#no wait what is the actual ship name

[starcurtain]

The Kinda Unhinged Ratiorine Fic I Want to Read

In an (admittedly very contrived) AU situation, Dr. Ratio finds out he's about to be cut out of his (mostly estranged) family's inheritance forever because of his complete lack of interest in continuing the family line. Which, all factors considered, does make perfectly logical sense. Investment of capital should go to the branch of the lineage most likely to benefit from it, and Cousin Tiberius has five sons and daughters already. Let the house and the trust fund go to them.

But the library.

There's absolutely no way Veritas could bear to be permanently parted from the staggering assemblage of paper volumes under his collected family's auspices. Not only would being separated from tomes so full of memories be heart-wrenching, but think of the devastating blow to his research! There are records in those archives that no other mortal eyes have ever gazed upon!

So there's only one solution for it: He needs to pass on his family name, immediately.

(Andddd the rest is under a read more because what is brevity?)

Problem 1: Veritas Ratio is very gay.

Problem 2: Statistically, single men have the lowest chance of being selected for adoption placement, and this Child Welfare Agent is looking at his alabaster head very, very strangely.

Think, Ratio, think. What is the most efficient way to solve such a tedious quandary?

The obvious first step is to increase his likelihood of being selected by the adoption agency, and the quickest way to do that is... Eureka! How elegant a design! He just needs to enter into a (temporary) committed and stable partnership to demonstrate a degree of domestic dedication and home-building prowess!

Problem 3: ...Where in the universe is he going to find a stable and committed man willing to marry him?

Ratio does not exactly possess the world's most endearing personality. He might... never have had any form of romantic relationship lasting past a one-night stand even, because it turns out most people don't like being scored a 2/10 on their technique during intercourse.

So he's probably not going to find a stable and committed man.

But... He might at least find someone willing--for the right price.

Enter Aventurine (stage left). He's as expensive as they come, the greatest reward saved for the highest bidder, but despite his festering ambitions, he's still trapped as nothing more than a high-class escort, owned by a company the IPC has on the books as selling everything but what they actually trade in: Avgin slaves.

Sigonians... The reputation--and sleazy men's curiosity--precedes him, and though he only has to get on his knees for the truly bold nowadays, he hasn't yet been able to make the ultimate gamble, pull the last string needed to finally gain his freedom: the freedom to live his life as he pleases--and to enact every ounce of vengeance he's been storing for decades like cards up his sleeves.

Until now.

Until an absolute madman shows up at the underground headquarters waving around an offer that no average person would possibly make: He wants to buy Aventurine and wed him.

(Because marrying a Sigonian thrall is a safe and sane thing that safe and sane people do.)

The offer is far too good to be trusted: A real marriage certificate but a perfectly fake marriage, a no-fault divorce once an adoption is finalized, and a guaranteed sponsor for his citizenship documents. A year or two of fake homemaking, this Veritas Ratio claims, and then Aventurine can walk away a completely free man, no strings--no chains--attached.

Well, Aventurine of the Myriad Stratagems has always held one skill dearer to his heart than any other: a crystal clear knowledge of when to fold--and when to go all in.

(...Problem 4: Amber Lord help him, Aventurine's new husband is the most irritating man in the entire universe.)

Alas, if only that was their biggest problem. Somewhere between learning to navigate the citizenship process, the adoption process, a truly unacceptable level of systemic racism, and also, increasingly, each other, Ratio and Aventurine discover that the circumstances of their lives might be far more entangled than they ever could have imagined from the beginning, and the same shadowy parties that profited off Aventurine's existence might have a vested interest in parting Ratio from valuable research secrets--permanently.

While struggling to maintain a charming and loving facade and struggling not to kill each other behind the scenes, Aventurine and Ratio also end up having to out-roll and out-plan a particularly dangerous enemy; something they can really only do together.

Or, tl;dr: Dr. Ratio chooses the most efficient but most unhinged method of finding a husband that intelligence could possibly contrive, only to determine that marrying a guy whose track record for unexplained deaths matches his track record for card counting really is the encyclopedic opposite of "committed and stable." Ridiculously enough, the trouble they get into is almost entirely Ratio's fault, the only one who is remotely convincing in front of the Child Welfare Agency is Aventurine, and sometimes it turns out the guy you married for the library ends up being the guy you married for life.

[endlesslytired]

[nocek]

nobody left request at a previous comic sooooo prepare for continued silliness of cannibalism theme (yep, I'm going to leave this statement here like this not linking the context of previous comic. what could possibly go wrong here)

also, contest! take a wild guess at which part of my daily routine I get my comic ideas ;P

[unknownarmageddon]

Bathroom Sink

kross drabble thing, i didn’t do as much editing as i usually do but im happy enough with it as is i think

rental suits belongs to me and @psycho-chair

Cross was startled awake four hours before his alarm to the scraping of a window in his living room being forced open.

Sloppily forced open, and closed again, with a struggle, like whoever it was was hurrying. Hurrying desperately, erratically. He can’t remember being woken up like this before. Killer was too smooth, too undetectable. Too quiet. 

        The storm of a single person’s footsteps stumbled heavily through his apartment. The bathroom door was jerked open, and then slammed closed. 

        Cross laid there a minute. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, shuddering with his quick breathing. Nothing about this sit right.

    The bathroom sink turned on suddenly. And if he could hear it this clearly from here, it was on strong. 

        He ripped sheets off of him and slid off his bed. He stormed, rushed, the short way through the apartment to the bathroom. There was blood on the floor.

There was blood on the floor.

    Red spots dotted a lazy, haphazard trail to the bathroom. 

That fucking idiot. 

     What was wrong with him, why did he keep doing this. Why did he keep doing this to Cross. 

      Cross didn’t stop. Before he could think about what he would find on the other side, he jerked the bathroom door open like he was trying to pull it off its hinges.

       All he saw was blood. There was blood on the counter, in the sink, on the floor, soaked into the small rectangular rug under the sink, slathered on the sink’s knobs. God, it was allover the counter. The swirl of water in the sink bowl ran red, and the crimson on the counter puddled with the liquid. A single messy handprint of blood was pressed and half smeared into the mirror. Some of it was even on the fucking walls, streaked in even messier handprints. 

          It was everywhere. In crevices Cross didn’t want to even think about.

         Killer hunched over the sink. He was propped against the wall on his shoulder, leaning and almost sliding down it. He held that arm wrapped around his torso to grip at his side. 

         Much like the state of the bathroom, he was bad, and bloody. It flowed from his nose, his mouth, dirtied his partially torn jacket. It was splattered on every article of clothing he wore. The void-like tar from his sockets was practically pouring out of his eyes, dripping down his chin and leaking out of his nose, mingling with blood. His face was busted to hell and back. His ribs probably were, too, with the way he was holding himself. Either that or he’d been stabbed. 

        He looked like a crime scene, a gruesome one. He coughed and hung directly over the sink’s bowl. A string of red dripped into it from his lips like syrup. His breathing was ragged, and his soul was like an unstable supernova; it fizzled and spun uncharacteristically rapidly. 

      It was something straight out of a overdramatic horror film, and Cross almost wanted to laugh just as much as he wanted to vomit. 

Again.

He inhaled, then exhaled, shakily.

    Maybe it wasn’t as bad as the last time he did this, but in that moment Cross didn’t even fucking care. There was still blood coating his bathroom that he’d have to clean up, and it was too late for this again. 

At least Killer was actually awake this time. 

“Killer,” Cross breathed. His right hand clenched.

    Killer turned to look at him and grinned his stupid grin when they met eyes. Though, this one was more of an ironic sneer. 

“Most of it’s not mine.” Killer rasped.

“What the hell did-“

“Ran into some trouble at work,” Killer replied. He winced as he said it, and spat another string of blood into the sink. 

“‘m fine.” 

“No, you’re not.” Cross argued, stepping farther into the room toward the sink, and him. 

“I said most of it isn’t mine.” 

“You still look like shit.” 

Killer grimaced. “Thanks.” 

      Killer fumbled to quickly pry off one of his fingerless gloves and it came away with sticky red strings. It sounded wet when it hit the counter. He started on the other, and struggled, slipped against the counter, fought with his shifting conscious state.  

      Cross immediately went to him, grabbing his wrist and roughly pulling, ripping, the glove off for him. Like he was tearing fabric, or flesh. He absently threw it onto the counter with the other, and started stripping Killer of his jacket. He was firm, and deliberate. Like a wolf taking its packmate’s prey. He gripped Killer’s arms maybe too tight, forced them out of the way, held his wrists in place. Killer staggered when he was pulled away from the wall.

      Cross didn’t aim to hurt, far from it, but he was tired and fed up and he knew if he didn’t just do it himself Killer would make this difficult. 

“Woah, woah! Don’t get too excited, I’m kinda in the middle of somethin’ here.” Killer drawled, stepping backward away from Cross and grinning that lopsided grin. 

“Shhh, shut up.” Cross hissed. 

     By the time he got the jacket off, his hands were already coated in a layer of blood, as was the ends of his sleeves. He wondered whose it was, if most of it truly wasn’t Killer’s. Whose blood did he have on his hands, whose blood was smeared all over his bathroom. It made his soul twist to think that he didn’t know, could’t ever know.

     Cross began doing the same as he did for the jacket for Killer’s shirt, just as rough, but only got halfway before he paused, and lingered. There was a slash along the top of his pelvis that grazed spine and a few bottom-most ribs. It was bleeding steadily. Cross’s grip tightened on fabric, then he let go and pushed past him in favor of the tub.

“I’m running a bath.” Cross said.

     And he did. Despite himself, despite everything in him screaming that he didn’t owe Killer this much trouble, or anything, he ran a bath. He heard shuffling as Killer managed to pull his shirt over his head, and he glanced back.

“All of it. Nothing’s coming off otherwise.” He said. “And we’ll have to wash them.”

“Fuck, pretty boy, didn’t know you had it in you.” Killer quipped from the other side of the room with mock surprise. Everything he said was tinged with fatigue.

Cross gripped the side of the tub.

    Regardless, Killer still discarded the rest of it, as well as kicked off his shoes, and his clothes became a pile on the floor. Sticky wet footsteps padded unevenly over tile, then he was beside Cross. 

      Cross didn’t look at him, not fully, not enough to see him. He grabbed him by the shoulders and half-pushed, half-lowered him into the tub. 

        Then he started scrubbing, face screwed up and brows furrowed with focus. He’d sponge off a limb, then plunge it back into the water. It was fresh, so it came off easily, at least. 

It was fresh…

     It smelled practically smotheringly metallic this close to Killer. 

      The bath quickly became red-tinted as blood seeped and washed off of Killer’s body, and the soap suds on Cross’s sponge turned pink.

“You keep doing this.” Cross murmured.

“Sorry about your carpet.” Killer replied, quietly, but still with that stupid hint of amusement. 

Cross kept his eyes on his sponge. He gradually scrubbed harder, like he was going to scrub Killer’s bones raw. “It’s always me.”

“You expect me to go anywhere else?” Killer replied sarcastically.

Cross exhaled through his nose. 

    He saw Killer’s body recoil, saw him wince almost weakly, at how hard he was scrubbing now. Cross immediately was tanged by faint guilt, despite how much part of him thought Killer deserved it for fucking up his bathroom. Cross paused to roll up his sleeves, and when he started scrubbing again, he wasn’t as rough. 

       The knuckles on Killer’s left hand were busted and bruised, but other than that the shear amount of blood on his hands wasn’t his. He was bruised what felt like everywhere, especially his face and his side. They weren’t bad. He might get a black eye, but they weren’t bad. 

     Some ribs were cracked, and he had other numerous minor cuts, but the worst injury he appeared to have was the gash on his torso. 

The gash. Cross had to do something about that.

     He emptied and refilled the tub once, and quickly, thoroughly, finished ridding Killer’s bones of the grime.

      He found himself getting surprised at how quiet Killer had gotten. Normally he’d expect more from him than this. It was like he had receded into his own mind, or like he didn’t have the energy to keep up his facade. 

“…Does it hurt?” Cross asked quietly. “To talk, I mean.”

“I’ll live.” Killer replied, which Cross took as a yes.

     Eventually Cross decided he’d done what he could, so he drained the tub a final time, and gripped Killer’s arm to assist him to his feet.

      They passed the dark, bloody pile that was Killer’s clothes, and Cross glanced at them. He’d deal with the rest of it eventually. 

        Killer leaned against Cross and staggered beside him as Cross took him to the living room. He was light; it hardly felt like Cross was even supporting anyone at all. And he was cold, even after a warm bath. He’d always ran cold, though, Cross knew that. 

        He sat Killer on the couch and left to hunt down the first aid kit. He managed to find it, detoured to quickly wash at least some of the blood off his hands in the kitchen sink, then he returned to Killer.

          He ripped the kit open, found what he needed, and his vision tunneled. He dealt with the gash first. After an inspection he decided it wasn’t that deep, thankfully. Swiftly, he pressed a wad of gauze into it and wrapped it. He relaxed, glad to have that done with. He didn’t realize he’d been that tensed. 

         He started with the rest. He wrapped cracks, applied disinfectant ointment. He kept finding new wounds; some fresh, but most were old and scarred. While he worked he didn’t fully see Killer, like when you’re so focused on a drawing you can’t see the full picture, only the stroke right in front of you. 

     But when he was wrapping the knuckles of Killer’s left hand he looked up, and saw him. He was holding a handful of now-bloody gauze to his nose with his free hand. His eyes felt more vacant than usual, and he was staring directly at Cross with an expression that he couldn’t read as any specific emotion in particular. 

     He looked better now, at least. Less like some maddened, bloody monster. That part had just receded for the time being. 

     Cross let his eyes linger on him a moment. His soul tugged. He could feel how startlingly cold Killer’s hands were in his, hear the fast whirring of his soul. His bones were still too thin.

     Cross wondered what he used to do before he knew him. Who else has had their apartment broken into in the ungodly hours of the night, who else has had their bathroom turned red. Who did he go to. Was there even anyone? Or did he just ride it out in some dark corner in an alley somewhere, like an animal looking for a hidden place to die?

This was all so absurd, Cross realized.

“You likin’ something you see?” Killer managed after Cross had apparently been staring for long enough, and for a moment he looked a bit more like how Cross was used to. 

“You’re helping me clean the bathroom.” Cross said matter-of-factly, and looked back down at Killer’s hand. 

[lavenderjewels]

people are reading too much into kenjakus appearance this chapter and should instead be considering it as takaken being canon

[annyeoz]

A lil comic for @fox-quills of her fic Mobius,, part 2 in progress...

*EDIT: part 2 is posted.

(heads up warning,, this fic is explicit)

[not-equippedforthis]

i'm on episode 3 of ds9 and i've formed five main thoughts about garak and julian:

oh my god he's even more homosexual towards julian than i thought. even with all of my knowledge. and expectations from watching tos. what was that.

he's a TAILOR??

this man would be such a fucking dickhead in among us

or go fish

JULIAN'S A LONDONER???

[kipthetgirl]

Imagine your OTP

person #1: *sniffing a flower*

Person #2, whispering: “god I wish I was that flower…”

Person #1: “what was that, (2)?”

Person #2: “I SAID I NEED TO SHOWER BYE (1)”

[pinkrose05]

Boothill and Argenti's ship name should be Guns N' Roses. Send tweet.

[grimalkinmessor]

Even as someone who very much enjoys Stolitz if they don't also address that Stolas also failed to communicate properly and gave Blitzø almost no reason to believe he wanted a serious relationship before that episode along with them having addressed Blitzø's general distrust in others' feelings leading him to hurt them before they can hurt him *deep inhale* THEN I CAN BE ALL ABOARD THE FIZZBLITZ TRAIN BABYYYY ✨ BRING IT ON THEY WOULD NOT BE HELL'S FIRST THROUPLE

[seaquestions]

blake lets him keep it. this is a dire lapse in judgement on his part but they're just gonna have to live with it. (ids in alts)

[starcurtain]

Sometimes I think about the fact that we have absolutely no information on how long Aventurine actually spent in slavery.

He fled from the Avgin massacre as a young child, and we didn't see him again until he was a grown adult. I doubt he could have survived entirely on his own at that age and Sigonia's conditions seem too harsh for people to randomly adopt orphans, especially from a rival/outcast clan...

We do know that the master we see on screen was not his only master, because he was purchased from someone else, but we have no idea how many masters he had total before his final one, how many times he could have fled and been recaptured, how many times he was bought and sold...

We do know that Aventurine appears to have been kept on Sigonia or somewhere similarly tribal for those missing years, since his first request to the IPC is for Jade to take him to her "chief," but we don't even know how long Aventurine has been out of slavery. He doesn't look massively different in age from his "trial" with Jade to how he looks in-game now, and he did not rise through the IPC ranks over time like Topaz but won his role directly through his gamble with Jade and then later proving himself on Iymanika.

Basically, all this is leading to a big question: Is it possible that the Aventurine we know is only barely out of slavery? That there may be something like five years or fewer separating him from the wastelands of Sigonia? That he learned all these new behaviors, all this new information about how to operate as a free person in the universe, in what likely amounts to 2-3 years of Jade's guidance and his own hard work?

Man, what an incredible character. Really a standout among my very favorites.

[seleai]

something something obligatory Ninjago AU

So erm! Yeah! This is what I call my “partners AU” ( ´ ▽ ` ) it’s basically one big ToE overhaul, where Zane is coerced into working with Chen. Since he has no memories at the start of ToE, I think it actually makes for a pretty good Villain Zane setup.

more below ^^

So, about the AU relationships: yes, Zane and Skylor are a couple in this! I’m a sucker for a good rarepair, and having worked on this AU for nearly 5 years now, I’ve grown VERRRYYY attached to them. I also think that their dynamic is SO interesting to work with, especially considering what may have happened before the tournament. I mean, we know for a fact that she came in contact with him due to her having his powers, so what might have happened? I ADORE exploring and fleshing out details like that.

The Digital sheets are currently just rough drafts for the final designs, but I DO know this for certain:

• The scarf is STAYING. Idc if it’s impractical or dumb, I’m literally emotionally attached to it.

•The purple mask and white gi are for sure staying, I really just need to figure out things like harnesses, belts, accessories, etc. Plus, I may squeeze his emblem into there somewhere

So yeah, this is my Partners AU! I’m also working on a fic to go alongside with it, so check me out on Ao3! (Smoked_Snail) :3

If you read this far, for one, WOW. Thanks for listening to my yap sesh. And two, have a nice day/night!

[marragurl]

Suddenly getting the intense urge to rewatch all of the SerVamp anime was not on my 2024 bingo card- but here we are folks

[lavender-temult]

Hey pspspsps gay people c’mere I did another redraw (from this image)

[silvertws]

I'm so far behind in Campaign 3 like, episode 77 I think? But by all the posts online I can see Bells Hells seems to be thriving (except FCG womp Womp) which is lovely.

Imma probably just observe funky clips and posts until I get hyper fixated again.