”

Rhys glares at him through the rearview mirror, but Az continues. “He was a bit pompous, always talking about how rich his family was.”

You watch Az try to keep from smiling as Feyre laughs, before reaching a hand out to pinch Rhys’s cheek. The movement pings something in your mind, telling you to ask about it later.

“I did not.”

“You once came to school in a helicopter.”

Rhys sinks a bit in his seat, but you file this whole conversation away in a folder of your brain titled ‘ask again later’. You had a vague sense of things you had picked up over time - Rhys’ parents were technically married, but his dad would travel a lot. Rhys’ mother and sister died at some point. Somehow Azriel and Cassian came into the picture.

It was a bit fuzzy, and you never found out why Cassian lived on his own away from Rhys and Az. You had little pieces, but you needed some way to connect the. You filed it away, just allowing yourself to enjoy the car ride.

The ride eventually reached a lull where the two of you sat in the backseat texting each other while Feyre and Rhys talked mindlessly about goats, maybe. You really weren’t sure what was going on up there.

Azriel: did you know all the guys in this town are riddled with disease

Azriel: so you shouldn’t get anywhere near them

Azriel: just to be safe

You: I like disease-riddled men

Azriel: is now a good time to tell you I had chicken pox as a kid

You: oh really?

You: Mmm itchy men

Azriel: I regret this

You: do you have any scars from it?

Azriel: that’s classified

You: I’ll just have to go around searching for them from other men

Azriel: wait no

Azriel: no no no no no

Azriel: this is a joke right

His eyes snap up to you after you refuse to respond to him, and you have to stifle a giggle at the way he’s looking at you.

You: I’m a changed woman. I prefer disease free men now

Azriel: thank god you’ll stay away from Cassian now

You look up at him with wide eyes before you type back furiously.

You: Azriel we share an apartment what do you mean

You: I let him drink my coffee the other day

You: Azzy please tell me you’re joking

You huff as each of your texts is met back with the three dots indicating he was typing. You looked over at him to find him typing random letters before backspacing to allow the dots to stay up.

You: meanie head

Azriel: you’re the one who said you preferred disease riddled men

You: they wouldn’t treat me like this

You: I would be a queen to them

You: me and my disease riddled king

Azriel: that implies you are their diseased queen

The two of you continue trying to stifle giggles as Rhys drives, Az’s hand moving to squeeze your thigh. You’re so distracted by texting him and his hand on your thigh you don’t notice where you are until the car is pulling into a neighborhood of massive houses that could likely fit multiple families with room to spare. You sit up straighter, looking out the window at these multi-dollar houses and wonder if this was a vacation home, what did Rhys’ house look like growing up?

You knew Rhys’s dad’s lake house was going to be a ridiculously large house. You knew that before, you knew that as the car drove through the neighborhood, but pulling up into the driveway it was as if you had completely forgotten. The house was massive - it had to be at least three floors above ground, and the property it was on was large too.

Rhys’ car slows across the long driveway, no other cars around. You have to strain your neck to look at the house in its entirety - it was beautiful - three or four floors, large windows showing off spacious areas on the second and third floors. It was a mix of the classic lakehouse look, but with slightly modern twists to it. All you could think about while looking at it was how long it would take to clean it. Most of your squabbles with Cassian were over whose turn it was to do dishes, and you knew this place would really test your friendship with him if you lived here.

Or maybe he’d just be able to better hide his messes in this house.

“How long would this take to clean?”

Your voice comes out a bit squeaky before you clear your throat, looking over at Az.

“You think Rhys’s dad does his own cleaning?”

Rhys parks his car in the garage, the four of you getting out. Rhys opens the trunk, and you reach out to grab your bags but Azriel beats you to it, slinging your duffle bag over his shoulder. He crinkles his nose at your pout, sticking his tongue out as he walks into the house. You follow after him, taking in how nice his back looked through his shirt.

Azriel heads to the stairs, taking Feyre to her room, but you fall back to take in the living room. You could host a house party in this living room and fit a hundred people easily. You siddle next to Rhys, watching him play with the lid of his coffee in one hand, his phone lit up in the other.

“Are you worried at all about your dad showing up?”

Rhys sips his coffee before answering, “I’d be more shocked than anyone if he showed up here. Az, Cass, and I once spent an entire summer camped out here. Didn’t even catch a glimpse of him.” He shrugs, his face looking indifferent as his phone screen displays the ‘find my friends’ app, and he looks quizzically at the screen, trying to figure out where Cassian was, you presume.

He blows out a breath, “I’m gonna call him.”

You walk away, opting to look at the photos that decorated the walls. The living room is covered in them, all shapes and sizes of frames littered the yellow wall. You see photos of younger versions of Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys, photos from when they were about ten or so until pretty recently, if you had to guess. You can watch them grow, the three of them looking so unsure of themselves at various stages.

The young photos of Azriel are littered with an air of sadness to them, his eyes not quite as bright as they are now, bandages still lingering on his hands for a long time. Azriel’s the smallest in what you think is the first photo, not much more than skin and bones, his now tan skin had a sickly pale hue to it. A woman and a young girl are in the photos with them, the five of them all looking remarkably similar - it’d be very easy to convince others that the two boys were Rhys’s brothers. The photos are all tan skin, dark curls limp in some photos from the ocean water. They are scattered across the wall, no chronological order to them, but if you lined them up you could watch the three of them grow.

The photos made you feel a well of emotion - how someone could be so cruel to someone so small, so defenseless. But as the photos continued and Azriel blended in more with this family, it made you feel so proud of him for opening himself up like that, when all he knew was pain.

He hadn’t told you the extent of his childhood - just that his family was awful, he hadn't seen or spoken to them in a decade, and his step brothers burned his hands. But the pictures of this small, helpless boy looking so lost at the lake spoke volumes for him.

Rhys put the phone down from his ear as he hung up. “They’ll meet us at the restaurant for dinner. He muttered something about a pit stop before hanging up on me.”

He gazes at the photos as he stands next to you, his eyes landing on the one you’ve been staring at. It involved a very young Azriel, fresh bandages adorning his hands. The striking woman was holding him so delicately, as if her arms squeezed him too hard he’d burst in her hold.

“That’s my mom.”

His voice catches you off guard, not expecting much of anything from him. He points at the photo, his finger tapping slightly on the glass.

“She’s beautiful.”

He hums in agreement, “she loved Az. She fought so hard for him. First person to fight for him, really. Spent a shit ton of money getting custody of him.”

That surprises you, but you leave it there for now, keeping your eyes on her smiling face. His gaze lingers on her soft smile, “she loved all of us, but boy did she love Az.”

You watch his mind go somewhere, not wanting to intrude, about to step away when he speaks up again. “That’s my sister. Kaylah.”

His finger moves to a photo nearby, landing on the young girl that Cassian had hoisted on his shoulders.

“She’s cute.”

“She loved bothering Cassian. The two of them butted heads more than any of us combined.” His voice was full of love and nostalgia. “She once got so mad at him she pulled her shoe off and threw it at his head. He was so chuffed he didn’t notice her throw the other, both of them hitting his eyes. He had a black eye for weeks.”

You laugh, “oh my gods, what happened?”

“What happened?” He turned to you, a wide grin on his face, “we got kicked out of the restaurant we were in, and she had the audacity to ask for her shoes back because they landed at another table.” He laughs, a twinkle in his eye you had never seen before. “Oh, Kaylah was something. She always made us laugh.”

“What happened to her?”

Rhys looks down, the twinkle immediately leaving his eye, “she and my mom were hit by a drunk driver when we started school. We- it was a hard time.”

You look over at him, tentatively moving your arms around his waist and hugging him to you.

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezes you back, his citrusy scent filling your nose. “Me too.”

The two of you gaze at the photos, at a time long gone, standing in silence as if an embrace could change the ending for the subjects of the photos.

The moment’s broken by Feyre’s voice, “what’s going on here?”

You turn your face to look at her, head still against Rhys’s chest, “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. We’re in love. He’s having my baby.”

She gasps overdramatically, clutching her chest as she puts on a ridiculous voice, “oh my stars! The scandal!”

You giggle as Rhys unwraps himself from you, “we were going to tell everyone while we were here, but it’s true. We’re naming the baby Cassian Junior.”

Feyre breaks her resolve, giggling, “how is it Cassian Junior?”

“Cassian’s adopting him, of course.”

Feyre giggles before coming to the wall of photos, looking too. “Wow, you guys were so little!”

You laugh, “yeah now we have proof Cassian wasn’t born with a six pack.”

“A six pack of beer, maybe.”

Azriel’s voice startled you. How a man so large was so adept at sneaking up on you unaware was impressive. He stopped behind you, but you could feel his warmth through your back.

“That would explain a lot,” Rhys mutters, turning away from the photos and sitting onto the couch. He stretched out his long legs, propping them on the ottoman before him. “That drive took a lot out of me.”

“It was two hours,” you scoff, sitting on a nearby chair. Azriel followed you, sitting in the chair next to you.

“Two hours is a long time.”

“Maybe for a baby,” Feyre coos, sitting next to Rhysand, pinching his cheeks. His hands swat at hers, pushing her away with very little effort. The four of you mindlessly chatter away, Feyre telling you all about something one of her sisters recently did, until Rhys’s phone buzzed again, Mor texting him that they were half an hour away.

The four of you jump back into Rhys’ Tesla, and he rolls down the windows as he drives you all to some restaurant called ‘Mama’s’.

“But ‘Mama’s’ what?” You had asked, to which Rhys and Az shrugged.

“Just ‘Mama’s’.”

You had huffed, accepting the nonanswer for the time being. The windows give you a glimpse of the tax brackets you drove through - starting the journey in multi-million dollar homes occupied during the warm months, the landscape quickly changes to lower and middle class homes for the people who live here year round.

Rhys pulls the car into a small restaurant, fitted with outdoor lighting and seating. It was so homey - a dozen or so people stood around outside, playing some variety of games like checkers and cornhole. A couple dozen more sat at tables, eating what smelled to be the most enticing food ever created. Your stomach rumbles at the smell, and Feyre laughs at you before you poke her in the stomach with an elbow.

You spot Cassian leaning against his car, Mor standing next to him on her phone. He stretches his arms out, huffing, “finally, we’ve been waiting for you!”

Rhys promptly pushes him as he walks past, and Mor giggles as he falters a bit and she falls in line with you and Feyre and you gag at her. “You smell like sex.”

She gasps, “no I do not,” before discreetly smelling her shirt.

“No, you don’t. Made you sniff.”

She rolls her eyes, copying your words in an exaggerated voice.

The six of you find a table, and you’re seated in the middle of the booth with Feyre and Rhys next to you. Azriel sits on the end of the other booth, and you make brief eye contact across the table, sending him a soft smile.

The waitress comes up to your table, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her black clothes making her eyes pop, her name tag reading ‘Steph’. She looked at all of you, but her eyes stopped on Azriel, her smile growing wider at the sight of him.

“Hi everybody, what can I get you all to drink?”

She takes your drinks orders, rubbing Azriel’s shoulder as she walks away. Cassian laughs at Azriel’s grimace, “I think she likes you, Azzy.”

“Shut up, Cass.”

Azriel looked to you as your friends kept talking, and you offered him a smile back. His face was hard to read, but his eyes looked so sad. You cock your head to the side, trying to figure out what the problem was, but he turned his head away.

Dinner goes by in a blur, the food was delicious, the six of you spent the evening joking around, except for Azriel, who spent most of the meal quiet. The waitress came by to check on you all several times, and her blatant efforts at flirting would have been amusing if it wasn’t completely obvious how uncomfortable it made Azriel. Each time she returned to your table, you would watch him tense up as she approached, her hands always finding their way to his shoulders. On her third stop at your table, she began calling him Muffin.

Rhys paid the check, handing over the receipt to Azriel.

“For you, Muffin.”

Azriel takes it, and from next to him you can see the phone number written beneath the total. His hands crumple it, discarding it before you all made it to the parking lot. He opens your door before heading to the other side of the car after you slide into your seat. You immediately pull out your phone, your texts with Azriel lighting up the backseat.

You: hi Muffin

Azriel: I’m so sorry

You: why? Did you do something?

Azriel: for the waitress?

You: did you do something with the waitress?

You: I did go to the bathroom, maybe you slipped out and made out with her?

You can hear Azriel furiously typing on his phone.

Azriel: no no no no

Azriel: I didn’t do that, I wouldn’t do that. I’m sorry she was hitting on me.

Azriel: I didn’t know what to do because I didn’t want to tell her I had a girlfriend

You: you have a girlfriend?

You: and you’ve been making out with me?

You: you dog

You peak over at him and his face is a deep red. You want to laugh but you feel a little bad about your teasing once you see his fingers shaking, having to backspace several times over misspelled words.

Azriel: I think so

Azriel: I didn’t mean to imply anything

You: so, you don’t have a girlfriend?

Azriel: I don’t know

Azriel: maybe?

You: do you want one?

You: a girlfriend, that is

Azriel: god yes

Azriel: but it has to be a specific girl

You: anyone in mind?

Azriel: I have my eye on someone

Series taglist: @anotherbook-obsessedhoe @impossibelle @hayrunnwr @just-a-social-casualty-1 @thisisew @brieflyclassymortal @glitterypirateduck @marshmummy @bookishbroadwaybish @azsteris @doriansgf @footyandformula @od-anon @judig92 @luvmoo @marina468 @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @acotarobsessed @maryssong23 @acourtofbatboydreams @herondale-lightworm @azrielover @carnelshephard

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin

Thanks for reading ❣️

[funniestpersonalivefr]

First of all YOU ARE AMAZING i could neverr write like this ,my brain simply can't function when it comes to these stuff, second of all i was fighting the urge to ask you for another older leon x fem reader smut/fluff because i felt like im just gonna be annoying but since i failed to stop myself here it is: "imagine leon has this coworker who he worked with during the alcatraz island incident and managed to develop a crush on her, so after days or weeks of tiptoeing around and aimlessly flirting he finally brings himslef to ask her out and one thing leads to another and BOOM! they have sex" IM SORRY IF THIS SOUNDS CORNY AND CHEESY YOU CAN TOTALLY IGNORE THIS IF YOU WANT SO ANYWAY LOVE YOU BYE

sweetheart

RAHHH IM GLAD YOU LIKE MY STUFF. anyways here's the leon request mwahahaha. nsfw under the cut, mdni. credit to image owner. not proofread and i hope you enjoy, love ya!!

your time at alcatraz was nothing but stressful. you ran around with leon and the others fighting a giant b.o.w. and you were so relieved when everything was over.

the following days you and leon spent the days swamped in paperwork. leon had been especially flirty lately, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't admitting the extra attention gave your butterflies in your stomach like a teenager in love.

how could you not fall for the charming man? he was kind and incredibly attractive but you'd never guess he would feel the same about you. yet there you were, walking into the parking lot with leon as you approached your respected vehicles. the words left his lips seemed to slip out so effortlessly and you felt your heart catch in your throat.

"you outta let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night, if you're free," he says, his low tone brought a warmness into your chest. you look back at him, he's idly standing next to his motorcycle.

"yeah, that sounds great. i'd like that," you say, your tone is soft and shy as you look away. a smile is spread across your lips and leon mirrors with his own face.

your date with leon went extremely well, a nice dinner followed by a motorcycle ride. he was all over you the moment you two had gotten back to your apartment and you were not complaining.

his lips were on your neck as he slammed you into various walls around the house, a trail of clothes following you. usually leon would try to be more of a gentleman but he was completely and utterly obsessed with you.

his crush on you had always been there but something about the alcatraz mission changed it. maybe it was the way you protected all of those around you but his heart fully belonged to you.

your back hits the soft bed, both of you have been stripped down to undergarments and nothing more. his rough calloused hands feel up and down your body, grabbing your boobs. his lips are against yours as your hands tangle in his hair.

leon's bulge presses perfectly between your legs as the two of you grind on each other with desire and need. his touch was gentle as he removed the bra separating him from your tits. your bra was quickly thrown off to the floor, leon's mouth quickly finding its way to your quickly hardening nipple.

his mouth helps to stimulate the bud, letting pleasure rush down your body. you can't help the way your hips buck into his, a groan slips leon's lips and you know you need him inside you right now.

your hands are soon fumbling with his belt, leon catches your wrists stopping you.

"what do you think you're doing sweetheart?" he asks, you whimper out slightly.

"i need you leon, i need you inside me," you say, pleading with him to give you what you want. he can't help but give in to you with the way your glossy eyes look up at him and your beautiful face flushed.

leon lets go of your wrists and you're quick to continue your actions. his clothes join yours and it's not long before he's slipping his fingers in you, stretching you to make sure you can take his cock. you whine out, desperate for his length and leon coos at you.

"be patient now, can't have yourself getting hurt," he says, his tone dripping with sweetness. his fingers start doing a scissor motion and you can't help but moan from his touch.

soon enough your needy cunt is stretched just enough for leon. you can feel him rub his tip through your soaking folds. you prop yourself up and watch as he starts to slide into you, it almost looks like he's disappearing into your pussy.

his movement is slow as he lets you adjust, waiting for you to signal you're ready for more. this signal comes with a roll of your hips. leon starts to thrust into you deeply, his long cock kissing your cervix perfectly.

he continues to plow into you, not sure how long he can last with how deliciously your cunt clenches around him. you're a whiny and moaning mess from how well he's fucking you, and you can feel that familiar pressure building up in your stomach.

leon presses his calloused fingers down to your clit, rubbing it slightly to help push you over the edge. you shudder under his touch as your orgasm approaches, your body shaking as it does. leon's soon spilling his cum into your cunt from the sensation of your squeezing around him.

he's cursing into your ear as his hips sputter, soon pulling out.

"fuck, i didn't mean to-" he says, referring to the cum he just dumped into you. you silence him with a kiss before pulling away.

"i'm on the pill it's fine, plus it was um... it was hot," you admit, looking down. a chuckle leaves his lips as he reaches to your chin, tilting your head to look at him.

"i guess i'll have to do it more, huh sweetheart?" he teases and your face flushes as you roll your eyes. the two of you are completely smitten with each other.

[starsofang]

Finish Line

Street Racer!AU / Part 1

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Summary: Returning to the racing world in a new city proves to be futile when one of the racers has it out for you. He's determined to take you down, and you're determined to win.

TW: will be added for future parts, reader has a biker name but does not have a referenced name otherwise

A/N: if you’ve seen blade runner or cyberpunk, those were the vibes i’m going for. but basically all street racer!141 are in this, pray for me <3

The radiant glow of luminescent neons flooded your vision as you lifted yourself off of the bike you’d ridden into town, casting arrays of purples and blue along the span of your skin, reflecting blinding shimmers off of the glossy shine of your bike.

The city was boisterous around you. The streets filled with a variety of people covered in racing gear or alternative twists in their style. All sorts of glitzy colors adorning their bodies, mirroring the image of the neon city and blending them in. Crazy was the best word to describe it. Hectic, maddening hysteria that littered the city like a plague.

You stood in the midst of it all, taking in the booming voices that carried through the air of excited participants in the race that was soon to begin. It was a frenzy even being in the city, and you found yourself sticking to the side of your bike and opting to watch instead of join. After all, you knew nobody, and this was your first race – at least, your first one in a long time, and in a new city on top of that.

You’d never been in a place so lively before, and perhaps that was the appeal to it all. People were excited. They treated street racing like a sport rather than the crime it was. Illegal, unhinged, dangerous.

It was the most life-threatening sport one could get into, and you were one of those unfortunate souls who had a knack for speed.

“Takin’ it all in?” An unfamiliar voice geared its way towards you through the chaos, and when you looked over, you saw an older man with kind eyes and a heavy-set beard. Upon further inspection, you noticed his left leg was purely robotic, all metal and fancy tech, a neon outline tracing along the ridges and curves.

“It’s a lot,” you breathed in response, earning a hum of acknowledgement from the mystery man.

“Sure is,” he agreed, though his wide smile and twinkling eyes made it seem as if he preferred it that way. “You racin’ tonight, doll?”

You glanced over at your bike from beside you. Purple, matching the fluorescent city, and fast as hell when you knew how to control it. “I am. First race in a while. Are you?”

The man chuckled lowly, shaking his head. He tapped his knuckles against the cool metal of his leg, giving you a cheeky smile that poked through the fur on his face. “Can’t race with a leg like this. People might think I’m cheatin’.”

The tone of his voice was teasing, and it brought your own laugh out. “I wouldn’t say it’s cheating. Maybe just a bit of modification, is all.”

He laughed again, and the sound of it eased the original tension that consumed you from the sight of a new crowd in a new city. “I like the way you think, doll. I’m John. John Price.”

Your eyebrows raised at the name, and you stared at him with a look of surprise and awe. His hand was outstretched to shake yours, and when you shook off your initial shock, you reached out to grab it.

John Price. Even in other cities unlike this one, like your own, John Price was a name whispered amongst other racers. A true street racer, one that took win after win like it was easy. In his day and time, he was the best of the best, and if you knew he was in your race, it was promised fate that you would lose to him.

Nobody knew what happened to him after he disappeared from the racing crowd, but judging from the robotic leg, you could piece together the picture.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you greeted politely, your hands clasping together to give each other a firm shake before releasing. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” he hummed in amusement, feigning humility. “Didn’t take it that others knew about me in other cities.”

“How’d you know I wasn’t from here?”

“Oh, I can tell, doll. You looked like a poor lamb walkin’ into a wolf’s den, comin’ here,” he teased, and you shifted on your feet in embarrassment. “No need to fret. I’ll introduce you to a couple of the other racers, get you more acquainted.”

You weren’t sure why he would bother to do so. This race was a competition, and getting to know the other racers you were about to go up against wasn’t exactly in your books for the night. He seemed to recognize the muted confusion, though, because he smiled and beckoned you with a hand to follow him.

“It’s good to know who you’re competin’ against,” he explained as you walked alongside him. Your bike handles were between both of your hands, steering it beside you, too uncertain of the new area to trust anybody to leave it be. “Good to learn their tricks so you can use it against them.”

“Why exactly are you telling me this?” you asked, and he chuckled.

“Haven’t had a new racer in a while. Not a promisin’ one, anyway. Forgive me, but I tend to get a bit excited when somebody new joins the races.”

That made sense, you suppose. He didn’t race anymore, so he thrived off of the thrill of every race. If he couldn’t join, he could certainly watch and observe. Price probably knew all of the ins and outs of every street racer without their knowledge.

You followed him down the bustling streets, passing by crowds of colorful people who were nearly bouncing off the walls in anticipation. The looks you got along the way had you uneasy, but most of them were more curious than cruel, taking in the sight of your bike and the flashy, purple protective gear you wore.

Finding yourself at a rundown looking building that was littered with a vivid glow, you entered what appeared to be a garage. It was filled with various other bikes, as well as an insane amount of toolboxes lining the walls with spare parts scattered carelessly.

Propping your bike up with its kickstand, you stood a bit straighter when Price called out to a group of men on the other side of the garage. One was working on a bike, while the other two were lounged lazily on a beat up couch, bickering with one another.

The sound of Price’s voice seemed to send them into immediate submission, and they stood, making their way over to you.

They were… certainly a mixed pack, weren’t they?

The first man you took notice of was decked out in a bright blue that glowed in curvy patterns along his gear. His hair was shaved into a messy mohawk that flopped languidly atop his head, and his smile was crooked and toothy, creasing his eyes into wrinkly crescents.

The second one had a warmth to him, despite the edginess of his gear. It was deep red and meshed well with the tan of his skin, and just like everything else in this city, provided a neon blaze that you swore would cause you to turn blind at some point.

The third one was incredibly off putting. Cold, stiff, and eyes that bore into you like a knife digging in your skin. It was laced over with poison, threatening to invade your veins and taint your bloodstream. His eyes were the only thing you could see, for the rest of his face was covered by a painted balaclava, the mouth of a skull covering his own. Dark and dangerous, a racer you grew wary of when the time came for competing.

“This here is Soap, Gaz, and Ghost. They won’t bite,” Price assured. You highly doubted that.

You gave them a polite nod of your head, and Soap clasped a hand on your shoulder, beaming at you. His smile was nearly as blinding as the rest of the city, and you wondered briefly if it hurt.

“New comer, eh? Ever raced before?” he asked in enthusiastic curiosity.

“Yeah,” you replied, and Gaz released a low whistle. When you shifted your eyes to him, he was looking at your bike.

“Looks like you have a new competitor, Ghost,” Gaz teased. Ghost didn’t seem amused by it, his eyes continuing to stare you down in silent disapproval.

“Unlikely,” he rumbled dryly.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you looked at him. Ghost was already giving you the information to know you needed to steer clear of him, both on the streets and off. He was competitive, and you could practically see it burning through his irises, like a raging fire that you had no way of putting out.

It was unfortunate that you were also just as competitive. You had your reasons for returning to racing, and you’d be damned if a man like Ghost attempted to sway you off track.

“Guess we’ll have to see, Ghost,” you chirped. His eyes narrowed in warning, pupils near black from the way he was scoping you out and silently pulling you apart in the clouds of his mind. Price snorted at the tension, but made no attempt to stop it. After all, he liked friendly fire – though, this wasn’t exactly as friendly as it was fire.

“Right,” Ghost grunted, cocking his head at you. His posture was menacing, and you would be smart to ease off the high horse, but you didn’t falter. “Don’t exactly think I caught your name.”

“Maze,” you offered.

Of course, everybody in the racing world only ever went by their biker name. Everybody’s had meaning, a reasoning for being called that. Maze was a name that was pinned to you without so much as a say, based on how effortlessly you could maneuver your way through tangled webs of roads and corners in the midst of chaotic races.

Ghost was a name unheard of, and surely, there was a baleful reason for it.

“Maze,” Ghost repeated with a tongue full of smoking venom. “I guess we’ll see, then.”

It was a threat if you ever knew one, and from the way the others remained perfectly unphased by it, a normal one at best. This was who he was, his true colors, dark and gloomy in comparison to the bright vivids that painted over the city.

Before you could say much else, a blaring sound filled the air, sharp and deafening. It was a shrill in your ears, lacing your eardrums with discomfort

Price’s hand clapped on your back and he gave you a promising grin.

“Best to ready yourself up, doll. I’m excited to see you work your magic.”

You hauled your bike back out on the crowded streets, where electrifying voices shocked through the air like a vice. It was overwhelming, but nothing you weren’t used to. Races were the heat of most cities, and many people partook in the frenzy of events with dripping exhilaration, gathering together in a heap of hectic mess to place their bets on who would come out as the victor.

Tugging your helmet over your head didn’t do much to quiet down the noise, but it allowed you a blanket of dull security, giving you a chance to breathe. You prepared yourself by lining your bike with the others, and when you really studied your surroundings, there were dozens. Each and every bike was crafted with their own unique design and theme, and the drivers occupying them were just as otherworldly. You felt almost like an ant in a big world of antsy animals.

Your gloved hands gripped the handles of your bike, tight and tense, and you sucked in a long breath before releasing it, allowing your shoulders to relax.

Looking around, you noticed Soap was perched next to you on his own bike. When he took notice of you, he propped up his visor to show off his eyes, and from the way they crinkled, you could only assume he was grinning at you. His hand lifted, propping up his thumb in a weak attempt to wish you good luck.

You gave one back to be a good sport, but you knew once the alarms went off and flags were raised, this would be a warzone. There was no friendly competition, only bloodshed and battle.

Ghost’s bike was settled somewhere in front of you by a couple of lanes, and you took a moment to read his body language.

He was just as stiff as before, his shoulders pulled taut and his hands gripping the handles so tight, you were sure his knuckles were white beneath his gloves. His bike was as black as his attitude, nearly disappearing in the night if not for the bright lights reflecting off of them, and his gear matched perfectly with it. The helmet he wore mirrored the design of his balaclava you saw him in, with delicate, white swirls painted on to the mouth of the plastic and etching up to the top.

When you looked at him, he was already looking at you. Even under his visor, you could feel the intensity of his stare, like a looming shadow threatening to pull you by the ankle and yank you into a world of suffocating darkness.

You stared back until he turned away, noticing the small head shake he did to himself, but not minding it.

Competition. This was a competition. May the best racer win.

The wait for the call was dreadful. It racked your bones with unnerving anticipation, edging you towards the fall of a cliff, threatening to push you over. It was a game, body rigid in impatience, but when the sound of a gunshot fired through the air, it all melted away, replaced with premeditated determination.

Instantly, the sounds of revving bikes and screeching tires filtered through your helmet and bled into your ears. Your own joined in the mix, hand quick to accelerate your bike in motion, surging you forward. It was a rush of adrenaline, like a drug shooting through your bloodstream, and it willed you into a state of starved aggression.

All thoughts that had plagued your mind were brushed aside and replaced with nothing but the thought of winning. The prize money was a wealthy sum, and that alone was enough to have you weaving in between the other racers, leaning your body forward for some extra leverage.

Buildings passed by you like a quick blink, the various colors whipping by like a flash. Your vision was filled with the backs of other racers ahead of you, as well as the neon signs that littered every street corner, holograms of food and pretty women from the diversity in night business becoming your most perceived line of sight.

The other bikers were brutal. It showed in the way they tried cutting you off with a sharp flick of their bike when they noticed you trailing behind them, your front wheel nearly kissing their back wheel. It was an aggressive fight for dominance, and for a brief moment, you feared you were biting off more than you could chew.

This was an entirely new city, one you weren’t accustomed to, and these were new riders. You didn’t know the streets like you did back at home, nor did you know the layout for shortcuts. You didn’t know how to adjust to the neon oasis that filled your sight with blinding lights.

The only thing you knew how to do was fight back. And fight back you would.

When you saw the opportunity to speed past the racer in front of you, a man in an all orange suit, you took it. There was a gap so small you were crazy to try and fit through it, but you curled your hand around the bike handle, revving forward and sliding past him so he was on your tail.

You hoped that if Price was watching somewhere, he was somewhat impressed.

The twists and turns of the streets were difficult to maneuver, but not impossible. It was definitely a fight to control your bike on the sharp corners that required lots of tilting of your own body weight, but once you made it past the first couple, it proved to be much smoother than you thought.

The more the race went on, the more your muscle memory of riding came back to you, and it was a thrilling fun rather than a daunting spiral. It coursed through your veins like a fever, and the adrenaline pumped through you in earnest, causing you to feel alive.

The back and forth of you weaving in and out of open vessels caused you to end up in second place, and the only racer ahead of you was none other than Ghost. Now, other riders, you were confident in defeating, but Ghost was a lovely challenge.

He had a couple of yards on you, and the way he controlled his bike was a near work of art. He was positively beautiful at it, and now you were starting to understand his biker name.

Ghost, because he could disappear in the shadows of the night, never to be seen again. Nobody could catch up to him, because he was a spirit in the night riding on a cloud of shadows and devilry.

Maybe you were biting off more than you could chew, because your hands revved up one more time, your upper body leaning impossibly forward on the curve of your bike, and you were determined. If nobody could catch up to him, then you wanted to be the first.

Swerving through impossibly small streets and side alleys, he was becoming more clear in your view. If you could get just a little closer, you’d be neck and neck. With the promise of a finish line approaching, you’d have to do it soon.

Bit by bit, your bike gained proximity. You were nearly right by his side, and the sheer power of it all had your heart thumping like bombs in your chest. He was there, right there, and your win was hanging by a thin string.

Ghost’s head whipped over to look at you when he heard the sounds of your engine, and whatever expression he wore under the helmet, you wished you could see it.

As if fueled by anger, he gripped his handles a bit tighter. The two of you waltzed in a dance of back and forth, fighting for the title of victor. The street was a straight shot now, and you could see the faint holographic sign that hung above the finish line, indicating the near end of the race. It glowed at you, taunted you, beckoned you towards it like a siren of the sea. It sang pretty songs to you, desperate to grab hold of you and claim it as theirs.

The two of you were tightly bound together the closer you got, so close you could practically feel the heat of carbon as it left his exhaust. It scorched you like a blazing fire, but it only proved to encourage you more.

You fought and fought for dominance. The crowds of people waiting at the finish line were as crazed as madmen, shouting and waving their arms, desperate to see who would win.

Just as the finish line became approachable, Ghost surged a few mere inches in front of you, as if waiting for the opportunity. It was a warzone when the race ended, and you slowed your bike to a stop. Taking off your helmet, you gasped for air that was stolen from you from the pure, intoxicating adrenaline, glancing up at the lit up scoreboard that glitched with a chromatic listing of all places that racers fell into.

You were second, Ghost was first.

You wanted to win, yes. But second place was as good as they came for the first race, and you were elated.

The sounds of people celebrating nearly tuned out the angry sound of boots stomping your way. You hadn’t even had a chance to get off your bike before a hand was grabbing hold of your shoulder, whipping you around to come face to face with Ghost. His balaclava remained, even under the confines of his helmet that was no longer there, and his eyes were bristling with those same flames from before that had shifted into a dangerous blaze.

“The fuck was that?” he spat, words stabbing into you like daggers.

“A competition,” you replied calmly, perhaps a bit too cockily. “Was it not?”

Ghost leered at you, shoulders dropping and rising with the heavy breaths he took. His hand was curled into a fist in the collar of your gear, keeping you in place. It tightened its hold, and he leaned closer to your face, glaring into you.

“You need to fuckin’ watch yourself, Maze.” He spoke your name like a sin, as if announcing the Devil himself. “Pull that shit again and you won’t live to see another race.”

He promptly let go of your collar, shoving you away in the process. You could do nothing but watch as he stormed off, out of sight and out of mind. Like a Ghost.

[sinning-23]

Twice the Fun (Zoro x Reader x Sanji)

Because i need them both in a way that is concern to feminism and they could literally do whatever they wanted to me (respectfully) ahem. This ones for my sick, freak, nasty, touch-starved bitches It's really just prn with A LITTLE plot yall and a little more attention to detail.

18+ DUH?!

Warnings: Tagteam, creampie, gagging, choking, biting, scratching, p in v, unprotected, degradation, teasing, praising, spanking, double penetration (holy shit this is a lot even for me lol)

Hope yall enjoy (smut is a bit of a specialty of mine)

PART 2 HERE

Ps. PLEASE EXCUSE ANY SPELLING ERRORS!

What were you truly meant to do? Turn down the pair to try and make yourself look like less of a slut than you really were? Well, slut was kind of harsh. We'll say, more sexually inclined.

Yeah, that sounds classier.

Anyway, when Sanji and Zoro approached you in a more physical than verbal way, you couldn't decide whether or not you should say no to try and keep up an image they already saw past, or simply let them Eiffel Tower you. How the hell did you end up in this predicament in the first place???

___3 days ago___

You sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you nudge the man beside you. You didn't quite care if he woke up or not, you'd just go to your other 'friends' room to fulfill your insatiable need for dick...and love and affection...but of course, Sanji didn't know that...and neither did Zoro and hell you'd like to keep it that way.

Perfectly balanced...sorta. Part of you feels bad though, you do love him...and Zoro too but damn it you just had to have them both. And with the way that two bicker and act like they can't stand each other, there was a fat chance you'd get your wish.

You nudge Sanji again, pressing soft kisses to his temple, and brushing his hair out of his face. He stirs, eyes slightly opening to reveal a set of lovely blues.

"Good morning. Pussy put you to sleep?" You tease, seeing him smile in recollection of the events of the night prior.

"Its not nice to tease." He groans, sitting up on his elbows and forearms to kiss your lips.

Its sweet, your heart stuttering with guilt. You know he loves you but this whole thing was supposed to be no strings attached. You pull away, noticing a brief hurt behind those eyes you just stared so lustfully into hours ago.

"Hurry up, youve got breakfast to make and I'm pretty sure someones getting a bit suspicious. You chuckle, pointing to the alarm clock.

He swears, shuffling a bit faster to find his briefs, dress pants, and shirt in a hurry. He doesnt forget to kis your temple before he leaves though.

"Come to my room again tonight, yeah?" He asks, and you nod. How could you not?

When you're sure he's long gone, you hide your face in your palms, groaning deeply before gazing into the mirror. Shit...he marked you up worse than before. You roll your eyes, that funny butterfly feeling filling up your stomach again. Damn him for making you love him. This wasn't the first time you'd have to cover up hickeys and it wouldn't be the last.

Your shoes echo down the hall a bit as you pass zoro's room now, curiosity getting the best of you. You crack the door open and there he is, pulling on that same old tan shirt over that damn gorgeous body.

"Good morning." You hum, slipping in and closing the door behind you.

He doesn't respond back, only nods in your direction. Zoro was more...blunt with these things. He thought he'd almost gotten perfect at hiding how he was feeling from you, but you had already clawed your way up and over the walls he put up. Essentially you could see right through him.

Before he can protest about you not knocking, you've got your arms around him in a hug, one he definitely needed seeing as he missed your touch far more than he would admit out loud. In his head, you were his girl. All his. He knew it wasn't true, this...whatever this was, being nothing more than a beneficial friendship. You weren't really his and it tore him up inside. He knows he loves you, but damn it if he admits it.

"Missed me? I see that look in your eyes Roro." You tease, knowing the nick name bothers him in th best way.

"I wish you would quit calling me that." He responds, letting his arms wrap around you to return the embrace, his chin resting atop your head. He needed you bad.

"Coming here tonight? Or do I have to drag you from your quarters to mine?" He smirks, making you laugh and bury your face in his chest. Gods he loved your laugh.

"How could I not?" You respond, swallowing a bit hard, knowing you were wrong for that.

Double booking a dick appointment was a big NO-NO. This leaves too much opportunity for one to find out about the other. But in hindsight, would that really be so bad? You wanted and loved them both, and being sneaky was starting to weigh on your conscience despite not being in an actual relationship with either of them.

"You alright?" He asks, cupping your face with his free hand. You drank up moments like these, it was truly a privilege to see the softer side of Zoro.

You nod, kissing him quick before making your leave.

The rest of the crew is already up and working on odds and ins of the ship. You managed your end of the chores, first mopping, then tying knots, and lastly laundry. You chatted with Nami, hoping a village is coming up soon but no luck.

Damn, the day had really gotten away from you. The sun was already setting and your heart sank to the pit of your goddamn stomach. It's sunset...which means night is right around the corner...

Oh fuck.

You scramble off the front deck and head straight to your quarters, skillfully dodging both Sanji and Zoro, who you had managed to have run into each other instead of you. Bad idea, because if you knew anything about Sanji, it's that he had a funny way of letting things slip rather sneakily. And if you knew anything about Zoro, its that he would easily catch a slick comment, and match it.

You lock your door, pacing back and forth in hopes of coming up with a plan. The truth? Yeah maybe tell the truth! You swallow your pride, taking a deep breath, only to head a kock at your door. Oh god. Your hands tremble, that sickly nervous feeling seeping into your pores. Its hot in here.

"Hey honey, um, how about we reschedule to tomorrow?" Sanji hums, something...off in his tone.

You pull the door open, that same facade over your face. You swallow, nodding at him in response.

"I see. I mean yeah we can. Something come up?" You ask, eyes shifting all over. You can bring yourself to keep direct contact with him and damn he can tell. You could've sworn that you saw someone turn the corner...was that Zoro. Nevermind that. Apparently, Sanji had said something to you but you hadn't heard it you were panicking so damn much.

"Uhh sure. You okay?" He questions, more smug than anything. He knows...

__2 days ago___

It was far too quiet for your liking. Sanji seemed to avoid you...and so did Zoro. Well, not really avoid you. In all honestly you were paranoid and reading into everything. You had FABULOUS intuition so when the energy was out of wack it went straight to your head.

They know. They have to. There's no way they don't. The two of them had gotten a lot bolder you noticed. It was all so clear to you. They were...competing almost. Zoro would leave his hand on your hip, and Sanji would roll his eyes. Sanji would pull your hair up into a ponytail to keep it out of your face when you were cleaning? Zoro would scoff and move on.

Okay, so they definitely knew. Now they were playing the "She likes me more game." That was the least of your concerns. If anything you were drinking up the attention. What you really wanted to know, was how they had found out about each other...the ship is small so that doesn't help the situation.

Today, you managed to find yourself in the kitchen while both your blonde and green-headed sneaky links were ALSO in the vicinity. You swallow hard, bidding them a good day whilst making your way to the fridge, which Sanji usually keeps locked up otherwise Luffy would get in it.

"Sanji, um, the key please." You ask, clearing your throat as the two seemed to watch your every move.

He smiles, stepping beside you, his hand trailing from your waist to the curve of your ass. He's grinning the whole time, his eyes cutting to Zoro before squatting down, using your leg as a means to steady himself to retrieve the well-hidden, key. His fingers dance over your thighs and inwards, just barely brushing over the crotch of your shorts. You yelp, tensing when Zoro gives a slight 'tch'

Sanji stands, plopping the piece of metal in your hand before returning to the stove from whence he came.

"Thanks." You rasp, fianlly feeling a pinh at ease before oepenign the fridge.

Too bad the peace only lasted for two seconds, becuse right when you had cracked it open, Zoro was already behind you, reaching for his desnated bottle of alcohol, his hand right at your waist, just where Sanji's had been.

Instead of squatting however, down to more or less 'politely' show ownership of you, Zoro opts to wind his hand back as far as possible.

SMACK

You yelp louder, steadying yourself agaisn the fridge as you moan at the sting. There was no doubt there was a bit of a mark again toyu melenated skin now. Zoro only grins, all too smug at Sanji's enraged expression.

"Thats it. You just have no sense of respect do you." Sanji argues, Zoro standing a bit taller now.

If you hadn't been squeezed between the two now, they'd surely be chest to chest. Your body is beginning to betray you, heat flooding your face and between your thighs. This wasn't about them. This was about you and who you liked more...They each wanted your attention. Rightfully so, I mean not only were you a sweetheart with a smart mouth but that mouth could do a lot more than just talk shit. And either one of them would be happy to accept death between your thighs.

"If you knew anythign at all, youd kne she likes a little desrespect." Zoro shoots back, your eyes widening.

"If you knew anything you'd know she likes being treated like a princess." Sanji scoffs.

"Lets not talk about me like im not here-"

You're cut off when they shoot that same look your way. A look you'd seen one to many times, bent over, facing a conveniently placed mirror...or wit your back against the matress, one of them over you while your legs cramp up from being so close to your chest.

Damn fr two guys who seemingly didn't 'get alog' they sure had a lot in common.

In the heat fo the argument, you slide pst the pair and out of the kitchen. Unfortunetly for you, a head of orage just happened to be outside and heard part of the last three statements.

"I dont even want to knw what or how you're gonna get out of this. Youll figure it out." Nami half encourages as you groan.

Is that what good pussy did to a mf? Start wars?! It blew your mind but you had less than a few seconds process to the situation. Before you could even realize what was happening, Zoro exited the kitchen and scope you up. And right behim him was a very serious, looking Sanji....

oh you’re so screwed.

——————————————

Authors note: HI YALLL ok so this one’s been sitting in the drafts for literally I wanna say a half a year now lmao uhhhhh let me know if you’d like to be tagged for pt.2 that’s where all the HOT SHIT HAPPENS! Anyway love you all! Drink water lol

[h3rmess-ii]

GOJO AND YUUJI

☆ ☆

I just keep making myself more sad by the minute. I keep watching clips of jjk, and it just makes me think about cute things that make me sad.

Their relationship is so cute, and I love how gojo took yuuji in and didn't hesitate to save him from execution after megumi's request. I feel like gojo sees a lot of himself in yuuji, and the three of them (megumi nobara and yuuji) are kind of a mirror image of shoko, geto, and gojo when they were younger. Shoko ends up getting kind of forgotten about, and I feel like this is manifested in the first years as the loss of nobara. I guess gojo went to great lengths to prevent a breakup like he had with geto, and in a way, he succeeded. nobara and the whole chair analogy where she says that she has seats in her heart and she shouldn't waste them on people that she doesn't know very well. then we see yuuji, megumi, and gojo sitting down in those seats when she's about to die. to me, this shows the bond they have formed is so strong, and its like they've fulfilled the happiness they needed in their relationship. But then again, as Yaga said, no sorcerer dies without regret.

Anyway, back to the point. Gojo and Yuuji are genuinely so similar, and the way Yuuji calls out when Gojo gets sealed breaks my heart. He didn't ask for any of this. None of this was his fault, and only Kenjaku is to blame here. His stupid ideals stripped Yuuji of his innocence. Give my poor boy a break. And megumi, too, they both don't deserve this kind of hurt 😔

JUST LOOK AT THE WAY YUUJI HUGS GOJO!! LIKE THAT WAS STILL ON THE FIRST PROPER DAY AFTER MEETING IT'S SO SO SO CUTE! They're such a mirror image of each other, and they get on so well. I love it.

☆ ☆

[m1ssunderstanding]

Understanding Lennon McCartney Rewatch Part 1.2

George: We don't have to keep [an image] up, we just remain ourselves. Don't we, Ringo? Ringo: well, we do, I mean, it's the other two we're worried about. It's a joke about John and Paul being bigheads, but a crazy person – definitely not me – could also see it other ways if they wanted to.

Paul talking about their mutual friend when asked how they met and John telling him not to complicate it. They're so married it's ridiculous. 

Always looking at each other with every single joke. 

He looks like he's in a lovely enclosure at the petting zoo. I've always been so confused by this footage. Can anyone tell me what the hell is going on?

I LOVE that we now know Paul was cast as Thisbe and John as Pyramus and then they switched. I'm actually dying to know how and why that happened though. My first instinct was “of course. Paul was scared he'd look too convincing as a woman, so John did it for him.” But no. Paul dressed as a woman at the cavern, wore ladies lingerie in Hamburg, and wanted to do a full drag show on TV in the early seventies. So why not Thisbe?

Why do you as a man randomly bring up the color of your friend's dick while staring lovingly into his eyes?

It must be noted. They had a wonderful time playing star-crossed lovers. 

The bickering pianos are so cute! And then John (prompting Paul): and John and I . . . Paul: oh I hate this. John: will probably carry on . . . Paul: we'll carry on songwriting . . . You just know Paul didn't hear the end of that one interview answer for a long long time. And it's because John just had to hear it over and over again.

Love the editing so that Paul smacks John's ass right as the symbols crash. 10/10 A+

This iconic moment. Poor George tally number 4.

Interviewer brings up marriage and John takes a shot like he wants to forget that the whole concept even exists. Literally poor Cynthia. And not even in an “lol her husband's gay” type of way. Just in a genuine “the way their relationship fell apart actually breaks my heart because she really did love him and in his way he loved her too but they were just so thoroughly incompatible” type of way. 

Paul: makes a stupid dad joke. John: giggles gleefully and kicks his feet

I have never seen someone so disappointed that they didn't need to lend their friend a pen. Paul had his hand in his pocket before John even asked the interviewer for a pen and when the interviewer gives him one, Paul literally hangs his head like he's just been cut from the school play. I just. The obsession is frankly cartoonish. But also, he just needs to be needed, you know? How many songs does he have which conflate being needed and being loved?

The juxtaposition of Paul and John elaborately messing with the interviewer (“yes John Lenard, that's me” and “actually it's done by mirrors.”) vs George's “I don't know” and “yeah.” it's actually kind of mean editing but whatever. It is ULM not UH. Someone should make that though.

Again, John. Calm down. He's not that funny. Just look at Jimmy. That's the normal person's reaction to that joke. John is half the reason Paul has such a big head honestly. 

Paul's answer to a question about the Beatles gaining a lot of adult fans is nice. Sometimes he shocks with a bit of wisdom. Sometimes his words don't get messed up at the point they hit his throat as he says. 

What the fuck? Okay so the interviewer asks Paul what he likes in a girl, right? I've always been too distracted by Paul saying he likes a sense of humor and John doing an obnoxious fake laugh in the background because John. It's embarrassing how obvious you are. Stop.

But I never noticed Paul actually says “people”. The interviewer asks about girls and he says he likes “people - er - girls” to have a sense of humor. Huh. Okay. 

So ULM was actually what made me a serious Beatles fan and this was the first moment where I had to pause it and verify to see if what I'd just read was actually true. It really is a doozy. 

How to flirt. A guide by Paul McCartney. Step one: get your crush’s attention. This should be extremely easy. Just gesture vaguely at something you're holding. He'll be interested. Step two: do something suggestive to a phallic object. Step three: that's it. You've got him. He'll do whatever you want.

The editing in this thing truly is brutal. Just the jump cuts from a question about Cynthia to John and Paul making each other laugh to girls screaming to John and Paul unnecessarily touching to girls passed out on the ground to John and Paul desperate for each other's attention to girls waving signs to John and Paul sharing weird eye contact to girls physically mobbing them to John and Paul beaming at each other to a question about Jane. It really does drive home the immense pressure of compulsory heterosexuality back then. 

Then a question that's obviously meant to poke a nerve and start some bad feelings. “Paul. Is John the leader of the Beatles?” Easily rebuffed with “no I'm not” and “there's no real leader”. I know I'm dramatic but really it's like every aspect of that society was against them you know? And they just kind of said "fuck you, we're crazy about each other."

Question: what do they think about when they're imprisoned in their hotel rooms? John: we don't think about one thing. *Whips head to look at Paul* well, some of us do. Oh and you know that how exactly? What, do you just have a printout of his every thought? Do you keep constant tabs on his dick?

Someone give me the heterosexual explanation of that moment when John very clearly and obviously checks out and appreciates Paul's ass as he and Ringo are pretending to be cowboys. Seriously. I'm at a loss here. 

Poor George tally number six? Seven? They're asked what they'll do if England reinstates the draft. John brings up Southern Ireland. George brings up Germany. Paul and John plan their joint escape to Southern Ireland as if George hadn't even spoken. 

The choice to play “Another Girl” over that quote of John's being like ‘Paul's actually much meaner than i am’ is great. Because that's seriously such a jerk song. I don't much like Jane, honestly, but fuck, she deserved so much better than Paul. He was such a douche.  

Literally all the song choices in this are phenomenal. “Hide Your Love Away” over the montage of 60s homophobia moments? It's so genius. Saying everything without saying anything. Letting the Beatles do the talking. 

The laugh track over the cartoon is honestly so sad. Nobody asked them if they were okay with being mocked like that and they never even made a dime off it. What would that have felt like to know that your being “too close” with your best friend was a running joke on TV?

“It's only love and that is all. Why should I feel the way I do?”

[lemonflavoreddishsoap]

Can i request like la squadra and their s/o but they are the complete opposite of them?

Like Risotto is stoic and his s/o is emotional or Ghiaccio who is short tempered and his s/o is calm and very nice

ooh this is actually a very cool prompt to write - personality descriptions in prompts make writing feel way less daunting but I understand if readers may not like a less applicable reader. Oh well, gonna write anyways.

----------------------------------------------

Formaggio

You're finicky, on-edge, and I suppose a bit of a perfectionist(?)...maybe "control freak" is a better way to word it? Either way, you need things to go right, perfectly as you plan.

Not to say Formaggio is careless, but he does things on-the-go (you telling me he planned to jump into the sewers?) and doesn't mind if things get messy.

You two are each other's reasonable thoughts. If you think one of his ideas is too risky and need him to weigh the consequences he'll listen to you completely, and in return he opens you up to just...letting some things happen.

He eases your anxieties when they're excessive, but is beyond attracted to your work ethic and smarts. He'll hold your hands and listen to your every idea if you'll listen to his.

Illuso

Soft-spoken and definitely not a confident one, it's difficult for most people to look at you two and understand how you could've ever gotten together in the first place. Maybe you even have these doubts yourself.

But he never lets you feel those doubts for long. At first he honestly probably wasn't the nicest! But when you managed to capture his heart and hints of a connection began to show, he allowed himself to slow down a bit and really understand you. Care about you.

And when you feel anxious about the relationship, he always reminds you how much he loves you (take it sexually if you want, but I don't mean it like that). Just...only in the mirror world. Trust me, he's not embarrassed about loving you, it's just more comfortable for both of you. His image and your nerves.

In the privacy of his own safe world, he doesn't need to worry about how vulnerable he is, and he can praise and encourage you as much as you need. A moment for him to feel softer and you to feel stronger.

Prosciutto

You must be Pesci's twin or something - difference is he isn't as harsh with you. Sensitive and a follower, not a leader, maybe you feel security in Prosciutto's straightforward, no-nonsense demeanor.

Prosciutto is good at seeing the strengths in someone and raising their confidence as we see in canon, and he surely does it with you. He can see how gentle and well-meaning you are in everything you do and he reminds you of your greatness whenever you fear being "too soft"

In turn you offer the quiet he needs sometimes. He is relatively fine with spending a life alone, but a balance of peace and your company is better than he could've imagined. And don't worry about not being good at comforting others with words, he was never one to enjoy that kind of comfort anyways.

I don't know how else to end this section so....imagine him holding your hand :) DO IT NOW

Pesci

If someone were to describe you, they sure would call you brave, headstrong, and....maybe not the brightest? You aren't stupid! You just...aren't the smartest, and it's very clear. However, your open nature makes it easy for Pesci to talk to you.

You see the sides of Pesci that a lot of people take way too long to notice, like how observant and clever he can be. You don't see him as too soft, you know that he takes his job as seriously as he can.

While his meeker nature doesn't do much to dilute your chaos, he never feels bad about it! You're the light of his life, and honestly he really looks up to you!

If you want to stand up for him when his teammates pick on him, go ahead! I mean, the only thing you'll achieve is becoming their second target, but uh....maybe it's a bonding opportunity?? Even if nothing comes from it, he will love you forever.

Melone

What a fucking prude you are. A prude based on NOTHING. My goodness. Were you a sheltered child perhaps? Jokes aside it's a miracle you two can stand each other. Melone isn't picky with partners but someone like you? You're so incompatible at first that the gang assumed he had other plans for chasing you.

Emphasis on at first. Maybe you were a challenge to him, a "passion project" to see how much he could open you up one way or another. I can't say which ways it worked or not, that's for your own interpretation, but in time you became the most annoying couple the team had ever seen.

If you weren't teasing each other, you were bickering in a tease-y way. And if you weren't bickering, Melone was teaching you some sciencey shit in a voice so syrupy sweet that Ghiaccio's practically retching.

Maybe you try to flip the script, try to pick his brain and open him up like he tries to do to you; oh you're lucky he loves you so much, you're the one person he will do anything for.

Ghiaccio

Growing up the way he did, he learned that everything about him is wrong, and everyone is a threat at worst, liability at best. Even you, with your patient smile and kind words and....how you actually...listened to him rant.

He's scared of you, then pissed at you, then so confused by you he doesn't know what to do. If you didn't make the first move then a relationship just isn't happening. While he's the more assertive of you two, you'll have to do the heavy lifting just that once.

Falling for a person so different is easier, but maintaining the relationship is harder on his end, I'm not even going to lie. Sometimes he's frustrated by your unconditional love, sometimes there's a savior-like feeling he has about you, sometimes he fears these ever-changing feelings, and tried to distance himself from you. But you...always help him through it.

And don't think it's only you changing him, he also encourages you to stand up for yourself, to speak your mind, to put your own mask on first sometimes. (insert italian screaming)

Risotto

He's not emotionless, at least...he doesn't like to think so. But in this line of work he needs to keep a tight lip and blank stare. Something he's perfected. So when he watches you openly sob at a movie, curled against his body as you sniffle and choke, he doesn't get moved to the same extent.

Do you get to see Risotto's true emotions? Yes...in time. You've both got targets tattooed to your back, so if he ever thinks it's safe enough to get close to you to the point of being openly emotional, it's because you've spent several YEARS together.

But he understands you, he feels the same as you as you shout or grin or cry. Not only does he understand your emotions, but you may be secretly amplifying his own. There's no tears, but a tearing, clawing feeling in his heart. No smile, but a fuzz in his face that he can't clear out.

You are the ocean and he is a rock, standing strong through every storm and watching both the rage and the calm with equal admiration.

[ckret2]

Chapter 26 of human Bill doing his best to arm-twist his captors into doing anything he wants, featuring: the gang going to the mall, where Bill tries on some of the most ridiculous outfits known to mankind, to Mabel's delight and Stan & Dipper's despair.

(please click on the second image, you can't imagine how long it took to make those two patterns. (Okay you probably can, it was a couple hours.))

####

Bill said, "Well, you can tell Stanford that if he's got a problem with my drinking, I'd like to see him try to get a good night's sleep in an alien body without some kind of sedative! I've got a fresh new liver, three little cans of cider a day won't kill me before one of us finds a way to get me out of this body!"

Exasperated, Mabel said, "Why do I have to tell him? Just talk to each other."

"You think I don't want to? He's the one who's put two doors, an elevator, and a trick vending machine between him and me."

Mabel supposed that was true. "Okay, fine. More importantly: what do you think of going shopping?"

Bill shrugged. "Sure. I'll take any opportunity to go outside. It'll be a good test run for other trips."

Mabel frowned, clearly disappointed by the reaction. "That's it? I thought you'd be more excited. You can finally get more clothing!"

"How much clothing do I need?" He gestured down at himself, wearing his hoodie and a borrowed skirt. "I'm not naked, what more do you want from me?"

"To like your clothing!"

"Oh, right. I keep forgetting you have a whole thing about people other than you being happy."

Mabel socked his arm. "Do you just not care about clothes? I didn't expect you to be like Dipper about it."

Eugh. "It's not that I don't like fashion in general," Bill said, eager to distance himself from the household wet blanket. "I have very strong opinions on other people's fashion! It's just..."

It was just that he didn't relish the idea of standing in front of a mirror, partially nude, staring at the bone-caged skin prison he was locked inside.

He still put towels over the bathroom mirror when he showered.

"Well," he said, "isn't the whole point of fashion self-expression? And my self can't be expressed in this body." He tugged on the collar of his hoodie, "This is as close as it's gonna get."

"Does clothing have to express your self? Can't it just look really cool?" Mabel asked.

Bill considered that. "I do like looking really cool."

Maybe he didn't have to see it as dressing himself. Treat it like inflicting his design whims upon a helpless human puppet. He'd done that before, he liked doing that. He was lucky, at least, that as far as puppets went, this was an incredibly good-looking one. Aside from the neck.

"Do I have to wear that, though?" Bill skeptically eyed the knit garment held in Mabel's hands.

"Yep! Grunkle Ford's orders! It's to make sure you don't talk to people."

"Can I put it on over my hoodie?"

"As heartwarming as it is that you love it so much: no, you've gotta take it off."

"How come?"

"It's safer this way! Your hoodie might freak people out."

"Freak them out how?"

####

Soos trudged into the kitchen at 3 a.m., yawning, and turned on the lights.

The Bill Cipher, triangular and angular, gold-bricked and one-eyed, hovered in the air.

Soos screamed. "He's back! Everyone watch out! You stay away from my family, you—" Soos picked up the nearest weapon and chucked it at Bill.

The spatula bounced harmlessly off his chest and clattered to the floor. Bill took his hood off. "Wow. Thanks for getting my hopes up, Questiony."

"Oh, whoops. Sorry 'bout that. At a quick glance, that hoodie makes you look a lot like... you." Soos looked Bill up and down again. "Hey. How come you're standing on the kitchen table in the middle of the night?"

"Eh." Bill shrugged. "It passes the time."

####

"Sometimes I curse your species's overactive pattern-detection instincts." Bill snatched Mabel's offering out of her hand and trudged to the bathroom to change.

He emerged a moment later wearing the tank top Mabel had knit for him, and tugged out the hem to examine it. She'd cross-stitched on the chest: "STAY BACK! I BITE SALES PEOPLE!"

"I'd be pretty insulted," Bill said, "if this wasn't the funniest thing I've ever worn."

####

Stan pulled the old Diablo near the porch to minimize the amount of time Bill would spend in open air between confinement in the shack and in a vehicle; then waited leaning against the car, glowering at the ground like the world's surliest chauffeur (he'd even put on his suit), for Dipper and Mabel to escort the prisoner outside.

The second Bill stepped off of the porch, he looked up in amazement. "What is that?"

Dipper and Mabel looked at Bill's face, then in the direction he was looking. He was staring straight into the sun without squinting. Mabel said, "The... sun?"

"No, not the sun! I mean the—" Bill gestured toward the sun. "Whatever it's doing."

Mabel looked skyward again. She didn't see anything else Bill could be referring to. "Shining?"

"I know what sunshine is!"

"Then what are you asking about!"

Bill studied the sky a moment longer. Finally, he said, "Guess I don't know what sunshine feels like! It's been a long time since I've been naked in the sun."

Stan's head snapped up to stare at Bill. Bill was still completely clothed.

After another few seconds, arms outstretched, staring in blank-faced wide-eyed wonder at the sky, Bill concluded, "I think I'm photosynthesizing again."

This time Dipper looked over. And, Bill was still completely human—a species notoriously well-known for not photosynthesizing. "'Again'?"

Bill didn't respond. Instead, with a shrill cackle that startled the nearby birds out of the trees, he took off at a full sprint.

"Hey!" Dipper tore after him. Stan tensed up, but then grunted, leaned back against his car, and waited for Bill to trip.

Bill's run was the awkward bouncing gait of a moon astronaut on fast forward: someone who at some point had definitely learned how to run, but clearly wasn't used to doing it in this body on this world. He switched to an odd sideways crab-walk gallop—which was, surprisingly, faster—and then attempted, and failed, a cartwheel. Dipper dove for Bill, Stan laughed at them both, and Mabel shouted encouragement at Bill from the porch; Bill hopped back up just before Dipper could catch him.

He attempted a second cartwheel but was caught in the middle by an invisible force jerking his wrist. He yelped and tumbled to the ground. "I think I twisted my arm!" He sounded way too giddy about this.

Mabel looked down at her own wrist and the chain bracelet. She wasn't being actively pulled toward Bill; but nevertheless she couldn't pull her wrist any further away from him. "It worked."

"Of course it did!" Breathing heavily, Bill got to his feet and leaned backward on his heels, using the tension of the bracelet around his wrist to keep from falling. "What, did you ever doubt me?"

"Yes," Stan said. "Always," Dipper said. "Every time you open your mouth," Mabel said.

"You're all haters."

Mabel took a flying leap off of the porch. Bill toppled on his back again.

Once they were all loaded in the car—Dipper in the front glaring in the rear view mirror, Mabel and Bill in the back with Bill making faces at the mirror—Stan said, "Okay. I'm not getting you anything nice, because you're not worth it."

"Aww. And after I made you almost five grand?"

Dipper's jaw dropped. "He what?! When did—"

Raising his voice, Stan went on, "So we're going to Shop Thrifty. Any complaints?"

Bill said, "You don't wanna go there."

Stan turned to give him a dark look.

"You don't," Bill said. "They were robbed this weekend. Security's gonna be high."

"No they weren't, you can't know that. You're making that up. I'm calling your bluff."

Dipper cleared his throat. "Actually... yeah, they were robbed. I've been investigating the possibility that it might've been..." At the sight of Bill's keen gaze in the rear view mirror, Dipper trailed off into mumbles.

Bill waited a second longer to ensure Dipper was properly cowed; then said, "See? You can trust me! But if you want to go to the thrift shop..."

"Ha." Stan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel; then reluctantly said, "I guess we could go to the mall—"

Mabel pumped her fists in the air. "THE MALL!"

"Yes! Finally!" Bill dragged his hands down his face in relief. "Civilization! Other people!"

"Hey!" Stan turned around to point threateningly at Bill. Bill held up his hands to block the accusatory finger. "This still isn't a social trip. Talk to anyone and we're going back to the car."

"I know, I know. I just wanna look at people. That's all!" Bill said. "You know that feeling when you come out of a couple weeks in the hole? When you're grateful just to see anybody?"

Stan's frown deepened; but he didn't say anything. He just turned around, ignored Dipper's curious look, and started driving.

Mabel and Bill high-fived.

####

As the car pulled into a parking spot, Mabel handed Bill a pair of mirrored sunglasses with one lens popped out. Bill rolled his (yellow, slitted) eye, but he switched his eyepatch over to the lensless side of the sunglasses and put them on. "Nobody'll notice my eyes. They only look inhuman at certain angles."

"We're being extra cautious," Mabel said.

"If you're gonna make me wear shades any time I'm in public, can I at least pick a pair I like while I'm here?"

Mabel said, "Sure!" at the same time Stan said, "Not a chance." Dipper looked between the two of them, and said, "I'm with Stan."

"I wasn't taking a vote." Bill leaned forward to shove Dipper's hat over his eyes, and followed Mabel out of the car before Dipper could retaliate.

Bill's grin got a little wider and his gait a little bouncier the closer they got to the mall, until he was practically skipping through the automatic doors. "Look at this place! I can't remember the last time I visited a bazaar this booming in person! Two stories, even! Wow!"

Dipper and Mabel exchanged a glance. Gravity Malls was, by far, the smallest mall either of them had ever visited. You could see from one end of it to the other in a straight shot, and the anchor store was just a more popular chain's discount outlet location. Dipper muttered, "He's trying too hard to talk up the place."

Mabel giggled. "Maybe he's easily impressed."

Bill evidently didn't care. He was too busy taking in the sight of all the stores and all the people who didn't hate his guts (or, at least, didn't know they did). He chipperly said, "Hey there!" as he wove around a haggard teenage kiosk salesman.

"Hello?" Snapping into sales mode, the kiosk kid said, "Are you interested in genuine gold-plated signet rings? We have rings with dragons, eagles, Chinese characters, American flags, football teams..."

Bill did a u-turn without slowing down. "Boy, am I! You got any secret societies?"

Stan wrapped an arm around Bill's shoulders—"No, you're not interested."—and dragged him away. He lowered his voice. "What happened to no talking to anyone?"

Bill laughed. "Sorry, I got excited!"

"Uh-huh. Get 'excited' one more time, and I'll assume you're 'forgetting' the rules on purpose and we're going home."

Bill stopped laughing. "Okay, fine." He trudged alongside Stan, sulking.

####

Stan tried to direct them toward the discount outlet store; Bill looked wistfully at Edgy On Purpose; Mabel overruled them both by grabbing Bill's hand and bodily dragging him to the coolest store in the mall: 18th Century, the place where the almost-and-barely college kids shopped, and Mabel's newest fashion avatars now that she'd had a year to explore "teenage" fashion and had gotten over it. "You can tell it's for college kids, because they also sell bedsheets and inflatable furniture," she explained as they entered, just before abandoning Bill with Stan as she ran off to start collecting clothing on Bill's behalf. Bill and Stan side-eyed each other, and Bill drifted off toward the small home goods section.

"Ooh, Dipper look." Mabel pointed at a sales rack. "Out-of-season prom dresses! Those are the fanciest dresses!" She dove in eagerly, checking the size tags.

Dipper hovered behind her, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, trying to stand far enough away that it didn't look like he was an active participant in this shopping trip but not so far away that people might start wondering why a thirteen-year-old boy was in the dress section by himself. "Are you shopping for B—for Goldie, or for yourself?"

"For Goldie, obviously! He likes having a triangular silhouette, he needs dresses!"

"Does he want dresses?"

Mabel made a vague I dunno sound. "I haven't asked him yet."

"Maybe you should?"

"It's fine, I'm going to! He can tell me when he catches up!" Mabel pulled out a sequin-studded dress that looked like it had been constructed out of fluorescent pink peacock feathers. She paused. "Okay, it's not exactly his style, but do you think he might try it on anyway?"

Dipper groaned. "Mabel, he's a guy, he's not gonna try on a dress. He wears top hats and bow ties, remember?"

"I know, but... just for fun...?"

Dipper shook his head. Mabel sighed.

Bill rounded a rack of clothing, using a curtain rod he'd claimed out of the home goods section like it was a cane. "Hey, star girl. I know we're here on a focused mission, buuut do you think we could spare a minute to try something just for fun..." He trailed off as he and Mabel simultaneously realized they were both holding a pink peacock dress. Bill's face lit up. "Where have you been all my life?"

"Shut up! How are you this cool!"

"Where's the dressing room."

They took off for the back of the store, Bill tripping over a whole clothing rack as he went.

Dipper watched them uncomfortably, decided he didn't want to follow, and picked his way to the front of the store, where Stan was leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed tightly and a sour look on his face. Dipper asked, "Does it worry you how well Mabel and Goldie..."

"Ohhh yeah."

####

Bill swung open the dressing room door. "Well? Whaddaya think?" He fanned out the feathers as best he could with his hands. 

"It's so beautiful," Mabel said.

"It's hideous," Stan said.

"It's kinda baggy around the shoulders and chest," Dipper said.

Bill shrugged. "I've got the shoulder span of a snake and the hips of a sumo wrestler, what do you expect?"

"It's okay, I can tailor anything we get," said Mabel, who had never tailored anything in her life but was sure she had a book on it in Piedmont.

"Tailor nothing," Stan said, "we're not getting this! What, are you crazy?"

Bill said, "Obviously."

Stan gestured at him. "What in the world would you wear this for?"

"Who cares? It looks cool and this body is merely a meat armature to drape coolness upon." Bill stepped back into the dressing room to eye the dress in the mirror. "Color's a little uniform, though. I'd need some accessories to break it up."

"I think you're right," Mabel said, stroking her chin. "You know what color goes best with hot pink?"

Simultaneously, she and Bill said, "Lime green," then cracked up and pointed at each other excitedly. 

Stan and Dipper exchanged a tired look.

####

"How about this one?" Bill looked at Stan and Dipper, who were standing guard while Mabel searched for more clothes. "It's obviously the best shirt in the store, but is it me?" Bill was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt covered in bright multicolored triangles with animal skin patterns—leopard, zebra, tiger, checkers—and a pair of black jeans that fit his hips but consequently drowned his ankles. "Trick question. It's me all over!" He laughed. His laughter petered out. "It's... it's more me than I am. Wow."

Dipper and Stan didn't laugh. "I'm a Hawaiian shirt kind of man," Stan said, "but if the choice was between that thing and going naked, I'd go naked."

"Keep your nudist fantasies to yourself, Stanley." Bill studied his reflection again. "The shirt's great, but they make the pants look dull. I need something that coordinates with it. But what..."

Mabel returned while Bill was musing on his shirt. She wordlessly held out the pair of cheetah/tiger print rainbow leggings she'd been retrieving. It matched the shirt perfectly, in the sense that they both had so many colors on them that inevitably some of those colors were accidentally the same.

Bill accepted the leggings with an expression close to awe. "You're a fashion genius," he said. "Are you sure you don't want your own planet?"

"Not from you," Mabel said.

And for a moment, Bill actually almost looked hurt.

####

Bill held up several shirts thoughtfully. The first was an eye-searing abomination; the second was a retina-burning nightmare; and the third was about the same, but it was covered in smiley faces, and somehow that made it worse.

"I feel like they'd all have the right psychological effect on my enemies," Bill said, "but all three is a little redundant, isn't it?"

Not looking, Stan asked, "Is the effect you're trying to have boring your enemies to death? Because it's working."

Bill scowled. He chucked all three at Stan's face. "Fine! Stick them in the 'maybe' pile, I'll narrow them down later." By this point, the "maybe" pile in Stan's arms was almost too big for him to carry.

"My willingness to indulge Mabel is losing to my annoyance at indulging you," Stan said. "I thought this was going to be a quick trip."

"Yeah, well, I'm kinda getting into it."

"Well, would you get out of it and dress like a normal person?"

"Okay, fine. I'll try on something subtle—"

"Goldie!" Mabel ran up waving a ruby red jacket over her head. "Look what I found in the clearance bin! Glittery vinyl!"

Bill's eyes widened.

Reverently, Mabel said, "It looks like a 50's diner booth."

"Is the picture on the back a—?"

"Yeah, it's a puking kangaroo."

Bill snatched the jacket from her hands. "I'll try something subtle after this."

Stan groaned. "I'm gonna stretch my legs." He dropped the "maybe" pile on the floor. "Dipper, make sure the demon doesn't try to end the world while I'm gone."

Dipper resigned himself to the fact that this shopping trip was never going to end, and curled up on the floor to wait to die.

####

"Now, this is a keeper," Bill said, examining the summer dress in the mirror. With Stan gone, Bill had a moment of leisure to properly inspect the way the fabric moved and draped. He was using the opportunity to grab the skirt and twirl it like a three-year-old who'd never worn a dress before. "It really speaks to me."

Mabel asked, "Is it because it's covered in—?"

"It's because it's covered in yellow triangles. I know what I like!" He spun around to see how the skirt flared out, tripped and fell over—"I meant to do that!"—and heaved himself back upright with his curtain rod cane. "I'm fine, shoo." He waved off Mabel's attempt to help, and brushed off the dress. "Too bad it looks weird with pants. I'd prefer my legs covered, but dresses are the only thing most human stores carry that flatter my shape, so what're you gonna do."

"What about more leggings?" Mabel asked.

"Do they have any black ones that don't look like cheap spandex?"

"I think I saw some that look like jeans!"

"It'll do. Good thinking, star girl."

"Any time, triangle... guy." Mabel paused. "Hey... just out of curiosity—since I don't think we ever really covered this, since you're an alien and all—aaare you a guy or a girl?"

"I'm a triangle! C'mon, you already know that."

Mabel opened her mouth to protest that Bill hadn't answered her question; hesitated as she realized that maybe, in fact, he had; and instead asked, "Is a triangle more like a guy or a girl?"

Bill paused as he gave the question a moment of contemplation; and then he said, "No, not really."

Dipper, who'd been using the "maybe" clothing pile as a pillow and pretending to ignore everything Bill did, finally gave in to the urge to glance over curiously.

Mabel concluded a triangle must be either in the exact middle of the scale, or else outside of it completely. "Oh! Okay."

Bill elbowed Mabel and said, "Keep this bit between you and me," blithely ignoring the fact that Dipper was totally within earshot and now seething about being ignored in return. "But if anyone else on this planet asks, I'll usually imply I'm a 'man,'" he put the word in finger quotes, as though he wasn't wholly convinced that "men" really existed, "but—that's strictly for business."

"Business?"

"You know, work stuff," Bill said dismissively. "It makes things easier. See, for the last few millennia, most humans have taken a male's suggestions a bit more seriously than a female's, even when the entity they're talking to is an all-knowing extra-dimensional divine alien angelic muse. Crazy, right?" He said this like he was imparting some great secret he'd figured out by himself.

"Ugh, yeah," Mabel groaned. "Sexism."

"Sexism," Bill sighed, as if he had any dog in this fight at all and wasn't just pretending he could commiserate with his only local friend. "So I figure I can get things done faster as a Bill than a Jill. But honestly? Your local gender system doesn't make any more difference to me than it would to you if somebody asked how many sides you have."

Mabel considered the matter of her hypothetical sides. "I feel like I'd have seven sides."

"Oho! I stand corrected." Bill laughed. "I would've pegged you as a pentagon. I'll remember that."

Mabel had no idea what information she'd just conveyed to Bill, but she felt like he was impressed she had an answer at all.

####

"How about this one?"

"I love it. It's so mysterious," Mabel said.

Stan said, "I thought you were gonna try on something subtle?" 

"What's more subtle than camo! That's the whole point of it!"

Dipper said, "You're not wearing camo."

Bill looked down at his galaxy print tank top, galaxy print button up, galaxy print skirt, galaxy print leggings, and galaxy print sneakers. "I guess what counts as camouflage depends on the context."

"Wh—" Dipper blinked at Bill in disbelief. "In what context could this possibly qualify as camouflage?"

"Is that a trick question?"

Drily, Stan asked, "You got travel plans taking you to outer space anytime soon, pal?"

Bill's shoulders slumped.

"Now put on something you might actually wear," Stan said.

####

Bill opened the dressing room door with four sets of basic black leggings and pants, a couple shorts, and several plain tops in various shades of gold and yellow. "Okay, done."

"Not gonna model each of these for us?" Stan asked.

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Fine! You kids don't need to weigh in on these—they're not as fun as the other outfits you were busy unappreciating." Bill shoved the whole pile against Stan's chest, burying the "maybe" outfits he'd insisted he would narrow down. "Okay, let's go."

Stan scowled. "How many outfits did we agree to get you?"

"You didn't." Bill headed to the front of the store.

Mabel started to follow him, paused, glanced back at Stan, and said, "Maybe you can just... toss some of it back on the racks?"

"Maybe you can toss most of it," Dipper said. "How much does he really need, like two shirts and two pants?"

Mabel laughed. "Shut up, that's what you wear!"

Stan rolled his eyes, but headed to the front of the store with an armload of clothing.

The cashier smiled as Bill approached, read his "I BITE SALES PEOPLE" shirt, and quickly turned her attention to Stan. "Hi! Did you find everything you needed?"

"Yeah, and then some," he grumbled, shooting a look at Bill and Mabel. He dumped the pile of clothing on the counter with a heavy groan proportionate to the emotional weight of carrying Bill Cipher's shopping, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Where'd I put my wallet?"

As the cashier scanned the clothes, took off the security tags, and stuffed them into bags, Stan alternated between snatching up the bags to sling them over his arms—looking grumpier with each one—and searching for his wallet. "I'm sure I put... ah-ha!" He withdrew it triumphantly. "There! I know I've got a twenty in here somewhere."

The cashier immediately stopped scanning to give Stan a perplexed look. Hopefully, she asked, "Will you be paying for the rest by card?"

"What do you mean, 'the rest'? How much could this stuff—?" Stan grabbed the price tag on one of the shirts, squinted at it, and grabbed his chest. "Holy moly! For one shirt? This is robbery!"

Mabel winced. "I guess it's a little bit pricier than the thrift shop, but it's not that bad—is it?"

"Not that bad?! For prices like this, it'd be cheaper to get a boat ticket to Taiwan and rob the sweatshop where they sew this stuff! Forget it!" He started sliding bags off his arms and tossing them back on the counter. "Keep them! We're not shopping here!"

"But Grunkle Stan!" Mabel grabbed his coat. "We just found a bunch of stuff that's perfect for Goldie! Please?"

"Do you think I care? He'd be wearing potato sacks if I had my way! We'll go to the outlet store, those are the prices he deserves."

Dipper groaned. "Do we have to do this whole thing all over again?" He and Mabel both looked pleadingly at Bill, waiting for him to protest the return of his carefully-curated wardrobe of tacky golden horrors.

Bill shrugged. "If he didn't bring enough money to the mall, there's nothing we can do about it now."

"Hey! This isn't on me! If it wasn't for you, we'd be at the Shop Thrifty right now!"

Bill scoffed. "Come on, Stanley. It's the 2010's. Even at a thrift store, how far do you think a Jackson's gonna carry you?"

"I think it'd get me a sock I could cram in your mouth, how do you like that?" Stan tossed the last bag on the counter, told the dismayed cashier, "And he looked ugly in everything he picked out, anyway," and stomped toward the door.

"I'm so sorry," Mabel said to the cashier, and hurried after Stan with Dipper. "But Grunkle Stan, we found so many nice things here! We could at least get a couple shirts or leggings..."

"Hey," Bill said. "It's okay, kid."

Mabel shut her mouth, but she didn't look happy about it.

The party trailed behind Stan past a couple of stores, before Bill sped up to walk alongside him and asked, "Well? What's our haul?"

Stan grunted. "What?"

A slow, sly grin spread across Bill's face. "Come on. You can fool the humans, but you can't fool me. What's our haul?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Bill raised a brow.

Stan only lasted a couple of seconds before he cracked a mischievous smile as well. "Oh, did you mean this haul?" He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a pair of leggings. And then another pair. And then, from his other pocket, a Hawaiian shirt. And—

Mabel gasped. "Grunkle Stan," she hissed. "You didn't!"

"Aw, man." Dipper smacked his forehead. "So all that was an act?"

—and three pairs of socks out of his jacket sleeve, and a dress from his inner coat pocket, and— "Yeeep. I've still got it."

Mabel and Dipper exchanged an exasperated look.

"And you were gonna hit the thrift store." Bill lifted his sunglasses so Stan could see him roll his eye.

"Hey, they've usually got less security than the mall. It's a safer score."

"Cheaper, too."

"You shut up! I'd like to see you do as well."

A bright smile snapped across Bill's face. "Would you! Then get a load of this—" He showed off the front and back of one empty hand, then the other; curled one into a fist; pushed his fingers into the fist and plucked out a corner of fabric; and then, like a magician revealing a long line of scarves tied at the corners, pulled out one garment after another, shirts and skirts and pants. Mabel buried her face in her hands. Dipper looked around like he expected mall security to run up and immediately arrest them all. Bill said, "What'd we lift, almost half the stuff I picked? Neither of us managed to get the kangaroo jacket, did we."

"How did you..." Stan trailed off, jaw dropped.

Bill smugly stuffed the clothing back under his tank top. "All that, and... these." Bill lifted one foot and wiggled it, showing off the yellow foam clogs he'd changed into.

"You just walked out with those on?"

"Sure! You'd be amazed what you can do in plain sight—as long as you don't call attention to it."

"Where the heck are your sandals?"

"Not my problem." Bill gestured vaguely back toward 18th Century with his curtain rod cane. "From the lost-and-found they came, to the lost-and-found they shall return."

Stan, having had his attention called to the curtain rod cane, snatched it out of Bill's hand with a muttered "No weapons," and tossed it in a nearby trash can. Bill watched it go with an expression of miffed resignation. Stan said, "Okay, but how'd you get the security tags off all of those?"

And Bill's grin was back. "Maybe I'll show you—if you show me how you got all that clothing out of those bags into your pockets."

"I thought you were watching."

"My eye is better than my physical coordination. Give me a couple pointers and I'll give you a couple."

Stan looked doubtful. "I just saw you hide half a suitcase under a tank top. I don't think you need any more help with..."

"I'll sweeten the deal," Bill said. "I'm not really a clogs guy. You set me up to walk out with a pair of proper dress shoes, and I'll help you grab a couple rings from that booth at the door?"

Stan scowled. Bill grinned wider. "Come ooon. I know you were eyeing those rings too."

"If we get caught and you throw me under the bus, I'm dragging you down with me."

"I wouldn't dream of it! I don't think either of us can afford to show up on the police's radar, do you?"

"All right, fine. You've got yourself a deal, Cipher."

Mabel silently slid her cell phone over to Dipper so he could text Soos and Ford about this unsettling development.

####

(Thanks for reading!! As always, if you made it this far I deeply appreciate any thoughts & comments you want to share! Stay tuned next week for the unsettling development to get Even Worse.)

[syoddeye]

the christmas party

ceo!price x reader / smut free / ~2.8k words

A very belated Christmas drabble thing. Definitely not inspired by real life events. 👀 Featuring a fem!Reader x Price, background Ghost x Soap, and Gaz, the incredi-boss. Might fuck around make this a series, we'll see! Maybe I'll clean it up and throw it on AO3, too.

CW: alcohol, substance abuse (mentioned) inappropriate comments from coworkers

You came to expect drama at the company Christmas party. It was as traditional as the optional White Elephant gift exchange, the hired group of carolers, and the ugly sweater competition.

Last year, a 'mystery' baggie of powder and a credit card belonging to the former Head of Sales was found in a bathroom stall. Two years ago, it was the unexpectedly raunchy dancing between an engineer and a project manager you swore hated each other. Three years ago, a division head went home with someone who was definitely not her spouse.

You'd seen a lot in your tenure. The good, the bad, the ugly, the hilariously mortifying.

Coming up on your fifth year with The 141 Group, you were a rarity. Most folks job-hopped. More power to them, no shame in gaining good experience after a year or two to leave for greener pastures. The fact you stuck around labeled you a 'veteran', a cheeky if not sensational label, though there were times you certainly felt like you'd seen war. Acquisitions. Rebrands. Reorgs. Yeesh.

But life at 141 suits you. You are an executive assistant, a good one. It helps that your direct supervisor and the VP of Finance, Kyle Garrick, a fellow 'vet', was an incredible boss. He lets you work from when you need to, doesn't micromanage, and treats you like a person, unlike other execs. He had faith in your ability to manage his calendar, prep materials, book travel - in short, you organized his work life. In return, whenever some new hire got too fresh with you, all it took was one teensy mention in a morning meeting, and by lunch, the offending party had only apologies for you. Most importantly, though, the job nets enough money to make rent and let you pursue your hobbies.

With years of Christmas parties under your belt, you were looking forward to tonight's low-grade yet cataclysmic event. Pre-gaming and primping at a fellow assistant's house, Jordan, you clasp the silver holly leaf pendant around your neck where it lies just above your modest cleavage. The dress code was simply 'Christmas Color', another tradition. Formal attire was expected, if not an unsaid requirement, which meant slipping into a gorgeous dark green dress you spied weeks ago in a boutique window. You thank yourself for earning that last pay bump to afford it because you look fantastic, in your humble opinion.

Lacing her leather Oxfords, Jordan gives a low whistle when you turn away from the mirror. "Like a big, sexy pine tree."

You smirk. "Thanks. Remind me why we both couldn't wear red tonight?"

"Because of the two of us, red is my color. Do I not look like some kind of holiday vampire?" She asks, standing with a sweeping gesture down at her deep, red velvet suit.  

"More bellboy, but-"

"Rude!"

The two of you lovingly bicker all the way out to the awaiting car. The 141 Group, ever mindful of its image, always reimbursed rideshares for its company parties. Given the amount of liquor that flowed at these events, it wasn't only generous but smart. Like the higher-ups needed a scandal. The car ferries you across town to the ritzy event space at a local art museum. Leaving your coats at the complimentary bag check, you enter the well-underway party.

The events team needs a raise, like yesterday. The sprawling space was completely done up. Several open bars, a champagne wall, a photo op with a to-scale Santa's Sleigh, and dining tables with place settings that probably rival a monarch. Silvery white birch trees enveloped in lights line the walls, with clusters of small fir trees fully decorated dotting the space. The dancefloor was already busy with a DJ fully dressed as Santa.

Four going on five years, and it was still quite the sight.

You gently elbow Jordan. "So. Cheesy themed cocktails first or canapes?" 

"Obviously drinks. I just saw one with an ornament in it!"

~~

Three hours in, it was a dead heat for Most Dramatic Event. Two separate calamities slowly built throughout the night.

At the nexus of the first, Chad from marketing was almost blacked out. After winning the ugly sweater with a true abomination of a sweater (working lights, a mini speaker, and an ungodly amount of sequins), he celebrated. A little hard. He bopped from open bar to open bar as the bartenders cut him off one by one. He was trying to convince a coworker to grab him another Mistletoe Martini, and it was progressively getting louder.

The second was from the rumor mill more than anything. Apparently, a developer named Scott brought the wrong gift for the exchange. As the story went, his wife used the same paper for an identically sized gift, one of a titillating nature, and now he was visibly paranoid that he nabbed the wrong one on the way out the door. The man stalked the pile of gifts as folks drew numbers.

Jordan bet on the first, and you bet on the second. From the corner, you watch, giggling behind a cup of Prancer's Punch.

The sound of your name drew your attention. Kyle, in a charcoal gray suit with a sleek snowflake tie bar and green tie, approaches with a Tiny Tim Collins in hand. Though you waved hello earlier in the night, he spent most of the evening in the company of who you deemed his 'buddies' - Johnny MacTavish, VP of Technology and Jordan's boss, and Simon Riley, the Chief Security Officer. You learned in your first month to leave the trio to it. 

"Having fun, are we?" Kyle grins and turns to observe the twin events. 

"I love this party. Every year, delivers just like Santa," Jordan gleefully said.

"Someone should stop them," You add, knowing nobody would. At least not Kyle.

And as if on cue, the man chuckles. "Not my circus, not my clowns."

The three of you chat, swapping bits of office gossip collected through the night. Not the most appropriate, but not the worst social crime, surely. You're the right amount of tipsy: warm and relaxed but solid.

The wager came up naturally.

"What do you want if you win, my pine tree?"

"Hmm. It's gotta be something outrageous but not a fireable offense. Hmm. Maybe I'll have you sing on a video call, pretend you thought you were on mute or something."

"...That's boring."   

"Do I want to know?" Kyle asks, sipping his drink. 

"We have a bet on who's gonna be this year's drama - Chad or Scott." You explain.

"Maybe I ought to get back…" Your boss said with a laugh. "Better not witness to whatever you two plan." 

"Might be for the best. Night, Kyle," You accept the brief hug from the man, then poke a finger against his chest. "Listen, if I get one DM about work during the holiday, I'm switching your coffee to decaf."

Kyle claps a hand over his heart as if he's been shot. "Monstrous. Fine, have it your way, no work during Christmas…Now, behave yourself, both of you." 

Watching him retreat back to MacTavish and Riley (who look quite cozy - perhaps another piece of gossip?), Jordan nudges you. "If I was into guys, that's who I'd be into."

"You and like fifty other people here," As Kyle's assistant, you're more than his Girl Friday; you're also a professional gatekeeper. You could wallpaper your apartment with the amount of cringy notes you've stopped from reaching his desk. 

"Not your type, then?" 

You whip your head back to Jordan, utterly horrified. "No way. Not that Kyle isn't an absolute dreamboat; he's just not my dreamboat. Plus, at this point, it would be so, so weird."

Jordan laughs. "Y'know, even though we've been work besties for a year, I don't think we've ever discussed this. What is your type? As dudes are not my specialty, I have no clue."

Your type, huh? As if you don't know. Your type's been the same for as long as you can remember. Big and brawny, the kind of guy who could haul you around. Dark hair. Well-groomed, well-dressed, well-endow–You could still make it onto the naughty list. 

Using better and cleaner terms, you relay this information to Jordan. 

"Huh. A man's man. Whodathunk–oh! Oh shit, look who it is!" The other woman pats your arm and gestures with a nod.

Joining Kyle and his buddies, is none other than John Price - CEO of The 141 Group. Fashionably late (very fashionably late), yet another tradition. Adorned in a Santa red suit jacket and a matching red tie, he somehow makes the boring dress code dashing. Flanking him is a pair of bodyguards. He's just in time for the wager to come to a head. 

God, he looks good. 

As Kyle's assistant, you see John fairly regularly. Not that he sees you. No one above a certain pay grade sees assistants. You kind of just blend right on in. Not even Mr. Riley, whom you've been introduced to a dozen times by Kyle himself, recalls your name. When you tag along to meetings to take notes for the boss man, you assume you're on the same level as a lamp or plant. That doesn't mean you haven't ogled John Price before. Kind of hard to not to, what with his commanding presence. You're kind of ogling him right now.

"Wow, you really do have a type," Jordan hums with a shit-eating grin.

"Shut up," You hiss into your drink and look away, just in time to see Chad from marketing lift a gift box-shaped ice sculpture and smash it onto the ground next to one of the open bars with a frustrated yell. The poor bartender and caterers jump back, and the music scratches to a halt. A thick silence fell over the party, impressive for a crowd of over a hundred, and your eyes flick to Mr. Price.

He glares daggers in Chad's direction, then nods at the taller of his bodyguards. Without hesitation, the man crosses the event space toward a petrified, drunk-crying Chad. As the guard hauls him away, your coworker, or former coworker, you assume, bursts into ugly tears and then disappears from sight. But your eyes are still on John, whose gaze turns to the DJ. The music starts again, as does the chatter. 

"Fuck yes," Jordan giddily whispers. 

"Well, shit."

"You know what this means, don't you?"

"...Unfortunately, yes. Yes, I do," You sigh and down the rest of your drink. "Before you swing the axe, let me grab another punch."

"Hurry back, I've got my thinking cap on," Jordan impishly smirks. 

With a groan, you make your way to the nearest open bar. One far from Chad's little tantrum. Most folks are on the dance floor at this hour, leaving this particular bar quiet. Waiting in line behind other tipsy coworkers, a clearing throat behind you grabs your attention. 

"D'you have a recommendation?" A low, gravelly voice from all your best dreams asks. 

You turn, and the sweet Hallmark-worthy image that blossomed in your mind in the last two seconds promptly morphs into a nightmare. Not a running-for-your-life nightmare, but a you're-the-only-naked-person-in-class nightmare. Laughable, considering the topic of conversation not three minutes ago.

John Price stands tall behind you, arms crossed, testing the fabric of his red suit jacket. He smells like tobacco and something spicy, and his eyes are a shade of blue you hadn't noticed before. You never got this close. They narrow slightly, and you realize you haven't answered him.

"Prancer's Punch." The name sounds cornier aloud.

"Hmm. Brandy or rum?" He sounds unimpressed. Was he unimpressed?

You're quicker to answer this time. Except, you babble. "It's, uh, made with dark rum. It's delicious. I've had a few. The cranberry juice isn't too tart, compliments the sparkling wine and–It's good."

Santa, run me over with your reindeer.

Kyle would be humiliated to have heard all of that. You are humiliated for having said all of that.

To your surprise though, the corner of John's mouth hooks in a smirk, then he chuckles. "How many qualifies as 'a few'?" 

You, apparently committed to acting moronically, answer honestly. "Five." 

It gets you an actual laugh this time. His hand raises up to scritch at his cheek, flashing the band of a watch you're certain is worth more than your life, then juts his chin forward slightly. "You're up, miss."

"Oh, no, Mr. Price, I insist, please-" You start to sidestep to let him up in line, but his hand lowers immediately and stretches out to stop you. He doesn't touch you, but the hair of your arm stands up at the proximity. 

John smiles again, and his head tips toward you. "I insist. Join me, Miss…?"

"Mr. Price?" A voice suddenly interrupts. The taller bodyguard that removed Chad steps up and steals away Mr. Price's attention. "The problem's been dealt with. Regarding…"

You don't hear the rest of the conversation because you hurriedly ask for a punch and bolt back to Jordan. 

And Jordan saw everything. Your heart is racing, and you miss half of her teasing. 

"You made him laugh. Twice. I don't think I've ever seen him smile, let alone laugh." 

"Because I basically admitted to being drunk!"

"Calm down, you're not, you're solid," She reassures. "Besides. You saw that death glare at Chad. If he was upset, I reckon you'd be on the receiving end of one of those."

You groan and take a swig of punch. You hope you've had enough of the good stuff to burn away the memory of your embarrassing rambling. You look back to Jordan to say something and find your friend once again grinning devilishly at you.

"I just thought of what I want for my victory."

Any time, Santa. Put me out of my misery.

"What?"

"So…You know #AskPrice?" 

You know where this is going, and your eyeballs nearly bulge out of their sockets. "Jordan. Please. No. Do not make me post something stupid there." 

#AskPrice was the name of the open channel at work. Anyone across the company could post questions for Mr. Price to answer. More often than not, it was a venue for bootlickers and kiss-asses to rain praises and share bad proposals. Rarely was there a legitimate question or a good idea.

"Darling, of course not. I have something far funnier in mind," She started, and you swore you saw the flames of hell itself in her eyes. "You're going to direct message Mr. Price and ask what he wants for Christmas." 

Jaw, meet floor. "Absolutely not!"

Jordan laughs and hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you in. "Come on. It's harmless. Believe me, I considered making you send a selfie or asking if you're on the naughty or nice list."

"He could fire me!"

"For what? It's just a question! He always says we're welcome to DM him."

To be fair, Mr. Price did say that at the end of every company-wide call or in email announcements. He always harps on 'transparency' and 'open channels of communication', hence #AskPrice. To your knowledge, however, no one ever takes him up on that, at least at your level.

"Jordan…Mercy. Please."

"My sweet pine tree, you lost fair and square," She releases you and pats your shoulder. "If it makes you feel better, I bet he gets a thousand messages a day. The notification will get lost in the noise."

It doesn't take much more prodding and encouragement from Jordan. Your phone ends up in your hand, and you tap into the chat app. Your hand shakes a little when you pull up John's username and open the message dialogue. 

johnprice - invisible Hi, Mr. Price. I was wondering what you want for Christmas?

Short and to the point. Jordan calls it 'boring', but you're already putting your neck on the line for a stupid wager. You're not risking anymore by dressing it up. Bet fulfilled, you press send, quickly turn notifications off, and shove your phone back into your little purse. Jordan rewards you with a squeeze to the shoulder.

"That was terrifying." You whine.

"That was a rush. Come on. Let's dance." 

~~

The next morning, when you're all but molded to your couch and housing takeaway, there's a little ping from your phone. It's the chime of the chat app.

"Kyle, for the love of everything, it's Sunday–"

You nearly drop your phone.

johnprice - invisible Hi, Mr. Price. I was wondering what you want for Christmas? > World peace. > I'd settle for a drink, though.

[charlidos]

THE CHRONICLES OF THE CUNTYBAGO

I love the lore of the Fellowship, I can't get enough of it. And it's really turned into a kind of myth, hasn't it? The stories have been established, from being told again and again. Regardless if it's not the whole truth, or even not true at all. The lore has a life of its own. And it changes, depedning on who's talking, and over time.

The lore of the (inappropriately named) Cuntybago is a favourite; that famed make-up trailer bus where Orlando spent so much time with Viggo (hours and hours for years and years if you listen to Orlando) absorbing everything Viggo did.

So here's the Ultimate (very long) Cuntybago Post.

The Cuntybago is apparently where all the after-work parties happened. Most of what actually happened on it is still secret, private events not to be shared; after hours, after some wine/whisky drinking. What kind of special stuff was in the drawers? What did they really smoke? And, most intriguingly, who exactly was left onboard when everyone were ordered to get out... (Erm, V&O, perhaps?)I'm sure there are many more photos from the bus. Like a photo of Viggo & Orlando - which has yet to be seen. Oh, to have been a fly on that wall!

(A clip from the last day of the reshoots, in 2003. Because it's the time the bus has been talked about the most. Even if I'm unsure if this is the actual Cuntybago or not. Since it doesn't look green...)

Mortensen and Orlando Bloom spent much of their off-time on a green bus they named the "Cunty-Bago." Instead of the standard luxury lodging demanded by most stars on set, Viggo and co-star Orlando Bloom shared a converted bus while filming Rings. Viggo stocked the bus with a wine cellar and wallpapered the inside with candid behind-the-scenes photos. A source on the set said the bus was the site of frequent cast parties, with the motto, "Everyone is welcome, but when it's time to go, get out!" Indeed, they formed a club — The Cunty-Bago Club. [Viggo, Sean and Orlando] shared a make-up Winnebago, and through hours of beard and pointy-ear application formulated the rules of their society — most of which boil down to getting gossip and posting it on. [on what? I think the text is cut?]

There are very few quotes from Viggo. If you read his old interviews about life on set it sounds like he mostly worked 6 days a week, 14 hours a day. And in his free time, he went camping and fishing by himself and just drove around to get some me-time. That's it. It all sounds like mostly work and no play for Viggo. Cementing this image of him being ever serene, wise and a hard working method actor who never stopped being Aragorn. But then, we have the stories of this bus, which shows his wilder side...

(Viggo in ponytails, with a glass of wine and banana, in front of that mirror covered in photographs. They both took a lot of photos on set, so I guess a bunch of those photos are Orlando's.)

All Viggo's said is this:

"It was a crazy small bus." "Everything had cunt. It was 'cunt this' and 'cunt that'. We had a cuntmas tree, and we had cuntmas angels."

(Orlando on the makeup bus. )

Orlando has mostly mentioned the bus in passing, as he loves on Viggo, his great hero. And in his words, it always sounds like it was just the two of them... (when in fact it was from time to time also shared with Sean B, Bernard and Liv - but only Viggo & Orlando were there the whole time).

[Me and Viggo would] sit next to each other for a couple or hours each morning in a make-up truck. You get to know someone that way, more than by being in scenes with them. I used to sit next to him on the make-up bus, and find myself just staring at him while he was having his make-up done and drawing in his book or writing his notes. I would find myself fascinated. When I went back for re-shoots, I was on my own and he wasn't sitting there, and I suddenly was sitting in the makeup bus that we'd been driving around in for 18 months in New Zealand and got really emotional and felt that it was kind of weird to be there without him there and sort of reflected on all of the happy conversations and chats and glasses of wine and talks that we would have at the end of the day or whatever. He really had a huge impact on my life as an actor.

But he did say a few specific things too:

"Ahhh yes, the bus. It was mine, all mine. It was my precious." Bloom christened the bus the "C-word" when the makeup artist was fuming about someone and asked Bloom's advice. "You should kick him in the cunt and tell him to fuck off!" Viggo just lost it for half an hour. He kept saying, 'What did you say?' [The bus] became all about "the word. We took that word and took all of its power away. We made it the most loving word in the world. If you were a true cunt, you were the most amazing person in the world. It was a very free-spirited bus. It came about because me and Viggo kept being moved around, and we ended up on this bus one day. And the actors were fed up and we said, "This is it. This is our home and we are not moving. If they come, tell them to go away."

And finally from Orlando's IG in 2019 (obviously, to this day, a very important part of his life):

Our fondly named makeup bus, christened by Noreen my makeup artist and Viggo Mortensen, was, and remains in my heart and memory the most female and male empowered, joyful, disreputable and yet totally respectful place of work and creativity ever. Hours spent in the the makeup chair to apply ear’s and wigs and contacts." (They can't even agree who named it, Noreen never got any credit back then...)

(From the reshoots in 2003, Viggo gives Orlando some love and points out the photo message from Orlando on the mirror. But I want to know, who put up the pic of O with Brad Pitt? From this clip.)

The comments from everyone else in the cast about life on the Cuntybago are actually more enlightening. The rowdy gang reveal another side of life on set and of Viggo: as a drinking, partying prankster who loves crude language. It's definitely part of the fascination with Viggo. He's never one to talk about these things himself.

(I think they're wearing the special cuntebago t-shirts here. No idea from whence.)

Bernard Hill:

You are not supposed to know about it!" "There were five or six of us - Viggo, Orlando and Sean [Bean]. Liv came in and out [of the group]. Viggo has this special kind of crudeness that he is capable of. We were in the same make up bus [along with Bloom]. When I came back [from a break] it was called the Cuntybago. It was our private club. We had wine tasting sessions and had lots of parties. We also kept lots of food in there. Anything that was out [on the table], you could have. You could drink it, eat it, borrow it, smoke it… but don´t go looking in any drawers. That´s where we kept our 'special stuff'! [The Cuntybago bar would on occasion open very early] like 6:30am. There were days that we needed it. [I've made life-long friends with] everybody who was in the Cuntybago. Leaving the first time was such a huge wrench. Especially because of the Cuntybago, it was like our club. Fortunately we managed to get it back for Return of the king reshoots, so ROTK was the Return of the Cuntybago. We actually drove it out onto the streets for Viggo’s farewell. Viggo didn’t know we were going to do it, and when it started moving, you should have seen his face. I kept shouting, “Cunty libre! Cunty libre!” And the bus start leaving—we were breaking free. For propriety’s sake it was called the C-Bago Club, because you couldn’t put Cunty on the call sheet. Sean Bean came in, Liv was also a part of it. As soon as I get back to England I’m going to start the C-Bago web site: Orlando will do fashion and Viggo will do current affairs. I’ll probably do gossip — you know, the social calendar. Liv will do Hollywood and Sean Bean will do the art of war. It’ll be our little corner of the world.

(Bernard & Orlando Bloom getting make-up done. Here's the green bus again.)

Elijah:

Cuntybago is an amalgamation of 'Winnebago' and Viggo Mortensen´s cuss word of choice. I've gained an appreciation of the word cunt. Negative words - the best thing is to diffuse them by using and taking the meaning away. Cunt! Cunt! It's a great, great word. Very forceful. [Viggo] became utterly fascinated with it and it became the word of the film. Their Winnebago for makeup was called the Cuntybago. I was not a part of the Cuntybago unfortunately - it was the makeup room of Orlando, Viggo and Sean Bean - but it was a lovely place to visit. Cuntybago T-shirts were made up. There was a Cunty Christmas and we had a Cunty Christmas tree, all this stuff. Cate Blanchett [who plays the elf queen Galadriel] was deemed Her Cuntliness. I think we were all secretly jealous of the Cuntybago. I was anyway. I loved the atmosphere. Any place that had Viggo in the centre was always an interesting place to be… And that was where all the alcohol was. It was just spending all of that time with brits and Aussies. The word ‘Cunt’ came up quite a lot. I was fascinated by that and how it could become not so dirty. It’s one of the few swear words that still shock people." Is that why you called Cate Blanchett “Her Cuntliness? “Not my creation. She was called that by Viggo Mortensen. I put the blame on him. It was used during the making of the movie and seems a bit silly now. Wood says that his Cuntybago T-shirt is home in a drawer. "It's too big for me. I'm a small guy."

(A few photos up on the mirror in front of Viggo. I'm guessing it's Henry on the toilet (aww!), and Viggo and Orlando doing something something... Sharing a cigarette? Extinguishing a cigarette on Viggo's tongue? It looks kind of erotic. And who's the other dude?)

Billy:

"On Lord of the rings we'd go to Viggo and Orlando's trailer which was called The Cuntybago. Viggo was good for getting Irish whiskey, which was great but I keep trying to educate him on malt whisky. (To Billy it was just V&O's trailer. Like it's where they lived together...) Hobbits, an elf, a King of Men, maybe a dwarf. And quite a few times a wizard, sometimes a princess. Ha ha! That's enough to make anyone feel pissed. We had some good times on that one, some great times."

Peter Jackson:

"The actors had a spiritual connection to it. I liked the way they had photographs [Mortensen and Bloom] taken behind-the-scenes, plastered all over the walls."

(From the reshoots, I think. Beautifully blurry.)

Liv Tyler:

I can't believe he [Mortensen] talked about that. That was our private world. There was a lot of liquor on that bus. But the funniest thing about this bus is that this thing was a beast. It was so tiny; nothing worked. If they ever washed our hair it would go from scalding hot to freezing cold. There was no heat. Our makeup trailer became the center of things. It was given a really bad name that I cannot repeat. There were pranks, most of them also too dirty to tell. I love them all, all my costars. We would hang out mostly in the hair-and-makeup trailer, and after work at dinner. We would eat all the time and drink wine and laugh.  I think that a lot of that was the friendships that we made with each other and the fact that we all needed each other. It was vital that we all had each other to survive and to be able to laugh. Everybody had a really good sense of humor, thank God. We'd be constantly making jokes and decorating the trailer with ridiculous things and being rude and that was our sort of little bubble of escape in our makeup trailer.

(Photo by Liv, in the bus. You can see all the polaroids and stuff behind the unicorn elf.)

Cate Blanchett:

Viggo is the funkiest person I've ever met. I am far too polite to . . . he had this thing he called "the cunty-bago" . . . no, I guess I shouldn't go into that. So, yeah, he's incredible, very funny.

So, I can't quite figure out which bus The Cuntybago actually is: the green one Orlando is seen exiting? Or the yellow-ish one seen in the vids from the reshoots? Because they aren't the same. And in the vid from the final day, Bernard says the bus he drove on that last day was the same they'd had "for years" and which never moved before. While Orlando said they drove The Cuntybago around "for 18 months". So which bus was it? And did they drive the bus around or not? Or was it stationary? It's a mystery.

(This is the green bus - but is it the make-up trailer? Same as in the vid with Bernard.)

(Here in the reshoots, the bus is yellow-ish? And completely different. Looks more like a Winnebago than the green one really... So which one is The Cuntybago?)

ETA: it's the green striped one! Here's it's on the Cuntybago shirt:

That's all I have found about this infamous, mythical place, where all the magic happened, as they say. If anyone has info to add, please do! I want this post to be comprehensive!

[haikyu-mp4]

Glowing

word count; 1047 – gn!reader, a bit suggestive

Hoshiumi Korai always wanted to be tough. To win everything. Some would call it a need to be ‘manly’ enough, but he just always had something to prove. In a weird way, it was one of the things that made you feel drawn to him while you were dating. His drive and competitive tendencies, as well as the little frown he did when he lost or got embarrassed. It was all attractive to you.

Completely unrelated, you cared a lot for your skin with a semi-intricate skincare routine every night. Korai, who you recently moved in with after being partners for a few years, would often stay in the bathroom while you did your routine, brushing his teeth for a little longer just so he could watch you and maybe throw out a question or two. Like why are there two soaps? Why are there different serums for different days? And then once a week, after you put on a face mask, he would pull you into his lap on the couch and complain about how you didn’t let him have any kisses. Instead, he settled for holding you closer and tickling your neck with kisses. Living together was pretty great.

One day he finally gave in. You both just finished drying off after a heated shower in each other’s company, when you started putting on this week’s face mask. Korai looked at you in the mirror with a soft frown as he snaked his arms around your waist and cuddled into your neck. It had been a long week, he was so tired from this damn sport he loved so much and felt a little extra thankful today that he got to come home to you. So when you asked “You want a face mask as well?” like you always did, he let out a small sigh before giving in.

“Yes, I do.”

After the short process of getting the mask on for each of you, trading giggles with hesitant grimaces, you both sat on the couch with a timer on your phone and some movie you had watched before on the TV. You even convinced him to put on a cute frog headband to keep his hair away from his face.

While you sat with your legs across his lap and told him about one of your colleagues’ gossip, he looked at his phone and picked it up when it rang. He just glanced at the name of the caller, too into your story to check anything else. Korai hummed as you slowed down your talking to see who it was as well.

“I’ll just check what he wants,” Korai mumbled. The two of you had taken so many cute selfies with the masks on that he didn’t realise the reason he could see the two of you on his screen now was because it was a video call.

Korai seemed to choke on his breath when his screen suddenly showed Kageyama and Hinata with a small image of you and him in the corner. Wearing... face masks and headbands. The girly kind. During Korai’s shock, there was unfortunately time for the man on the other line to fumble his way to the screenshot buttons.

“Idiotyama!! Why would you video me on a Friday evening?” Korai yelled, handing the phone to you and letting his head fall back against the sofa in humiliation. There goes my whole image, he thought dramatically. He couldn’t even cover his face with his hands in shame and instead just pointed an empty stare at the ceiling.

“Me and Kageyama needed to settle something but now I can’t remember what it was. Oh, hi y/n!” the orange-haired man said cheerfully. With a sweet smile, you held a short conversation with them before hanging up. Phone on the table, you put your arms back around your boyfriend’s neck and wondered what you should say. He put his arms loosely around you and waited in silence for you to find the right words.

“I think you look very pretty.”

Hinata and Kageyama had learnt a thing or two about teasing from their older teammates, and you bet the screenshot of you and Korai in pink face masks was sent to the Japan Olympic group chat with a nice ‘hope everyone is enjoying a relaxing weekend just like the little giant!’

Let’s just say you were struggling to hold back your laughter while you finally helped him wash the mask off after the timer went off. Korai was silent, keeping his eyes closed until you pressed a kiss to his freshly washed cheek when you were done. “Wearing a face mask isn’t embarrassing, Korai,” you told him, sneaking your hands under his shirt to warm them.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he sighed, unintentionally pouting like a little boy and tracing his hands around to squeeze your bum like stress balls. Of course, the others didn’t actually care that much if any of the guys used a face mask, it’s just so funny because it’s Korai. He always takes the bait when they tease him.

So as you two finally curled up in bed, you let him spoon you this time with his strong arms curling around you. It made him feel a bit better as you cuddled into him. The morning after was spent cosying up under the sheets and enjoying each other’s bodies before going on your routine weekend jog together. Everything seemed back to normal.

Except that your boyfriend was plotting for the best revenge against his friends.

please excuse the timeline ignorance between the Adlers and the Olympics, it's just a little bonus because I love the Adlers trio

Monday came and Korai went off to work early in the morning. He put the lunch you packed him in his bag and pecked your lips before he was out the door.

“You’re glowing, Hoshiumi.” Kageyama tried his luck early on during warm-ups.

“What am I, pregnant?” Korai spat back. Kageyama just kept smiling at his own joke.

Ushijima switched which arm he was stretching and observed Hoshiumi. “Your skin does look refreshed, maybe we should all get face masks with y/n.”

“I know it does but get your own partner, man.” He just mumbled, moving away to warm up with a ball on the other side of the court. They were so going to get it for teasing him one day.

masterlist