#to be fair I did not use reference.. I simply did my best

[mortallyfuzzytyrant]

Expanding on being Olrox's best friend.

My genuine belief is this friendship would form on mutual respect. It's clear Olrox is someone who doesn't take his true loyalties lightly. And he is beyond tired of people who are power hungry or buy into group mentalities.

I believe you would have met Olrox during a time of hardship for yourself. You being a humble individual who merely wanted to exist. Though, of course, the world wouldn't make such a thing so simple.

Olrox has basically spent his entire life forming alliances to get by. He found you trapped as an abstract entity being used by vampires. He found it distasteful but didn't do a thing at first.

Discovering you had a consciousness was a point of intrigue for him. You could think and feel. Hearing you speak wasn't surprising but amused him nonetheless.

You two held conversations now and again. It became obvious to you that Olrox merely sought out for himself and couldn't care less about the ambitions of the vampires that held you. You decided quite quickly you liked him.

He quipped about your abusers and boasted about his lover. Admittedly, it rubbed you the wrong way he sat by as you were made into a toy. But this man was the closest thing to what it was like to be treated like a person, so you clung to your brief interactions.

Plus, he was funny. At least you were getting something out of this. Olrox was keeping you sane.

You within an inch of your mental capacity each day. You were in pain and long past tolerant of others.

You were aware of what happened to Olrox's lover. You have no idea why he told you. He did it so matter of factly.

The way he always smirked when talking to you was replaced with a bitter scowl. His demeanor was a far cry from how playful and snarky he was before.

Instinctively, you offered your wish for his peace with the matter. You even complimented his lover. You saw him briefly. You were....more perceptive than average, let's put it that way.

Olrox's expression was unreadable but it was clear he absorbed your words.

Olrox had been put in charge of commanding you at some point. You spent more time together. Your being was still confined but your consciousness good stretch for eons.

You didn't mind Olrox commanding you. He was far kinder and just did what was necessary. Perhaps he wasn't exactly overly familiar. But he treated you as something akin to a lieutenant. Rather than a dog.

You formed a habit of calling him "master".

He never said anything. But somehow you could tell it bothered him. You thought it was because he wasn't fond enough of you to even consider you a servant. Still. You were attached and refused to stop.

One day you were pushed too far by the vampires that kept you. You were in agony.

After they left, you begged Olrox to set you free. You called him master like you always did. His green eyes pierced into you. You must've looked absolutely pathetic. Even without a face or body.

Something about the way he stood there enraged you. And the next time the other vampires came to make use of you, you did away with them all. Many more came to attack but your blind rage stopped them.

Olrox's smile as he watched you was irritating.

As much as you liked the guy, you were beyond tired of being viewed as a pass time. You aimed for him. And funnily enough, you did your fair share of damage.

Olrox got close enough to your prison. Imagine your surprise when he released you.

"You almost killed me." The laugh in his voice was baffling.

You had a better chance of doing that now that you were free. You didn't find it worth being impressed over. At least, not from his perspective.

You blinked as he simply turned to walk away.

Odd as it was, you instinctively thanked your master. Your previous rage was dwarfed by your confusion at Olrox's contradictory actions. All you could muster in your daze was gratitude.

Olrox replied with saying he had no idea who you were referring to.

You blinked.

"You're smart enough to slaughter a group of fools beholden to their delusions of grandeur. And another who stood by even as your screams carried over the ocean." Olrox smirks. "I think you're long past that."

You blinked. Smart, he says.

Olrox shrugged at your confusion. "You choose now of all nights to end them. Or us. I suppose I'm included in that. You've been watching the moon, haven't you? Being free now...Why, I don't think the night has ever been so beautiful. Wouldn't you agree?"

You were baffled at what he was implying. You insisted on calling him master.

He tutted your fixation on that.

"That's what no one ever told you. You don't need masters."

You gaped.

He smiled. "You figured that out all on your own. Everyone here is dead. You made an attempt on my life for my inaction. In what world does someone like that need anyone?"

You went quiet. Olrox was going to leave. You watched him go.

"You may follow me. If you wish." Olrox said without turning or stopping.

Your breath hitched at him reading your desires so easily.

"On one condition."

You bristled. Of course no one ever offered company without a catch-

"Never call me 'master' again." Olrox frowned pointedly at you.

You gaped. An odd request. But...You found yourself silently agreeing, following quickly.

Olrox smiles. A lot softer than you were used to. "I would like to see an actual form in front of me."

You blinked. Was that his way of...encouraging you?

You flushed, solidifying yourself the moment you were outside.

Olrox hummed. "Imagine hiding something this captivating. You're foolish about the strangest things."

You felt you should have been offended. But tears found their way to you. As shrewd as he put it, he undoubtedly called you beautiful.

You two knew each other for centuries and now you were attached to the hip in the open world. You were there for the murder of Julia. Olrox thanked you greatly for assisting in tracking her down but told you to stay out of the fight. You kept to the shadows and proudly watched your beloved friend triumph.

Richter was hardly conscious of everything around him. He froze at Olrox kneeling before him. Your presence felt more like a dream rather than what he was actually seeing. He wasn't sure he had actually seen another vampire there. It was intentional on your part, you hadn't wanted to give Olrox trouble and used your abilities the moment you spotted Julia. Your eyes have haunted Richter's nightmares for years. Though he is unable to tell if it was Olrox's or not. He doesn't remember you.

Mentioned this before, but Olrox allows you to hang onto him.

It's incredibly common place for you to rush to Olrox and put your hands on his chest and lean on him.

He responds with a hand on the small of your back. He'll fully embrace you if you've been separated during battle.

He will full on guard you with his body if it is needed. Though, it's rare. You are a strong vampire.

Full disclosure if he despises someone that flirts with you. Massive protective brother energy.

"Cunts need washings before they speak."

"Olrox!"

Olrox and you use endearments on one another. "Love" and "darling" are the most prominent. But pick your poison of birds, flowers or gems you compare each other to.

You were not amused by Olrox targeting Mizrak. Out of all the men he chose to ove on" with, a hypocritical human of the cloth wasn't in your pickings of the list. You saw Olrox running into his bad habits with him. It worried you.

You had a distaste for Mizrak from the start. It was sealed when he barked at Olrox.

You hissed. "Small mutts shouldn't bark so loud."

Olrox couldn't find it in himself to listen at first. It had been a while, but you knew he was still grieving.

You stayed by his side to offer support but you were waiting for him to throw the whole man out.

You whimpered and touched Olrox's forehead after what Drolta did to him.

"Olrox, love, your pretty little head is hidden."

You were enraged but simply allowed Olrox to take a breath and hold your hand while offering a soft kiss.

It's actually funny how much you have a "you can do better" attitude regarding Mizrak.

To a point Olrox has tickled you with a feather when you go on too long.

Thankfully, your intervention wore Olrox down and he was thinking far more clearly.

Either you healed Mizrak or let him die peacefully.

Regardless, he was weighing down your best friend over your dead blood sucking body. Watching Olrox chose immortality for someone a second time wasn't something you were going to allow.

I feel like being Olrox's best friend would be so nice. Olrox having all that love and trust in you to keep you close and being able to vulnerable. Olrox is the type of friend that you would be attached to the hip with at all times and would be so gentle and caring. Especially considering it's clear Olrox's orbit is scarce due to his past and how he feels about people in general. So his best friend is someone he'd be incredibly protective of and would cherish.

Olrox and his best friend would have tons of witty banter that both pokes fun at the other while also remaining wholesome and affectionate. Though the ones directed at others is ruthless and cutting. Olrox is for sure that friend you sit by and judge others with. You two have this telepathic connection (either literal or metaphorical) where you don't even need to look at each other and you just- react the same way to situations and people's stupidity, both facial expressions and body language. You two are menaces when it comes to being in other's presence. Regardless if it's holding a conversation or being in combat.

Olrox has gently tutted you to behave yourself on rare occasions but you can tell by his grin that he was absolutely encouraging your mischief. He even whispers his own quip in your ear every now and then, adoring when you giggle in response. You two are the biggest gossip buddies in private, making each other howl with laughter discussing what you think about recent events or the people you've ran into. Olrox would be helping you either bathe, do your hair, or simply sharing the bed with you all the while.

Olrox's voice is noticeably softer and thinner with you. Olrox keeps you close by having a gentle hand on your shoulder, waist, or having you cling to his arm. Olrox will often pull you to him and kiss your temple. Or on the side of your cheek. Either as a simple gesture of affection or giving you a swift goodbye in the rare times you two have to separate. Olrox will also hold you to his chest if you're hurting. Olrox seems harsh but for you he actively practices the utmost tenderness when comforting you.

Goodness forbid someone else caused your distress. Olrox will be absolutely feral if anyone dares cause you harm. You are his dear friend and he cherishes your spot in his life. He'll be damned if he lets someone disrupt that, even in the smallest ways.

[tezzbot]

I really like the headcanon that a very select amount of people are allowed to actually call Tails 'Miles' and Shadow is on that list, it's very cute to me ^_^

[soleilapproves]

Play fighting with Boxer!Sukuna

Note: Reader is referred to as girlfriend at one point.

Masterlist

“Babe.”

“Not right now.”

“Babe.”

“Sukuna, I promise I’ll be done with this book soon.”

He huffed and fell back onto the couch. He had been trying to get your attention for the past 30 minutes but you were adamant on finishing your book. This is all the fault of that damn community book club your coworker recommended you join. Now whenever, you’re off work and Sukuna doesn’t have to train, you’re reading. Usually the two of you spent almost all your spare time together but now you spent half of it reading your newest book for your weekly discussion. You always did your best to spoil him with kisses and cuddles but it was never enough.

Book club be damned, he needed you to be superglued to his side every single second.

“My girlfriend has a side man and he’s made of paper,” he huffed to himself as he watched you intently read. What was so great about your book anyway? Was it worth ignoring your gorgeous (and shirtless) boyfriend? He even had a tattoo of your name on his left pec and you were still choosing to smother a book with your attention.

Sukuna’s wallowing turned him creative- he stood in front of you, trying to make sure your guard was down. You didn’t look up which meant that you were still engrossed in your book. His hand swooped in and swiftly snatched the book from you. “Sukuna,” you groaned. “Give it back, I was at a good part.” You got up to grab it from him but he raised it above his head. “Kiss me.” You glared at him and gave him a quick peck on his lips. “Done, now give it.”

“No,” he nonchalantly replied. “But I kissed you.” You wondered why he was being particularly irritating today.

“That was me begging for a morsel of your attention. Now cuddle me if you want it,” he said and cheekily smirked.

You ignored him and hopped trying to get your book. Sukuna simply dodged your sad attempts and laughed every time you missed. “I don’t even know why you’re trying.” You gave him a pointed look at his comment.

“Okay, fine, you can have your book if you beat me in a fight.”

“What? That makes no sense.” You couldn’t believe this man. “It seems like a fair challenge to me,” he said as he walked to a particularly high shelf and placed your book on top of it. “You know I can just use my stepping stool for that, right?” you said before scoffing at him.

“Then it’s a good thing I hid it.” His sarcastic smile was now pissing you off. “But you literally fight for a living. You have the upper hand.”

“I’m in love with you. Use that as a distraction. Come on, let’s go to the ring.” You were speechless as he dragged you to the fighting “ring” (also known as your bedroom).

Since you had a smaller frame than him, he agreed to let you have the first hit. You sighed and braced yourself. You didn’t have much of a strategy except for charging at him with such a high speed that he’d fall on the bed and would accept defeat.

But as soon as you were in close distance, he caught both your arms, turned you around and threw you on the bed. He didn’t give you a second to get up before he straddled you. “Haha!” he exclaimed. Seeing you all riled up underneath him was a sight he was used to but it never failed to awe him.

“Feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he asked as he began to lower himself to face you. “This is so unfair! You’re like 200 pounds, I can’t even move you,” you said as you tried to push him off. Sukuna grabbed your hands that were fighting him and he playfully wrestled them. Who knows what would’ve happened if he used his real strength.

Thank goodness for your quick thinking because you remembered that Sukuna was extremely ticklish so you pulled your hand out of his grasp with all the strength you could muster up and started poking his sides. “Babe!” he yelled before toppling over to his side. It was your turn to straddle him and before you could pin his arms beside his head, he caught yours and pulled you down to him. He wrapped his muscular arms around you and tucked your head under his chin. Your cheeks were mushed against the very tattoo of your name.

You were literally stuck in one position. The more you tried to move the tighter he’d hold you. “Sukuna, you cheater. Why do I always do this to myself?” You sighed, accepting defeat.

Sukuna kissed your forehead and laid you both on your sides, still not letting you go. “Sweet, sweet victory,” he whispered to himself.

-•-

I need to be (lovingly) smothered by a beefy nerd. Someone like Clark Kent.

[oh-babylove]

~7k. copia/f!reader. explicit. established relationship, smut, filth and fluff. copia does date night, and you show him your appreciation-- it's only fair. mdni.

thanks to @copia for showing me how to put images in a grid-- top right image by instagram user susitse.art. @enjoy-my-swearing and @photiniainsummer, this one's for you. <3

when the red comes over you - ao3

rhrn spoilers. blowjobs, masturbation, dirty talk, light degradation, a small piece of light cum kink, a touch of hanky-panky in public, some thigh riding, face-fucking, fluff, tw: references to past sexual assault/dubious consent/sexual trauma

You’re holding the same pole on the subway car as Copia, his gloved hand over yours, swaying with him, forced into his space by the crowd. It gives you an excuse to stand close to him, in the circle of his scent like cold smoke. You're not complaining– well, not much. Keeping your balance is a bit of a challenge– you aren't used to doing this in heels, even these modest Cuban heels. Riding the subway truly is riding, the rhythmic thrum of the rails swaying up your body, through the balls of your feet. Riding the train feels like riding a living thing.

“I like this,” you say, as if coming to a decision.

“Hnn?” Copia replies, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at you.

“Riding the train. I like it.” You lean in to murmur in his ear, not that you have far to go. It’s a matter of tilting your head until you can feel the warmth of his skin against your cheek. “But I’d like riding you even more.” It’s just the kind of cheesy nonsense that you’re both into.

Your body keeps brushing against his– a particularly hard bump has your belly pressed against his erection, and his choked-off gasp scores a direct hit to your brain stem, bypassing your ears, cinching something tight around your diaphragm. His hand tightens on your hip, possessive. Holding you up, keeping your balance.

“You little minx,” he hisses, frustrated--with a ragged edge of delight. “You wait till I get you home.”

“You caint blame that on me, now, that was the train,” you say, but you're close to laughing, yourself. You can hear your accent getting thicker, but damned if you can stop it. Besides, Copia loves it, loves ruffling your feathers enough that he can get you to slide back into that slurring hillfolk drawl. Someday he might even make you less self-conscious about it. 

Truth be told, you’ve been practically vibrating since before you left the apartment, restless and swollen between the legs, a low-grade ache that Copia has not been helpful with.

(The apartment. Your apartment. Yours, plural, now, you think. You’d never been a co-religionist of his, and he’d had a toothbrush at your place for a long time. Then a drawer in your dresser. Then he’d brought over his best frying pan, his best chef knife– simply because he couldn’t stand it, gattina, you cook with that? And now there’s as many of his books as yours on the shelves– shelves you put up with your own hands while he did ‘the heavy lookin’ on.’ His name isn’t on the lease, but he paid the rent for the next two months anyway. In full.

When you tried to fight him on it, he’d just shrugged. “Babydoll, I’ve been here more nights than I haven’t for the last four months, this is just… ehh, consider it backdated, yeah?” He’d kissed your forehead. “We can do half each after that. If you haven’t gotten sick of your dirty old man by then.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Copia kept his room at the Ministry, even after his… promotion. His term as Imperator, he’d decided, would be more hands off. You’d talked about it a little. Mostly in bed, sweaty and spent and a little sticky. “Mister Psaltarian is more than capable of running most of it. The administrative things. I’m better with the ghouls, I think, but there’s Kevin, and Ashley, they have it well in hand. I want the new guy to– to be able to be his own man, yeah? I’ll show him the ropes, of course, answer any questions he has, but he doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder all the damn time.”

The new guy. Hell of a way to refer to his long-lost brother. “And you ain’t ready to be around him twenty-four seven just yet.”

“...And that. Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re too perceptive, gattina. Keep it up and I’ll have to fuck you again, till you don’t think so good.”

“So… you sayin’ you gone fuck my brains out? Say, you ever notice that your man Psaltarian loses his train of thought whenever Kevin comes into the room?”

“That’s it, back in the handcuffs with you. And remember, you brought this on yourself.”)

As ever, he’d insisted on doing your makeup. (It should have been your first clue that you were in for it.) It only makes sense-- he’s better at it than you’ve ever been, and he loves doing it. You love it, too, if you’re honest. He had to take his gloves off for it, to hold your chin firmly and keep you in place. It was terribly intimate, his breath ghosting over your lips, the skin of his hand against your cheek. His quiet, gentle command held something still in the center of you, made it sing like a struck tuning fork– a calm vibration that sank into your bones. The cool brush of the eyeliner on the delicate skin of your eyelids. How meticulous he’d been, how precise. That calm focus he brings to everything that he cares about. How his whole being focused on that point, painting cat eyes sharp enough to kill a man.

Your lipstick had been worse, barely holding your mouth open, the brush sliding over the curve of your cupid’s bow, stretching out your lower lip ever so slightly. You hadn’t even known they’d made brushes for lipstick. Copia has taught you so many things.

Copia knows just what shades of red match your skin tone, knows just how to bring out the color of your eyes. He knows, too, the best cut of a dress to accentuate your figure, to flatter your curves. This one was lovely, shaping your breasts, with a little bit of flare to the skirt. He bought you this dress, these heels. This lingerie. He’s taught you how to fasten a silk stocking to a garter belt, that the underwear goes on over the garters, not underneath.

He’d taken the liberty of fastening your stockings tonight. “So the back seam is straight, gattina. I know it’s tricky to get right on your own, yes? Let me help.” His hands, his clever fingers, so high up on your thighs, his face level with your pussy.

“Oh yeah, sweetness, you're helping something, alright,” you choked out, a little strangled. 

He must have seen how wet you were already, if the self-satisfied hum he made behind you was any indication. He bit the crease of your ass, just lightly, making a goofy little rawr noise that made you actually giggle.

Embarrassing, the noises he gets out of you.

“You shaved,” he said, and it was supremely gratifying to hear him a little hoarse, himself. 

“Did you wanna do that, too?”

“Hnn. We’d miss our reservation.” He wasn't moving from his place on his knees behind you. “Miss the show.”

“Sound like you're enjoying this show purt’ well,” you said, but you thought it best to step into your underwear, anyway. 

Pain shared is pain lessened, isn't it?

…He didn't need to know that you only kept them on for a couple of minutes, just until you used the bathroom one last time on the way out the door.

You almost never know in advance where exactly Copia will take you when it's his turn to plan date night- generally your only clue is what clothing he picks out for you, how he does your makeup, if makeup is required. You've ranged over the city hitting up obscure museums before, taken tours in the underbelly of the public transportation system, gone to aviaries and magic shops and tiny greenhouses.

(You like to think you hold your own. Dive bars and twenty four hour diners, sidewalk art festivals and night markets, one memorable instance of a graffiti lesson– that had been an unexpected delight. 

Your man can be blisteringly uncool sometimes– most of the time, even– but there's no snobbery in him. No fear, either, not in the way most people are afraid: of embarrassing themselves, saying the wrong thing, of looking like a jackass. He hadn't been good at it, but he threw himself into the attempt wholeheartedly, listened to the man in the baggy jeans with the paint-stained fingers explain technique and theory and the history of the medium with total attention and enthusiasm. 

Never will you reach the bottom of him. His openness and his generosity and his good, good heart.)

Dinner and a show is almost a little pedestrian, for him, but there's comfort in the classics. A bar paneled in blond wood and washed in warm light, specializing in rare vinyls piped in on a very serious sound system as much as the cocktails. 

He’d been very good, kept his knee between yours, but otherwise, hadn’t even tried to put a hand up your skirt– a rarity, with him.  His eyes told a different story, watching you with obvious, predatory hunger. The second time you caught him ogling your cleavage he leaned into it, dragging his eyes salaciously down your body with enough force that you nearly felt his gloves snagging on your skin.

The cheeky motherfucker actually licked his lips at you.

You barked out your unlovely laugh, and the way he grinned took the sting out of the sharp glances cast your way– the aim was to listen to the obscure bossa nova, not to your fellow patrons. Your face was hot. “Ah, gattina, you cannot blame a man for looking. Not when you are as ravishing as that.” It wasn’t helping the heat in your face.

A glance at the mirror over the bar, old and pitted and a little smoky, the perfect self-aware touch of authenticity. You’d never have recognized the woman looking back, not when you first met Copia, this exquisite creature with perfect makeup. Sharp. Sexy. 

You don’t hate it.

“...Y’outdid yourself,” you said, slow. You didn’t look real to yourself, this absolute pinnacle of femininity. Copia’s gaze softened, warmed, less the slavering predator and more– a naked adoration that was hard to look at.

(Of course, neither expression was comparable to the first time he’d put you in an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit. You’d thought the man was going to pass out from how quickly his blood rushed south– but that’s a story for another day.)

He crowded your space, just this side of indecent, his knee halfway between your thighs. Copia fed you little morsels from his own fork of– whatever this was. A vaguely mediterranean inspired amuse-bouche. He took his time with it, making you duck your head while the cool tines slid against your lower lip. You kept his eyes for it, moving slow, relishing the way his mouth hung open. 

It’s a little much, in public, truly.

You weren’t even sure what you were eating, something perfectly balanced with rich cream, phyllo dough, an acidic tang. Spanakopita when it’s got a Michelin star or two, you thought. Copia’s little shudder at your groan of appreciation didn’t escape your notice, but you managed to keep the smugness out of your expression with truly heroic effort. 

From there, it was a short taxi ride with his gloved hand heavy on your knee, Copia keeping up a stream of polite chatter that you barely heard a word of. He’d gotten box seats in a lovely little jewel box of a theatre, for a revival of a classic two-man existential tragicomedy starring a couple of aging comedic actors known for their roles in a cultural zeitgeist film from around the turn of the last century.

It was a good effort, all told, and the actors weren’t bad– they had a chemistry borne out of twenty years of friendship that’s impossible to replicate. But Copia proved that he’s a true and faithful servant of the Devil somewhere around the start of the second act, when he peeled a glove off with his teeth.

Your chest went tight.

No wonder he wanted box seats, you thought, as he settled his hand back on your knee. Like it belonged there, like he had perfect possession of it, every right to edge just under the hem of your skirt. 

(His hands-- you love his hands. He’s self-conscious about the hair on the back of them, the dusting of freckles. Large and well-made and skilled, seeing them is like sharing a secret. A gift. He’s squeamish about textures, too sensitive, the slightest scrape will make him shudder-- and not in a fun way. Sandpaper would be torture. Anything gelatinous is right out. You get used to the constant grime and the vague awareness of filth you get on your hands, living in a city. It’s not so bad, for you, you invest in hand sanitizer and don’t touch your face. It’s the price you pay for living in a place with something like a subway, where things pulse and hum and never truly sleep, to be a microbe in the gut of this beast of a city, to be a tiny cog in the great machine.

You love it here. You didn’t think you would. Hell, you didn’t think you could. “It’s growing on me,” you told Copia one day, cool as you like, as if you weren’t giving anything away. “A little.”

“You have no talent for bullshit, babydoll,” he said, both dry and terribly fond.)

All of your awareness focused on the soft warmth of him enveloping your knee, the rough scrape of his calluses on the inside of your thigh– a new sensation, he’s taken the acoustic guitar back up recently. Not moving, just–holding. 

You kept your eyes forward, and your breathing even.

His thumb slid over your kneecap, absentmindedly tracing little circles. Your legs fell open a little wider, just so your thighs weren’t touching. You were terribly, achingly aware of the air on your cunt.

A soft stroke back and forth, a gesture that could have been reflexive, thoughtless– if it wasn’t for the beatific expression on his face, his eyes forward and too-innocent. It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been inching his slow way upwards, featherlight touches, tracing up and back down, up and back down. Just a millimeter higher each time. An agonizingly slow drag, a glacial pace.

Your grip tightened on the armrest. 

Copia leaned forward, his breath in your ear. “Why, gattina,” he purred. “I do not think you are even paying attention to the play.”

“You are,” you managed, “a real sunnavbitch, you know it?”

He only chuckled low, and ran his touch to the top of your thigh. The side of his hand brushed up against your wet cunt and you both gasped.

“You little slut,” he hissed, with obvious pride. “So eager for me already.”

He dragged the very tip of one finger up between your lips, so slick it was almost frictionless, pulling away just before he could touch your clit. You took a ragged breath that was nearly a whine, bereft at the loss of his touch. You felt your cunt clench over nothing, an involuntary contraction. 

Copia hummed in mock-sympathy, and took mercy on you, cupping your whole cunt with his broad hand, steady and even pressure that was nowhere near enough, but at least took a little of the edge off. 

His middle finger slid naturally between your labia majora, and settled there, his fingertip crooked so he could just barely feel the inside of you.

The bastard stayed that way for the rest of the performance, sometimes giving you a gentle squeeze, sometimes pulling away to slide his fingertip back up to circle your clit. Just often enough to keep your attention focused where he wanted.

Evil, evil man.

Copia retracted his hand before the lights went up, giving you one final squeeze. He kept your eyes as he brought his hand up to his face, inhaled deeply, and surreptitiously licked his palm before fitting his hand back into his glove for the applause.

“Play weren’t that bad,” you said, weakly. “No call to do- alla that.”

“Oh? Didn’t you tell me you had a crush on the– which was it, the one with the dark hair– as a little girl? You want to wait around, go to the stage door, get an autograph?” All innocence, all the accommodating boyfriend.

“I revise my previous opinion. You are the Lebron James of being a sunnavabitch.” Despite your discomfort in heels, you couldn’t drag him to the train home fast enough.

So now, here you are. You shiver a little, in this hot and humid subway car, remembering. You bite your lip and can taste the wax of your lipstick.

Copia sees it, of course he does, how your eyes go just a little glazed. He smirks a terribly self-satisfied smirk. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, this’d cost you at least a dollar. Maybe five nintey-nine.”

“Inflation is just outrageous these days. Highway robbery. I’m shocked.”

“Not yet, you aren’t.”

“You are talking a big game, babydoll. Be careful, I think, ehh-- your mouth is writing checks your ass can’t cash.” His hand heavy on your hip, almost indecent. His boot between your shoes, the sweet curve of his thigh displacing your skirt. He’s so close, so warm and solid. The train is packed, but he’s all you can see, all you can feel. His breath in your ear, pitched low. “Your pussy can’t cash.”

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from grinding on his thigh in the middle of the train. “Sweetness,” you croak out. “We’re in public.”

He leans back, conciliatory. Terribly smug. The world fades back in. You catch a teenager in a hoodie smirking at the two of you, a direct and uncomfortable gaze that feels more taboo in this city than even the way your hips keep shifting, restless. You feel almost drunk, stepping into the warmth of his body and his hard cock between your hip and your belly, a little vindictive, relishing his frustrated little grunt in your ear. 

“Two more stops, gattina,” he murmurs, as much for his benefit as yours. You see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “We can make it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you manage. 

He drags you roughly by your elbow off the train, in a way that has your fellow passengers actually making a faint murmur of disapproval at the way he growls. He might be leaving a bruise on your arm. Can’t be helped. You’re laughing up the stairs, your heels loud on the concrete and metal, giddy, just this side of hysterical. 

He’s clumsy with the keys when you get to your apartment building, following you up the stairs so he can look up your skirt. “Can’t believe– I watched you put those on.” 

“You just mad you didn’t get to watch me take ‘em off.”

He’s on your neck like a lamprey when you get to your door, and now it’s your turn to be clumsy while you paw through your purse, his hot wet mouth insistent, just under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. His hands firm on your breasts, pushing the neckline of your dress down so he can fill his hands with them, gripping almost hard enough to hurt. He’s trapping you against the door, grinding into your ass while you fumble with the lock.

“What’re you– you tryna fuck me in the hallway?” you gasp. He’s reaching up your skirt now, his bare palm at the top of your stocking. When did he take his gloves off?

“I will,” he growls, “if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

You somehow make it in the door without breaking the key off in the lock, and you give him just enough time to slide the bolt home before you’re shoving him onto the couch. You’re in his lap just as quick, your mouth on his, nearly biting him as he laughs into your mouth. Christ, you didn’t even get out of your heels. 

He’s warm under you, solid muscle under a sweet softness around the middle, and you can’t unbutton his shirt fast enough. His tongue in your mouth is making you clumsy, making it hard to keep track of how buttons work, shorting out basic motor functions. When you make it, you groan at his fur under your palms, and then he shoves his thigh between your legs and you whine when you grind your wet cunt against it. You have to break off from his mouth for it, clinging to his shoulders.

Your lipstick is all over Copia’s face. He’s grinning, rapt, delighted, impossibly fond. The man’s face is so pink it looks like he’s been slapped around. “Good, eh?” He pushes his thigh forward again, his hand up your dress and on your ass. “You like that?” He’s pulling you into it, making you drag your cunt over his tight jeans. The seam running down the front of his thigh hits your clit and you gasp. “So fucking desperate you need to hump my leg, filthy little thing.”

You roll against him once or twice more, because he’s right, it feels so good, those long runner’s thighs, the coiled power of him. That hard muscle and rough fabric against you, his body between your knees, so warm and familiar and beloved.

But his smirk is just a little too smug for your taste, so you have to make yourself stop before you fall too deep into a rhythm. Even if you actually hurt with being so turned on for so long. You get his shirt the rest of the way open, have to bend your head to suck a nipple into your mouth– the terrible brand over his heart level with your eyes– and bite. It’s not hard, but it does raise his back off the couch, and distract him from you eeling down between his legs to kneel on the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at you, knowing (some of) what you have in mind.

Your hand is on his belt buckle, and the sheer Pavlovian reaction you have to the sound of undoing it with one hand forces you to press your cheek to his thigh and focus on your breathing for a moment.

You laugh, shaky. You left an actual wet spot on his jeans.

Copia’s hand is in your hair, fingernails running along your scalp, soothing, grounding you. “Baby?” he asks. “Babydoll, are you alright? We don’t have to–”

“No.” You catch your breath, look back up at him, and his mismatched eyes go from soft and sweet to almost afraid, when he sees your expression. The hunger there– you could eat him alive. “No, I was just– too turned on, for a second.”

“Oh.” He pets at you again, then his smile turns predatory as he sweeps your hair up in one hand and pulls tight. “Then why don’t you get to sucking my cock, puttana?” 

Just for that, you lean up and bite at his belly, the sweet furry softness just below his navel. You laugh with a mouthful of his flesh at his yelp, how it turns into a groan as you unzip his jeans and take him in hand. 

It isn’t as if you aren’t intimately (haha) familiar with his dick, but it’s always nice to see. You’d called it pretty, the first time you’d slept with him, and it really is an accurate description. (It had been emotional for a great many reasons, but that had touched him in ways he still couldn’t articulate.) Silky soft skin over the hard length of him, his head already shiny with precum. It’s the same color as his lips, under the paint.

“You see what you do to me, gattina?” he murmurs above you. “You wreck me. You’ve ruined me– or at least these pants.”

“It’ll come out in the wash,” you say, and take him into your mouth, slow suction, tasting salt. He fills your mouth, fills your hand, blood-warm and firm in your grip. You watch his eyes when you start to suck him down, loving, as you always do, how in that first moment he looks at you, whimpers at you, like you're breaking his heart. 

You hear the dry click of him swallowing as you pull the soft skin of his cock further towards your mouth, your grip twisting, the slow churn of it. How his veins give under your lips, under your hand. It doesn’t take long to get him slick, the thick ridge of the underside of him heavy on your tongue. The musk of him fills your whole senses, thick and animal and a little gross.

His hips shift, and before you have to pull yourself off of him to tell him to talk, he’s doing what you want. “Look at you,” he breathes, reverent. “You’re so good at this, fucking made for this,” a twitch upwards, a movement too small to be called a thrust, “aren’t you? Born for this, your god made you to suck my cock. My perfect– ohh– perfect little cocksucker. Want it so bad, don’t you?”

His hand is heavy on the back of your skull, pushing you down with that even, steady pressure just how he likes. How you both like. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it to you, give you what you want.” He’s not choking you with it, you have plenty of room to work with your hand. Still, as you take him down further, swallowing around the thick length of him, you feel hot tears running down your cheeks, sheer dumb animal reaction. You slip your other hand to cradle his slick balls, rolling them gently, the weight of them a little cooler than the rest of his body. He makes a strangled noise, an “Ohh fuck, baby, babydoll, so good for me, so good to me, fuck, fuck–!” 

His stutter and his loss of control are just too much, finally, you feel the air of the apartment cool at the top of your slick thighs, your swollen cunt, and you have to do something about it. You take your hand from his balls and slide it up your skirt, slowly enough to feel your silk stockings under your fingertips, slow enough that Copia catches it.

Just as you register how fucking wet you are, his eyes go wide and his hips shudder, the smooth hot head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. 

Your grip tightens on the base of his cock, a warning. You freeze, staring blank and unseeing at his soft belly, before looking up at him imploringly. “Okay,” he says, gentling you like a frightened horse. His big hand moving in your hair. “Okay. But baby,” he's nearly whining as you slowly suckle on the head of him, faint living salt in your mouth, “I know you want it, you’re too fucking good at that to not want it, I. Ohhh.” His hand grips tight in your hair as you swallow around him, thick and hot on your tongue. “Oh, fuck.”

You’re finding your pace on his cock again, a little faster, your hands working in time on his cock, on your clit. Freshly shaved like this, you’re fantastically, impossibly slippery. “Ohh, fuck. Oh, sweet Satan. Oh my dear Lord Below.” Copia absolutely doesn’t know what he’s saying, he so rarely gets outright religious on you. It’s an unspoken courtesy you’ve extended to each other, so to hear him break it sends a smug little charge through you. You whimper a little around his cock, give yourself a little more pressure on your clit. He can’t keep still, not all the way, even though you know he’s trying, making little aborted movements of his hips.

Copia swallows. It’s remarkable how you can see him trying to pull himself together. “Knew you loved this,” he says, his voice creaking. “Can’t be that good at something if you don’t love it. Didn’t know you loved it this much, gattina.” A little more pressure on the back of your skull, his nails scraping your scalp. He isn’t exactly holding you down, but he isn’t letting you pull off, either. “Never had my cock sucked this good, never even had a man suck my cock this good, thought I liked that better, before you came along. Had so many people suck this cock–” and that hurts, a hot bolt of pain and arousal that hits your heart and your clit at the same time. Your pace falters, and it must show, because Copia slows as well.

It’s a sore spot. You know that his own inverted form of celibacy in the Ministry included a certain implied… availability that could be, charitably, unpleasant for him at times. Clergy take no wives, no husbands, but give themselves freely to their congregation. You haven’t pushed him on the things that happened to him, he usually insists it was fine, expected, normal– but you generally have to go for a long walk and break something after you talk about it. You know, too, that he had positive experiences there, genuinely caring relationships. It doesn’t exactly help matters that your own knowledge of partnered sex, before Copia, falls radically short of the mean for someone in your age group.

All of that goes through your head in a flash, and he knows it, he can read you so well, even between one stroke of his cock and the next. “Only– didn’t know you’d have a natural talent at this.” Petting at you, soothing, his thumb moving tender on your cheekbone. “Remember, how I had to teach you how to kiss, those hours in the park.” You make a noise on him, not sure if this is helping. “Loved that, babydoll, loved doing that with you, teaching you, drove me wild.” He’s murmuring low to you, his voice a little rough, a little too exposed. “But I– I was ready for you to bite it off, the first time you went down.” 

Awkward thing, laughing with a mouth full of dick. But he keeps going. “I didn’t know, my baby. I didn’t know how it could feel. Didn’t know how good it could be.” He twitches in your mouth, in time with a tiny movement of his hips, so warm and alive in you. “Taught you how to kiss, but babylove, I swear I felt like a virgin when you took me to bed.” His voice is low and wrecked for different reasons than it was before, and oh no, his eyes are wet.

You let go of him, turn your head to wipe your mouth on your shoulder, quick and perfunctory. You can't take your eyes from him. "Sug," you say, unsure how to continue, the twisting in your chest too much for words, beyond anything you could articulate with language. Your knees creak a little as you start to get up, to do what you don't know. Kiss him or touch him or say something, anything, to the way he's looking at you. 

Copia pushes you back down, his hand heavy at the back of your neck. His thumb slots right at the base of your skull, right where he likes to keep it when he kisses you. “No, no, you’re too good at this, I wouldn’t interrupt an artist.” Back in some semblance of control. “You’re too good, you make me feel too good, show me. Will you--? Please, baby, will you show me how it can be good--?"

"Well," you say, pumping slow at his cock. "I can try." You press a tiny kiss to the head of him, too sweet for the situation, relishing the way he shivers. You take him in, how his hair is a disaster, sticking up in the back, his shirt open, your makeup smeared all over his face, his body, the parts of his thighs that you can reach. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes a little glazed, his lips swollen from the way you kissed them and the way he's bitten them. He's wrecked, and he's yours. 

You love him. With all your heart, all your mind, and, you're afraid, all your soul. It hurts to look at him, you think he might sear your eyes right out of your skull. 

You close your eyes against it, at how it stings, and nuzzle into the silky skin of his cock. Copia's belly is soft, warm, furred, delightfully sticky under your touch, as you run your hand up the front of him, up until you're cupping the sweet curve of his pectoral, until you can feel the cruel scar of his branding under the pads of your fingers. You trace over it, mapping the vector of those interlocking sixes. You feel his pulse under your palm, under your lips. You drag your mouth back and forth, just to feel the soft, delicately crenelated skin, the coolness of his flesh here soothing your feverishness. 

Copia makes a tiny wounded noise as his hand presses over yours. As if he could press his heart into your hand. He’s better at language than you’ve ever been, but you can see it falter and fail for him. All you know how to do is– action. It feels inadequate, somehow.

Your dear man. He sees you, and raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles in a courtly gesture. It should be absurd, with you on your knees for him, with the delicate skin of his cock against your mouth. Somehow, it isn’t, the alchemy of his tenderness conveying exactly what he means. What you mean, with the most vulnerable part of him between your teeth. “D’you want me to take you to bed, babydoll?”

“No,” you say, pulling off of him long enough to murmur it against his slick head. “Later, maybe. If you’re up to it. Right now, I want–” It’s easier to wrap your lips around him again, to tell him that way. You’re more eloquent with your mouth this way than you ever were with language.

“Alright,” he says, almost a gasp, as he returns your hand to you. “Touch yourself for me?” Almost pleading. As if your pleasure were a favor to bestow on him. “I want– wanna see you get off, my baby, wanna see how much you love doing this. So fucking hot–” His voice breaks off into a whine as you pull him further into your mouth. 

His big hand on your head, stroking your hair back, so sweetly. “Do you want me to be a little mean? I know you like that.” 

You moan around his cock in an unmistakable affirmative, rut a little harder into your hand, plead with your eyes. 

Copia’s smile turns sharp, wicked. “My perfect little cocksucker.” The deep affection in his voice belies the words. “Perfect little cumslut.” Your hand is already back between your legs, and you might– might– be moving your hips a little more theatrically than strictly necessary. 

He holds the back of your neck, the base of your skull, his grip tight. Just this side of painful. “You know how to tap out. How to get me to stop.” He pushes you down on him as he tilts his hips up to you, not quite cutting off your air. “But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” 

Copia licks his lips. He looks feverish, making shallow little thrusts into your mouth. “No, you. Ohh, you like this too much.” He’s so careful, even like this, testing just how hard he can thrust, finding your limit and pushing just past it before backing down. It makes you moan, makes you shiver, makes your hand speed up on your cunt in time with the way he’s pushing into your throat.

“Cruel to me,” he croons, as he uses your mouth. “Keeping that sweet little pussy from me.” He’s panting. “I can hear it, hear how wet you are.” As he says it, you realize you can, too, the wet noise in counterpoint to the sound of you working his cock. “M’gonna make you pay for it. Hope you’re ready, gonna eat you out till m’hard again.” He’s got both hands on your head now, and he’s too far into you for you to use your hand on him.

“You’ll. Hnn. You’ll need me to, to eat you out. Make you cum on my face.” If it weren’t for the sheer adoration in his eyes, this would be brutal, the way he’s pushing into your throat. The speed of your hand on your clit. Moving with him, point and counterpoint. “Fuck, I’m gonna wreck it, gonna split your pretty little cunt open– I’ll last longer, after I cum down your throat.” You whine around his cock, your cunt clenching on nothing, shivering against your hand.

Copia sounds like he’s in pain. It feels like he can’t stop himself, the way his hips are working. “Gattina,” he whines, helplessly. “Can’t– can’t last much longer, you looking at me like that.” You can feel him trembling under your touch. “D’you. You want it?” Movements a little more shallow, holding himself in check. “You want this cum in your mouth?” A rough, jagged thrust. “Little slut–!” he hisses, and he’s not quite too far gone to grin in smug delight at the way you moan in reaction. 

“Gonna cum like this?” he croons, taunting. His white eye bores into you, too bright, and he looks crazed. Deranged. It’s almost frightening, the way you can’t look away from it. Your eyes burn, hot tears on your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop rubbing your cunt if you tried. The way he’s watching you, the way he sees just how turned on you are by him using you like this. Like it’s shameful. “From me fucking your slut mouth like a little cocksleeve.” His voice is creaking, nearly out of control. “You want this cum? You want it? Hmm?”

You’re hanging on by a thread, your nerves strung out like piano wire, helpless before him. Your jaw hurts, his hand so tight in your hair. “Then take it.” He’s beckoning you over the edge, chanting, rapt. “Take it, take my cum, take my fucking cum–” he rasps, knowing exactly what will set you off, will snap the bright line of you.

You see his smile as you break, whining around his cock. How he lights up at it, overjoyed, crooked and tender. You hold his eyes the whole time, giving him as much of it as you can, letting him see all of it, the shining abyssal affection that crashes through your body for him, catching your nerve endings like fire through tinfoil. 

“Ohh–! Precious,” he says, almost crying, “my precious girl, my baby, my–” his voice breaks on your name, the syllables like a song, like a prayer, like something more than holy, like the shahada, like the shema, like it's the last thing that he knows. You never knew your name until he held it in his mouth like this, at the uttermost end of himself. He’s flooding over your tongue, slick and bitter. Like the first jet from the fountain in school, sun-warmed metal, iron from the earth, living water. 

His cock jumps in your mouth, and you’re shaking, trembling through your aftershocks and his as you swallow all of him, pull all of him into you, watching his eyes and his blissed out expression until his voice does– something wrecked. “You–!” he gasps, delighted. “C’mere, come up here, you’re too– too far away–” he’s pulling at you, babbling, delirious, so soft now. 

Copia’s pulling you up, into his arms, his lap, too quick for you to wipe his cum and your spit from your mouth. “Dunno if I like it, you that far away, wanna feel your pretty little body when you cum, you–” And then he’s kissing on you, shivering, laughing, little pecks along your jawline till he reaches your mouth. He makes a deep, appreciative groan when he tastes himself on your lips. He pulls back to look at you, almost scandalized in delight. 

You have to laugh at him. For once you can’t be bothered to be self-conscious about it. “Oh, I do like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before he dives back in, like he has to get all of it. You’re still shaky, a fine shiver all down your spine. He’s almost clumsy, licking into your mouth, a real rarity for him. You try not to feel too smug about it.

You can’t stop smiling, when you finally get your mouth back. “Acceptable, then?”

“So good. Every time, I can’t believe–” he’s nuzzling at you, his nose against yours, totally uninhibited in his affection. “So perfect, so sweet, love you so much, thank you, thank you, baby–” Nonsense babble. Incoherently effusive. He scoops your legs across his lap and runs his hands over all of your skin that he can reach. “Perfetta…sei perfetta. Angioletto,” he murmurs, and you shiver. You haven’t heard that one in a while. “Angioletto mio,” he’s saying, into your hair, your skin, and it’s rare that you blow him all the way back to Italian. “Sei tutto ciò che voglio del Paradiso.” You’re a little too fucked-out to parse that all the way, but it still snags in your heart a little.

(He knows, usually, how you still aren’t used to being loved on this much. You know he restrains himself, tries not to overwhelm you. It breaks your heart, sometimes, when you see him hold himself back, even as his consideration makes you warm.) 

Now, though, it’s good. It’s perfect. His pants are half off, his dick out, ridiculous. You think you might have snapped a garter, and you definitely put ladders in these stockings. You couldn’t give less of a shit. You loop your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in his neck, letting out a deep, contented sigh.

Copia’s still petting you– appropriate enough. You feel like a cat in a sunbeam, even supremely disheveled like this.

He squeezes you lightly, again, and makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “The, enh– the talking. It wasn’t too much?” Like he’s shy, all of a sudden.

“Noo!” You have to pull back to look up at him. “No, holy shit, sweetness, it was inspired. Even for you! Hot damn, baby. ‘Cocksleeve,’ where did that come from?” 

“Ehh– a couple of times, there, I’m, ah. Not even sure I remember what I was saying.” Is he blushing? It’s adorable.

“No, it was great. I’d tell you if it weren’t, honeybunch.” You lean your head back against him, boneless and warm all the way through. “Naw, this was awesome. Ten outta ten, go Team Us.” You hold up your hand for a high-five, and your sweet man, he’ll never leave you hanging– the slap rings loud through your living room. 

He tilts his head back onto the couch, looking up at the Devil’s Ivy crawling over your bookshelves. “Although,” he says, slow, considering. “I do seem to recall that I promised you I was gonna make you cum on my face.”

“And split my pussy open,” you remind him. “Or was you writing checks your dick can’t cash?”

“Babydoll, don’t you know by now?” He’s turning back to look at you, his mismatched eyes full of predatory adulation. “The Devil always keeps his promises.”

[quibbs126]

So I’ve been making this

So basically last night, I was listening to some music, specifically Not Gonna Die by Skillet, more specifically a version on YouTube with the intro (because I’m not the biggest fan of Good to be Alive where the intro actually is). Anyways, when it’s night, my imagination tends to be more active and I tend to have more energy. While listening to the song, I eventually got this mental image in my mind of this scene with Dark Choco, and the more it crystallized the more I wanted to draw it. I was going to go to sleep and maybe do it in the morning, but I realized that I probably would forget the vibe and not have as much energy, so instead I decided to power through and draw the idea

It was a bit difficult since I had limited references for the pose I wanted, and I suppose I can admit the sword looks a bit off anatomically, but it looks good enough I think, and lets me keep the eyes revealed

I did eventually have to stop drawing, because my iPad had been worked all the way down to 4% (and it was at 30% when I started, the poor thing), not to mention it was around 11:30 already which is pretty late for me, and my earbuds had been running nonstop for over 2 hours (yes I was listening to the same song, it’s how I keep the vibe). I was at least able to get the pose, base colors and lineart done, and I’m still pretty proud of where I left things last night

Today was mostly just doing the background and lighting, which admittedly I may have fumbled. I’m not very good at backgrounds and I didn’t know how to draw lightning. I tried my best, but honestly I don’t think I got the image in my head. Didn’t help that my brain was playing the wrong Skillet song this morning

Oh yeah and by the way, the background is supposed to be from this. That’s what I used as reference

The lightning both feels like too much and too little. Like, it’s crowding the picture, and I can’t have more because it’d be way too crowded with it, but also at the same time, it doesn’t feel like enough, like there isn’t as much power as I wanted

Actually wait, maybe I can add some small particle effects to like, enhance the lightning feel. That was in the original sketch but I omitted it in the final. If you see one with that, you know I did that

Edit: I did indeed do that

To be fair though, I don’t think I have the art skill to properly convey the image in my head. Basically the scene is that Dark Choco is using absolutely every amount of his power for this final swing down, so much that it’s too powerful and the Strawberry Jam Sword completely shatters. But also it’s too powerful that Dark Choco’s body simply can’t handle it, and he basically ends up exploding. The scene depicted would be the wind up to that final swing that destroys the both of them

This isn’t necessarily the first time I’ve come up with this scenario, and the setup would basically be that he turned on the Cookies of Darkness slightly earlier, because he didn’t want to destroy his homeland again, and he tried to get rid of them while in the kingdom but not yet at the Citadel, but he ended up failing, so with nothing to lose, he chases after them and decides to put everything into destroying them, even if it likely ends in his death. After this he probably killed Pomegranate and crippled Licorice in some way (I don’t think he’d attack Poison Mushroom), so his final act did have some effect, but he’s still dead by the end of it. And he and his father never got the chance to properly reconcile because Dark Choco thought that could never be a possibility anymore and he had resigned himself to his fate

But yeah, I just don’t know how to convey that sheer overwhelming power and emotion that this scenario suggests. I tried my best though

I also want to submit this to the Dark Cacao Forever contest, but I’m not sure if it’s good enough for it. What do you think?

[morelikeravenbore]

Can I Make It Any More Obvious? Part two.

He Was A Punk, She Did Ballet...

I do not know why I've included so many bloody Shakespearean references into this crackfic about a sk8er boi wizard, but since I'm writing this by the seat of my pants with absolutely no plan or outline, I'ma let my subconscious cook. Also, I'm hesitant to call this a "crack fic” any more. Let's call it tender crack. A crack fic with feelings.

Content: MEET CUTE MODERN AU. 🛹 Mentions of “magical drug use” (the recreational smoking of mallowsweet*), mentions of alcoholism, swearing.

*not my original idea. I've read this idea in a few fics before and think it's genius so credit to whoever wrote it before me!

Word count: 3.2k~

👉 PART ONE HERE.

[read on wattpad]

Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop, previously known as Steeply & Sons, was a garish, pastel-pink nightmare that took prominence in the village square like an overdone sponge cake at a corporate buffet.

The preferred meeting place for first dates, romantic rendezvous and anyone looking to indulge in tiny, outrageously overpriced cakes, Sebastian had been inside only once in his life and didn't wish to repeat the ordeal again: lace doilies, frosted cupcakes and sickeningly sweet tea was not his idea of a good time.

‘In a village brimming with interesting places,’ he grumbled, keeping in step with the little redhead beside him, ‘he invites you to Puddifoot's?’

Having naturally charmed Mr Brown into giving her a special discount on every book in the shop ("...a munificent diminution for the fair danseuse!”), a request to return any time day or night (“Antemeridiem, noonstead, or crepusculum!”), and an invitation to join the village book club (“...whereupon we postulate and divagate into scintillating literary excursuses!”), they'd left Tomes and Scrolls only after Sebastian, growing irritated by not having her full attention, had ushered her out the door and into the bustling street beyond.

Was he jealous of his middle-aged, married landlord simply for speaking to her?

… Yes.

‘What's wrong with Puddifoot's?’ she asked, sparing him no glance as she weaved through the main street.

Across the village square, the tea shop's frosted icing-sugar windows winked merrily at them under the midday sun.

Sebastian pulled a face.

‘Their cakes are small!’

‘Their cakes are small?’

‘Offensively so! And as far as first dates go, it's the most predictable, uninspired place he could have chosen! Puddifoot's, really?’ he scoffed. ‘Ominis might as well have admitted he hated you and been done with it.’

She stifled a laugh behind her hand. ‘Those are some wild aspersions,’ she said delicately. ‘Where do you prefer to take your dates in Hogsmeade, then, if you're such an expert?’

He bit his tongue before he could blurt out the words ‘Shrieking Shack’ — not that he ever took dates there; mostly he went there to smoke mallowsweet by himself and wallow in self-pity. Even so, it'd still be a better choice than squeezing into a lumpy, overstuffed loveseat while fairies dumped confetti over his head and people he wished never to see snogging snogged with unbridled relish and vigour.

‘I would take you somewhere fun,’ he scowled. ‘Like —’

‘Like a wedding altar?’

Sebastian flushed. ‘No —!’

‘Oh, oh! L'hôpital?’ She turned to him with a surprisingly impish grin for someone so renownedly elegant.

Something funny wiggled in Sebastian's chest.

‘Trust me, you don't want to date Ominis — he's a pompous rich boy with a stick up his arse!’

‘I thought he was your best friend?’

‘He is! That's how I know he's a pompous rich boy with a stick up his arse! Look —’

Running a hand through his tangled hair, he pulled her aside to a shady spot beneath an old, gnarled oak and tried not to loom over her: at almost twenty-one years old, Sebastian had started growing early in life and hadn't yet stopped.

Fuck, why was he so bloody gigantic.

‘You won't like him,’ he said, hunching awkwardly. ‘He won't make you laugh, or take you anywhere fun, or —’

‘Propose marriage while bleeding from the head?’

A nearby merchant — a humpbacked witch with one eye and somehow too many teeth — let out an amused cackle, but Sebastian was too distracted by the strange little wiggle in his chest to tell her to sod the fuck off.

Brilliant. As if a head wound wasn't bad enough, now he was having heart palpitations as well? Had he overdone it with the Shakespearean theatrics and inadvertently brought upon his own tragic, untimely death? Was he to die at her feet as Romeo for Juliet — only via self-inflicted concussion over a quick-acting poison?

Fuck it — if today was the day that he died, he'd at least try for a first (or last?) date. As a wise man once sang: Do you like my stupid hair? Would you guess that I didn't know what to wear?

‘Don't go on a date with Ominis,’ he said, swooping his stupid hair out of his face. ‘Go on a date with me.'

She blinked at him. ‘What, now?’

Let's go, don't wait, this night's almost over.

‘Why not?’

‘Mmm… Because I already have a date?’ She shrugged past him, but he only lumbered after her like the big, brainless troll he was.

‘Wait —!’ He held up his palms. ‘Look, I know you get some blood-soaked guy coming up to you on the street, you don't know me — but I know me, and I promise I'm —’

‘A dirty, rotten, sneaky little rat!’

Sebastian whipped around.

‘Ominis!’ he squeaked.

In all his years of dragging his best friend into detentions, secret underground lairs, and Muggle mosh pits against his will, the sight of Ominis’ sightless eyes boring into his with all the fury of his Slytherin lineage never failed to strike fear into Sebastian's heart.

It also, simultaneously, never failed to amuse him.

He didn't hesitate. With an absurdly high-pitched giggle and not a single logical thought in his addled brain, he grabbed Aurélie by the hand and took off running.

Board in one hand, girl in the other, he pelted through the village, twisting and turning through back alleys and narrow openings, scaring children and the elderly alike as he barrelled past them, cackling hysterically.

Suddenly, he was fifteen again, facing off with Peeves after being caught on another midnight jaunt through the Restricted Section; challenging an unsuspecting victim to an unsanctioned duel simply because he was bored; running from the prefects when he was inevitably caught nosegrinding down the Grand Staircase at two in the morning.

He hadn't felt this alive in years!

Beside him, the ballerina kept pace easily, pivoting round corners and leaping over obstacles with all the grace and finesse befitting her profession. As they dashed across someone's backyard, whipping through rows of freshly hung laundry, Sebastian caught the edge of a smile on her face before a pair of granny knickers slapped him across the cheek.

The wiggly thing in his chest giggled and kicked its feet aaaaall the way to the outskirts of the village, where a low stone wall at the end of an alleyway ended their daring escape. Beyond it, rugged and heather-brushed, lay freedom.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

‘Over?’ he suggested with a hopeful waggle of his brows.

‘Well, I can hardly go back now,’ she returned with a wry shrug.

Grinning, Sebastian piffed his board over the wall and then turned to offer his little companion a helping hand. But to his surprise, she was already up, balancing atop the precariously narrow wall in a position he vaguely recognised as something ballet-shaped.

He gawked for a moment, unashamedly admiring the entire length of her legs, from ankles to knees, from knees to thighs, from thighs to butt.

‘Careful,’ he warned, scrambling up after her. A steep decline on the other side of the wall made him nervous. His hands hovered close, ready to catch her should she lose her balance, but she only peeked at him sideways with a smug expression, footsure and composed.

Cute.

‘This is the fifth position,’ she explained, framing her arms above her head. ‘It is the pinnacle of ballet's basic stances.’

‘The fifth position, huh?’ he said with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. ‘Skipping ahead a few bases, I see.’

She ignored him.

‘It may look simple,’ she sniffed, turning her face to the sun, ‘but it takes years of training to reach complete security.’

‘Okay, show off,’ he snorted, climbing gracelessly down the other side of the wall. ‘Nothing about twisting your feet backwards like that looks simple to me.’

Safe now from the wrath of angry best friends and verbose shopkeepers, they picked their way carefully down to the banks of a shallow stream. A copse of willows drew them into a clearing, a dappled green reprieve from the midday sun. Sebastian couldn't remember ever coming across a spot as beautiful as this — but perhaps the company made it so.

In the middle of the clearing, she turned and caught him gawking.

‘Come here,’ she said. ‘I want to take a look at your head.’

Sebastian gulped. ‘My — my head?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh la la, the bump on your forehead!’

‘Oh.’ He'd almost forgotten. ‘My head’s fine,’ he lied, but she looked at him so sternly that he shut up and bent his stupid head for her inspection.

Please don't look at me with those eyes, please don't hint that you're capable of lies.

Gently, she pressed her fingers to the bump above his eyebrow.

‘Does this hurt?’

‘No,’ he winced, his voice rough. And then, ‘...Maybe a bit.’

‘Thought so.’

Her fingers left his face but returned a moment later holding a little jar of funny-smelling ointment.

Sebastian held still.

‘Hold still,’ she said.

Sebastian held more still.

With a touch that gave him full-body tingles, she pushed his hair back and dabbed a little ointment over the cut.

‘That stinks…’ was the best thing he could think to say.

‘It's Essence of Dittany,’ she explained. ‘I use it on my feet after a long day of dancing.’

He pulled a face. ‘You're putting foot cream on my face?’

‘It's Essence of Dittany!’

‘Yeah, for your feet!’

‘Oh, mon dieu.' She rolled her eyes. 'How old are you?’

Sebastian cracked a grin. ‘I'm surprised I didn't tell you that already.’

‘If you did,’ she began, tucking the jar back into her pocket, ‘I wouldn't forget it the way someone forgot my name two times. — Now…’ Without warning, she reached up and cupped his face between her soft little hands.

Sebastian's knees almost gave out.

‘Look at me,’ she said, and he looked, and looked, and looked, and thought he might not look away ever again.

‘Are you dizzy?’ she enquired, her face so close he could feel her breath.

Yes.

‘No.’

‘Dazed?’

Very.

‘No.’

‘Faint?’

Only when you touch me.

‘I'm fine,’ he murmured, but the tremor in his voice said otherwise, and his racing heart racing said otherwise, and the way his gaze kept dropping to her lips definitely definitely said otherwise.

I dread the thought of our very first kiss, a target that I'm probably gonna miss.

‘Okay,’ she said after a good long frown at his face. ‘But if you feel like you're going to fall…’

Sebastian almost told her he already had.

Thankfully, a sudden rustling in the greenery diverted him from embarrassing himself further, and from out of the treeline came another unexpected redhead (this one considerably less pleasing to look at than the one whose hands had just been on his face.)

‘Weasley?’

Garreth Weasley gave a start. ‘Sallow? What are you doing here?’

A fellow Hogwarts graduate and self-proclaimed “potion prodigy”, Garreth supplemented his apprenticeship wages at Pippin's Potions by selling his own “special blend” of mallowsweet on the side (unbeknownst to Pippin, of course, who, like most of the older generation of Hogsmeadians, vehemently decried the “grave misuse” of an otherwise unremarkable magical herb.)

Sebastian suppressed a groan: his mallowsweet dealer was the last person he wanted to see right now — especially when said dealer had an annoying habit of trying to steal his girlfriends.

Unsurprisingly, Garreth's eyes lit up at the sight of the pretty girl before him.

‘Hey, Aurélie!' said he. 'Nice to see you again.’

‘Again?’ Sebastian's mouth fell open. ‘You know Garreth bloody Weasely as well?’

‘Oui. We met just yesterday at your potion shop… Uhh, Peepins?’

‘Pippin's,’ Garreth corrected, his expression so jovial that Sebastian wanted to punch it right off his stupid freckled face. ‘I helped her pick out the best Valerian sprigs for her —’

‘— For my fudge!’ she cut in. ‘Oui, fudge. I'm making some. Fudge, that is. For — erm... Eating… Because it's, um… Nice? I think.’

Sebastian eyed her suspiciously. Why was she so nervous about fudge?

‘Right,’ he said, turning back to Garreth. ‘Anyway, did you want something, Weasley? Because we're in the middle of a date right now, if you can't tell.’

‘A date?’ spluttered the girl he most definitely was not on a date with.

‘A date?’ echoed Garreth, who looked slightly put out by the news. ‘Why aren't you at Puddifoot's, then?’

‘Oh, for fucks—’ Sebastian threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘There are other places besides Puddifoot's to go on dates, you know!’ he exclaimed. ‘All that mallowsweet's annihilated your imagination!’

Garreth's expression brightened. ‘Oh, speaking of —’ he said, procuring a small brown package from his pocket. ‘Got a new strain I'm looking to test out. Figured you'd be the perfect candidate.’

He tossed the package at Sebastian's chest: all three of them watched as it bounced off and hit the ground. Nobody moved to pick it up.

‘I don't know what you're on about,’ Sebastian lied, his eyes flicking nervously over the literal ballerina next to him; the epitome of elegance and refinement, he was certain she'd never smoked a bloody ham let alone indulged in the questionable (mis)use of mallowsweet.

Utterly fucking clueless, Garreth scooped up the package and held it out to him. ‘To be honest, I swore never to sell to you again after last time.’

‘Last —?’

‘Remember? You called me a “soulless fire crotch” and accused me of ripping you off —’

‘I never —!’

‘— but Leander reckons he's “giving it up” again, so now you're the only buyer I've got left who'll test out the experimental stuff.’

Unable to avoid it any longer, Sebastian snatched the package out of Garreth's hands and did his best to look thoroughly mystified. ‘Mallowsweet, you say? For potions, right?’

He sounded ridiculous even to himself.

‘Potions?’ Garreth looked puzzled. ‘No, you're supposed to smo—’

‘Smoulder it over a low flame before brewing, yep, I know, got it! Well, thanks Garreth, always a pleasure seeing you!’

‘But — you —’

‘Goodbye Garreth!’ He gave him a rough shove in the direction from whence he came.

‘Alright, alright, I'm going! Bloody hell. You fall off your wheel board or something?’

‘Skateboard,’ Sebastian said through his teeth. ‘It's a skateboard, Garreth. I know it's got wheels and it's very confusing for you, but —’

‘Oh!’ At this, Garreth turned. ‘Your uncle's up at the village, by the way.’

Brilliant. Uncle Solomon had a way of showing up drunk whenever things were going well for Sebastian; if he was at The Hog's Head already, he was probably halfway drunk by now. By nightfall, he'd be banging on Sebastian's door demanding to know where Anne was.

Sebastian didn't bloody know where his sister was. Nobody did.

‘How long's he been there?’

Garreth shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he was still upright last I saw…’

It was times like these that Sebastian was glad his twin sister had disappeared. Years of trying to hold together a splintered family had taken its toll on her; after all, looking after a drunken uncle and a brother obsessed with the Dark Arts wasn't exactly conducive to healing.

The hastily scribbled note she'd left had read: I can't die in Feldcroft. Please look after our uncle.

By the time Sebastian had found it, she was long gone.

He hadn't heard from her since.

No sooner had Garreth's flaming red hair disappeared into the brush than the baggie of experimental mallowsweet was yoinked unceremoniously out of Sebastian's hands.

‘Oi!’

‘Ooooh, you have a mallowsweet dealer?’ Aurélie danced out of his reach, giggling. ‘Can I try some?’

‘Wh — no, he's not a dealer!’ he spluttered, tailing her across the clearing. ‘And no, you can not “try some”!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s for potion-making!’

Grinning mischievously, she took a little whiff of the package then pulled a face and immediately thrust it back at him.

‘Eurgh, what are you brewing? Dungbombs?’

‘No — Wiggenwald.’

‘You're a terrible liar.’

‘Actually,’ he said, tucking the bundle into his hoodie pocket, ‘I'm a Slytherin. And if you must know, mallowsweet helps me sleep.’

‘So you do smoke it!’

‘Yes, mother, I smoke it.'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Can't you just use potions for that?’

‘Oh, you mean like a Sleeping Draught?’ He quirked a brow. ‘Or is it the Draught of Peace you’re brewing up with your precious “Garreth Weasley approved” Valerian roots?’

‘I told you, it's for fudge!’ she snapped.

‘You're a terrible liar,’ he smirked. ‘You don’t use the sprigs of the Valerian plant in fudge unless you intend to knock yourself unconscious for several days. — Or are you hoping to use it on someone else?’ he added, thinking of Ominis.

‘Oh, and you're an expert on fudge now, are you?’

‘I passed N.E.W.T level potions,’ he said smugly. ‘So unless you’re brewing a Fire-Breathing Potion — which, as an aside, I don’t think you need — then you're lying about the fudge.’

‘I don't see why it's any of your business!’ With a dramatic huff, she stomped across the clearing and threw herself a fallen log by the creek's edge.

‘It's not,’ he chuckled, sitting beside her. ‘It's just not very fair for you to accuse me of lying when you're telling little fibs of your own, is it?’

Secretly amused, Sebastian waited out the stubborn silence that followed and tried to act like he wasn't acutely aware of her arm pressing against his. There was a strange sense of familiarity about her presence, as if in some other lifetime they'd sat together just like this, side by side beneath the trees.

Eventually, she spoke again.

'If you must know,’ she began, her voice tight, ‘I've been under some... stress lately. And now I can't sleep without, well…'

'Without knocking yourself out with a Sleeping Draught?' he offered helpfully. ‘I know what that's like.’

'Strictly speaking, I'm not allowed to use “substances". Not that my Muggle instructors would ever recognise the effects of a Sleeping Draught, but still…' She heaved a heavy sigh. 'It's just… I've been dancing almost my entire life. My goals, my plans, my future — everything about me revolves around ballet.’

‘And now?’ he prompted.

‘Something happened…’ she said slowly. ‘Something that made me realise that I don't know who I am outside of the thing I've been trained for my whole life. — That's why I'm here, actually.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘To find yourself?’

‘Oh — no, because I accidentally blew up the dance studio with my magic.’

Sebastian choked.

'I'm the only ballerina with magic, you see,’ she explained, patting him gingerly on the back. ‘The Ministry had to obliterate everyone who witnessed my, erm… mishap, and I was ordered to take the summer off for "stress relief" lest I violate the Statute of Secrecy by exploding on stage or something. So…’ She waved her hand flippantly. ‘Here I am.'

Sebastian began to laugh.

‘You blew up your dance studio?’

‘I didn't mean to!’ she wailed. ‘It was awful! I broke all the mirrors! — It's not funnyyy, stop laughing!’

But he couldn't. Too far gone for composure, he hid his face in his hands and laughed til his cheeks hurt.

‘You know…’ he said, nudging her with his elbow. ‘I could teach you a far more effective way of relieving stress.’

Her scandalised look almost set him off laughing again.

‘I'm talking about skateboarding,’ he snickered. ‘Why? What were you thinking of?’

[gregrulzok]

Fae Encounter Tips

1. Always be polite, smile, stand up straight, make eye contact. If you MUST count their fingers to ensure they're a fae, be very careful to do it subtly - staring for too long is very rude.

2. When they ask for your name, do NOT give it. Say "I cannot give you my name, however you may refer to me as [Insert Fake Name]".

2a. "Ainsel" (short for "Me Aan Sel", meaning "My Own Self") is a good fake name - any Fae trying to use said name to put a spell on you will only end up applying it to themselves. However, beware that this comes from a fairly famous fairytale, thus older and wiser Fae may be aware of the trick and not take kindly to it.

2b. A Fae may also extend their hand to "take" your name - the handing over gesture further solidifies the power they are taking over your identity. Do your best to avoid the handshake, even with a fake name - consider wearing an iron/silver/metallic ring. Not wanting to touch the Fae with it for fear of hurting them can be a believable and polite excuse.

2c. Do not ask a Fae for their name - they might take it as you trying to claim power over them. Ask them how you may refer to them, instead.

3. Do not refer to Fae as such directly to their face - call them one of the euphemistic terms, such as "Good/Fair/Blessed/Wee/Hill Folk", "The Good Neighbors" or "The People of Peace". Remember that "Fairy" and subsequently "Fae" is a shortening of "Fair Folk", designed for humans, and is essentially impolite slang.

4. Do not accept any gifts or favours. Fae do not give gifts without expecting something in return, and you do not want to owe them anything if you can help it.

4a. Accepting food will forever bind you to their realm - you will not be able to find your way back, and will soon forget your human life. This might be something you want - I can't make that judgement call for you.

4b. Decline politely - do NOT say thank you (as even without accepting the gift/favour, this will count as a debt), but do acknowledge their generosity. Have a good excuse ready.

4c. Should you, unwittingly, end up owing a Fae something, be sure to put out a dish of cream/milk as soon as you return home. Hope that they accept it as payment.

5. Do not follow a Fae to a third location. You never know when you'll be able to get back from it - even if a Fae is not malicious or mischevious, time does not pass for them as it does for us - you may return home to find that centuries have passed.

6. Do not lie, do not be rude, and do not yell - do try and use double-talk and thick quickly on your feet. Fae thrive on technicalities and loopholes, and exploiting them yourself will not be considered rude.

7. Ensure that the Fae doesn't owe YOU anything, either - insist you aren't able to help them if they ask, do not save them if they appear trapped, etc. A Fae owing you is no less dangerous than you owing a Fae - unless you're in DIRE need, make your best effort to leave the encounter with neither of you owing anything to the other.

8. Once you return home, check to see that nothing is missing, that nothing is broken, that your pets are safe and their fur isn't tangled, watch for small footprints or various little items that weren't there before - if you did everything right, there should be no signs of Fae interference.

8a. If you do find signs of Fae interference, put out an offering far away from your house as soon as possible.

8b. Items left by Fae in your house should be given back with said offering - loudly acknowledge their generosity and that you simply can't accept their offer. Return home quickly. Consider putting a horseshoe on your door.

[revalition]

OCT 23 - PERCEPTION See, hear and smell everything. Let no detail go unnoticed.

perception my beloveds. my lovelies. my darlings. this one is pretty different from what we usually do, idk I wasn't feeling super excited about drawing their design multiple times so just let Conceptualization do whatever they wanted... :)

one thing that was important to me was they don't! get to have hands! because there is no Perception (Touch)! That is Interfacing's job, Interfacing is the fingers (and H/E coordination is the rest of the hands I guess)

anyway lots of quotes and rambly thoughts under the cut!

Okay I have to share this quote from a ted talk we (primarily Logic) watched:

"Imagine being a brain. You're locked inside a bony skull, trying to figure what's out there in the world. There's no lights inside the skull. There's no sound either. All you've got to go on is streams of electrical impulses which are only indirectly related to things in the world, whatever they may be. So perception -- figuring out what's there -- has to be a process of informed guesswork in which the brain combines these sensory signals with its prior expectations or beliefs about the way the world is to form its best guess of what caused those signals. The brain doesn't hear sound or see light. What we perceive is its best guess of what's out there in the world." - Anil Seth

and I was like oughhh this really makes me reconsider how I see Perception's role. There's other evidence that Perception's existence is more "in" the brain than many of the other skills... like, the physical brain, not the mind. Perception (Smell) even directly communicates with the Limbic System, who refers to them as the olfactory system. I touched on it a bit in my electrochemistry post but the olfactory system and limbic system share pathways in the brain which might be why those two are more connected. Of note -- the olfactory system is *only* smell, not any of the other senses.

limbic system even acknowledges it's unhealthy of perception to linger on the apricot smell so much. which is true -- you can even get the thought "Apricot Chewing Gum Scented One" which gives +2 to Perception upon completion.

It also raises the question of if perception observes all the senses and simply labels for you which one they are using to make the observation, or if each of the 5 senses is independent. bet you can't guess what our headcanon is on that :) (subsystem perception and drama my most beloveds)

is this making any sense?? are you seeing my vision here

anyway look how silly they are now <333

thank you perception (sight) it's a trivial check but I like that you could still fail it and just... not be able to see what the lieutenant is showing you

on the same vein I remember something from a while ago where someone had 0 perception and couldn't interact with any doors? My first playthrough I had 1 motorics and I feel like I remember putting something on that dropped my perception to 0 and I couldn't get into my room at the whirling... but I could be completely misremembering both these things. If this rings a bell please tell us haha

perception in the dream :(((

perception (smell)'s comment here is so funny to me. they are *so* excited to sneeze

your nose denying rhetoric's claims to smelling communism never stops being hilarious. it did *not* tell you that and it is not taking responsibility!

WHY is this perception (hearing) ????

nooo detective hyperopia go get reading glasses. Also harry can go find the prescription lenses and put them on and perception is like no! -1 perception! nausea-inducing hell glasses! which -- fair, they're the wrong prescription and probably for nearsightedness. but harry probably is like what do you waaant

yes yes I love this one

hghh perception fail nooo

does our harry have tinnitus? :(

thank you for the clarification on the speaker quantity

they get so excited when they get to smell something!!

perc (sight) calling you sir?

they like the well laid pallet <3

🥺

hggh perc (smell) is so funny

this whole thing, of you sniffing your nasty toilet ledger, is *so* funny. "Quelle fuckin' surprise" lives in my head and has been integrated into our vocabulary

a few more for the alternate dialogue choices!

Love this one... it's so cool.

super trustworthy perc (hearing) over here

rare wonderful perc (taste) !!!

thank you for the insight. this is a medium difficulty check btw

ty perception (sight) ily

description of how evrart's container smells if you were wondering...

though the perception passive fails are also always delightful --

PERCEPTION (SMELL) - ... an office? Something officious? Is that a word? There's a bit of dust in the air that may be triggering your allergies.

that is a word, but that's not what it means love. Authority is officious, not the shipping container

ough this one is such a cool quote. and it upsets you.

I just suffered volition damage from another perception quote (not included here) dammit. this game. Ily perception but also why you gotta perceive so much

love this one. love that perc (sight) is able to read the headline on a scrap of newspaper drifting by (legendary difficulty check)

lastly including this one... one of only two difficulty 20 passives in the game. The electrochemistry check is difficulty 14 -- he can pick up on it long before your nose has a chance to. the smell will haunt you forever.

there are also a few instances of Perception having dialogue without the sense being specified. I picked through my DE screenshots but didn't have any instances so I'm unsure if it's a fayde quirk or not. I feel like I remember seeing it happen in game but... not certain. It is interesting though, might happen when you're using multiple senses at once. Also seems to happen in instances where the touch sense would usually come in (there is no perception (touch)).

I assumed for ages that perception was the 5 senses, so realizing there's only sight, hearing, smell and taste was surprising. Interfacing takes over the touch aspect pretty much entirely. And the inland is your 6th sense ofc <3

also our Logic is the neuroscience nerd so if our amateur insights are wrong go ahead and call him out :)

Ok! that's it for perception!! not gonna finish skilltober by end of october but that's okay, it'll trail into early november a little

[roseshewrites]

Honestly, my Hazbin chapter stories haven't been doing as well as my one shots, so I need validation that if I eventually finish this RadioApple (eventual Mpreg) slowburn people will actually like it. Give me courage, people, I'm begging you 🥲

This is just one chapter from the middle of my unpublished story:

~A Golden Piece of You~

Alastor didn't understand how it happened, but the little king had somehow wormed his way into his psyche and it was quite annoying. Ever since that night Lucifer got silly drunk. 

Angel Dust had somehow looped him into several games of gin rummy with Husker and Lucifer which they played well into the evening till Angel was a slightly giggling mess and Lucifer himself was headed in that direction fast. Alastor nursed a cherry martini and watched the proceedings with an increasing sense of amusement. 

"Take a shot every time Alastor says something sarcastic," Angel was wheezing. 

"Take a shot every time Angel says something sexual," Lucifer responded. 

"NO. That's every other sentence. He moans in his sleep," Husker said, scooting back to avoid a tipsy Angel who had tried to kick him and missed.

Alastor, the only one besides Husker actually still playing, laid down his perfect hand and announced his straight. 

"Gin." 

"No fair asshole, how'd you get all the fuckin hearts??" 

"I paid attention to my hand unlike you, And I can plainly see all your cards. For someone with two sets of arms you're horrible at concealing them." 

"Shot," Lucifer whispered, then chuckled, and took one.

"You could have knocked three turns ago." 

"Quit peepin' at my hand mothafuckah!"

The game went on like this till everybody, even Husk, who had a stamina for card games, tired of Alastor winning nearly every round and rose from the circular table in front of the bar to go to bed. 

All except Lucifer, who stood up and immediately knocked over a chair, then followed it to the floor himself attempting to right it. 

"Oh this is fuckin hilarious," Angel whipped his cell phone from his chest poof and snapped a photo before Husker could stop him. 

"For my personal collection," Angel said fondly. 

Alastor, who had been putting away the cards, glanced to Husker, who shrugged, going, "I've got this one," gesturing to Angel, "He's all yours." 

"Yours can actually handle his liquor," Alastor returned. "And I am not claiming responsibility for him. Thank you." 

"All seven of you are terrible," Lucifer giggled from the floor, "Why are you letting the room spinnnnn?"

 

Angel was silently counting on his fingers, "How many extra of each one of us is he referring to do yah think?" 

"Oh for heaven's sake," Alastor said irritably, tossing the envelope of cards onto the table and striding over to help Lucifer to his feet, who was snickering helplessly as Angel held up a few of his arms and said, "Hey, how many fingers am I holding up?" 

"Fuh-fifteen," Lucifer said. "Holy shit. WhyDoYouHaveSoMany?" 

"You are going to have to actually stand up, Lucifer," Alastor said impatiently, while supporting him from underneath an armpit.

"Actually he was right. I was holding up fifteen," Angel grinned, watching as Alastor struggled to hold upright a limp and giggling King of Hell. The radio demon rolled his eyes. 

"His room is on the opposite end of the hotel," Husker said, "So uh, good luck with that," and smirking, tugged off a protesting Angel to leave Alastor with.. 

This thing.

"When did you get so fuckin' sexyy?" Lucifer was saying, his chin on Alastor's lower shoulder. 

Oh, clouds above... 

"Perhaps somewhere around your tenth shot," Alastor snapped. "Come on." 

"Kay." 

Tempted to simply bodily drag him through the hotel, but wary of what Charlie would say if she happened to see him treating her father like a sack of potatoes, Alastor settled with just hauling him along while Lucifer complained, "You walk too fasttt." 

"Well then keep up. And you'd best sober up fast because Miss Mcmillan's fiance is arriving tomorrow to scope out rooms for her wedding venue. And we actually want her to choose the hotel, remember?" 

"OhFuckThat'sTomorrow." 

He sighed. "Yes, Lucifer." 

"My daughter will be....piiiiissed if I'm not there for that.." 

"Exactly." 

"I love her so much, Alastor. That's my baby girl. I'm so proud of her..." 

..."I know." 

Finally, silence. But not for long. Lucifer said, "Do you even care for her? Huh? What are your intentions with her, and her hotel anyways..... 'Cause I can't get a vibe from you and it drives me insane." 

Alastor, finally realizing Lucifer could stand on his own now without support, propped him by his bedroom door and was about to just leave him to go to his own room when a thought hit him, and he turned back around. 

"Wait a moment, will you repeat that last part for me?" 

Lucifer stood on tiptoe to get in Alastor's face, poking him on the chest, "You heard me. You. Drive me. Insane." - each stop in his sentence punctuated by another poke to the chest.

Alastor was grinning, looming over him, "Do I, now? In what way?" 

He was taking in Lucifer's appearance now, how his already flushed cheeks were casted with a deep golden, noting his body language like how he leaned into Alastor.

Leaning in, not even cringing at his closeness. 

Interesting. 

"In every way imaginable," Lucifer glared, "-You. I mean- one minute you actually have a heart, then-" 

"Then what?~" 

"You go and- do something so *evil*, and downright idiotic-" 

"Oh, do go on." 

"I just, it makes me *crazy*, it makes me want to *throat punch* you, it makes me- ah, fuck what the hell." 

Before Alastor could respond to any of this, Lucifer threw his arms around his neck and kissed him. 

When their lips connected Alastor made a noise of protest and tried to break it; but surprisingly strong, Lucifer held on to him, drawing him in by the lapels of his jacket, and Alastor, though shocked, was surprised that he found himself pinning Lucifer against the wall, kissing him back, feeling those hot soft lips against his, the small hands curling in his hair, a hint of tongue, and-

Oh, no. He couldn't do this. Absolutely not. Lucifer was drunk off his ass.

He pried Lucifer's hands away from him with some effort and broke the kiss, growling, "Now see, *that* was an idiotic move on your part." 

Lucifer's breath was hot on his cheek. "You kissed me back. So who's the idiot?" 

"You are drunk. I cannot take advantage of that." 

"Then why are you still here?"

For some reason, Lucifer's unexpected act had completely frozen him in place. He felt a bit unable to move or think. 

Finally, after staring each other down for what seemed an eternity, Alastor was able to make himself back away and turn around to leave.

"For your information," he said,

"I

intend to draw patrons in to the hotel. My intentions with Charlie are to make sure she is set up for success; which I cannot do if I stick around to listen to your drunk ramblings. Good night, Lucifer." 

And he walked off. 

~ 

What a splitting headache. 

Lucifer, his head pounding, made his way to one of the many hotel kitchens and brewed some coffee there, still buttoning his vest up and tying his bowtie, checking his reflection in a nearby metal toaster to make sure that his hair wasn't too bird nested. 

"Good morning, dad!!!!" Charlie busted into the door, making him jump and cringe. She was singing away, and remarked, "Ooh, coffee" 

Now that his daughter was around, it was time to slide into a role that didn't involve feeling like a groggy piece of shit. Lucifer forced a stupid grin, and said, "Morning, sunshine!"

Charlie hummed and did a little butt wiggle while she poured her own coffee then began scrimmaging around in the cabinets for a poptart. Someone else pushed their way into the room and opened the fridge. Jeez, was this the only stocked kitchen in the entire hotel?

Last night. ...He wasn't sure if he'd dreamed it or not. Pouring creamer into his coffee, and while Charlie's back was turned, he allowed his mind to wander and nudged through the mists of blackout that was the night before. 

He had been playing gin rummy with Husker, Angel and Alastor; yeah, that checked out. He remembered laughing a lot.

He inwardly cringed. He'd done a lot of laughing about dumb shit. After that things had gotten a bit blurry. Had someone helped him to his room? He thought he remembered that, at least. 

"Mornin', Aluhfter!" He heard Charlie say through a mouthful of poptart. 

Lucifer nearly dropped the creamer on the floor. As it was, it fell over on the counter anyway, and he ended up having to dust powder from the surface into a napkin and toss it into a nearby trash can. 

Alastor had helped him to his room. 

"Good morning, Darling. Don't speak with your mouth full. You'll get crumbs on the floor." 

"Right! Shorry! I mean" she gulped, "Sorry. Manners. You're right. You ready for this afternoon?" 

While they spoke about hotel plans, Lucifer continued cleaning up an invisible mess that had been clean several minutes prior, and oh shit, he had to escape the room somehow but could he do that without making eye contact with- 

He turned around and came face to face with Alastor. 

"Uhh" 

Dammit, upon scoping the room for an out, he realized Charlie had already left. 

The radio demon was grinning, as he always was. 

"Good morning ~," he purred, "Sleep well?" 

"Y-yeah, sure did," Lucifer was edging his way to the door, coffee in hand, reaching for his hat which he had plopped onto the counter before fixing his bowtie. Gah, the brim was covered in coffee cream powder. Shit. And his hat apple was missing. 

Alastor had helped him to his room, and that kiss - had not, in fact, been a dream. He remembered it all now. 

"So if you'll excuse me- hey, where did you get that apple?" 

"Oh this?" 

Alastor was tossing the fruit in the air, catching it, "I needed it for my breakfast. Hope you don't mind." 

Lucifer glared, "So that's where all my hat apples have been going." 

Alastor examined the fruit, holding up a hand as if to say 'excuse me', grabbed a knife from beside the sink and sliced it in half.

"On second thought, you can have this half of it back."

Lucifer was finding a whole lot of trouble getting pissed off right now as Alastor stuck the apple half back onto its place in Lucifer's hat brim. 

"Um. Alastor? Did I...?" He cringed inwardly, "Did I do anything embarrassing last night..?" 

"Hmm. No more than usual. You've got coffee creamer on your boots, by the way." 

Okay, there was no way Alastor didn't remember the kiss. The way he had kissed him back, Lucifer thought surely...

Maybe there could have been something there. 

Alastor winked, "Better get cleaned up before our guests arrive, Applesauce.~" 

The radio demon took the hat from his hands, placed it on Lucifer's head, then gave it a fond little pat, making coffee creamer snow down to the floor. 

"Tata." 

"Ugh, you can fucking have the rest of this apple, you nut case!" Lucifer yanked it off his hat and tossed it in Alastor's direction, but the radio demon was already halfway through the door, and it just hit the wood and bounced to the floor. He could hear Alastor cackling madly. 

"Fuck," Lucifer said aloud to the empty room, "God dammit."

[unreal-unearthed]

https://www.tumblr.com/bangelism/762929927623507968 when did they prove it? /gen not looking for trouble lol 🙏

reference for everyone: post being referred to read "i sleep so well knowing buffy and angel are canon soulmates."

sure! i can go into a into a lot of evidence as to why i think this, but i’ll just point out some of the key things that stand out to me. (fair warning, i can ramble about them for a long time so... apologies...)

first of all, i think it's important to establish what a soulmate is. i understand everyone may have their own perspective on what this means, but to me, a soulmate is a deep mutual love (romantic or platonic) and thus, an intense connection between two souls. soulmates understand and accept each other, help each other grow, support one another, and of course, love each other.

so using that as a reference, here is why i believe buffy and angel are soulmates, and how the shows canon supports that:

1] their lives mirror each other. even when they're apart, buffy and angel's stories continue to mirror and parallel one another. a great example of this is connor and dawn. both buffy and angel had these (different) roles of caregiver thrust onto them unexpectedly, but find themselves in these new roles they've been given. angel as a single dad, buffy as a sister and dawn's primary caregiver after joyce passes; both go through ups and downs in this journey, but the audience sees they wouldn't trade it for the world. then, they lose them through a portal, both fall to the ground instantly and shortly or immediately after fall into a catatonic state. this is not the only example of their lives mirroring each other, but i think it's one of the more profound, easy to see ones, that changes their lives and perspectives forever.

(screenshot of a beautiful gifset by @charmedslayer)

2] the continual references to one another throughout the series. buffy and angel often reference how much their relationship meant to each other, post breakup, either through actual words or actions/subtle references. a very important buffy quote outlines this really well: “i loved him more than i will ever love anything in this life.” to me this shows this is a relationship more important than any other, one they cannot simply just "move on" from. it changed them fundamentally, and has stuck with them no matter what.

3] they help each other grow. without buffy, angel would have never gotten out of that alleyway. that is just fact. buffy gave angel a purpose. even when they are apart, even when she is dead, it is keeping that purpose she gave him alive that animates him. they both made each other stronger and better people. this is seen all throughout their relationship and beyond; from the little pep talks they give each other, the way they train and fight side by side, the way they give purpose to each others missions.

screenshot of a gifset that shows this perfectly by @buffysummers

4] their emotional connection. whilst in a relationship, we see angel being buffy's emotional confidant on numerous occasions and vice versa. they give each other new perspective (also another example of how they help each other grow), like in 'ted' (btvs 2x11). angel is the only person in that episode to listen to buffy's complaints, acknowledge them, but then gently offer her a different perspective; maybe her mother is simply, lonely. even post breakup, in 'forever' (btvs 5x17), angel is the one person she fully confides in about her grief. they are able to be fully vulnerable with one another, both emotionally and physically. protecting each other in both ways and fighting many both physical and mental battles “shoulder to shoulder" even when they're apart.

5] they accept one another. 'what's my line' (2x9-10) shows this the best, as well as expands on how they can be fully vulnerable with each other. first emotionally - angel listens to and acknowledges buffy's frustrations about career week, and supports her through that (feelings that are dismissed by everyone else around her), encouraging her to talk about her feelings. then, in accepting both her 'slayer' and 'buffy' persona as one, asks her on an ice-skating date to learn more about the buffy he never knew, accepting even the parts of her people might disregard. then, we see buffy accept both aspects of angel; his vampiric and human side, when she kisses his vampire face and is one of the only people throughout the shows canon that accepts these two sides of angel, represented by his 'true' face. then physically - when buffy is worried about her safety she goes to angel's apartment, curls up in his bed, just a space that reminds her of him is enough to make her feel safer. and then angel is rescued by her at the end of the episode. she cradles him in her arms, and we see him clearly and physically relax in her embrace.

—

i fear i could go on, and on, and then on a little more. but that's just a little taste of my perspective on why i believe the canon supports the idea that buffy and angel are soulmates. …let alone all the shared dreams, countless parallels (even more meta ones like how their theme songs reflect each other) and then the love they have for each other which is stated time and time again.

[its-a-me-mango]

I saw your post about art fight (and by the way congrats and I'm impressed by the amount of pieces you've done) and you mentioned drawing furries. I kind of never did but I want to learn, do you have any tips on drawing furries?

Hi yeah my advice is to have an older brother tell you what furries are at the age of 8 and then get completely obsessed with drawing anthropomorphic characters until the age of 18, so if you missed out on that I'm sorry. /j

Anyway, my actual advice is to get used to drawing animals in general. If you already know how to draw humans then you've already done most of the work when it comes to furries, if not thats ok you can learn as you go! I always recommend looking at other peoples work that you look up to and seeing how they do it. Learning to look and pick out shapes and features is always my best advice, it's something you learn to do as you grow but being able to pick out characteristics, shapes and all sorts of what you're looking at will massively help with your work, never be afraid to look up reference!

Simply taking the time to understand how to draw some animals can help set you up for drawing furries, you don't have to learn every single animal right off the bat, just the ones you're interested in to start off with. Once you know how to draw one or two, all the other species should become much easier to learn, or if you just wanna stick with the one species that's fine too, whatever you're happiest doing!

For example, say you wanna draw dog furries, thats fair dogs are cool! I like border collies so I'm focusing on them, look at these guys they're so fluffyyyy

Right away you can pick out some key features, the pointy ears, the medium length snout, the long fur (especially around the neck), the markings, the fluffy tail, these are all key things that make up our awesome collie dog, taking the time to practice these traits first will help you later on for drawing furries, you can practice as you go if you want but if you're starting with nothing, go basic!

Once you're comfortable with drawing animals, putting those traits onto a human shouldn't be as daunting, head goes where the head is, tail goes at the end of the spine, and fur goes all over! Obviously there are so many ways to draw furries but I'm trying to be basic to start off with! Practising with putting human emotions/traits onto animals will help a lot to refine what you're doing, your first attempts won't be pretty so don't worry about trying to make them so, they're for practice after all!

Using this as my excuse to draw my border collie SMG4 inspired OC, come look at Jay he sucks so bad, you'll never guess who he's inspired by. Again learning to mix human emotions and put them onto cartoon animal heads is hard to learn but I promise it's possible and great fun once you know how!

There's no one set of rules for furries, it's whatever you feel works best! Add and take away whatever you want, maybe you want them blue and green with horns and wings, that's totally fine! Get as creative as you want and don't be afraid to go wild, furries aren't real after all, you can do anything you want!

Furries are so expressive and unique, it's one of the many reasons I love drawing them! You can get so much diversity and variation with their design and characters, they can be as realistic or as cartoony as you want! It's always important to have fun with what you're drawing and to be okay with making mistakes, you're not going to get it first try so might as well have fun getting to a point you're happy with!

Hope my insane ramblings helped somewhat, I never know if these actually help because my advice is always just "look at reference and say "fuck it we ballin" untill it looks right", I can't teach that to anyone I have to sound like I know what I'm doing lmao

[metalkitty21]

Here's the TabiEitaKen! You guys voted for all 3 together so here they are!

Karasu's POV: sickfic, no major warnings needed. Just general sickness stuff Word Count: 1123

Yukimiya's POV: Hurt/comfort, lots of mentions about Yuki's vision. (I apologise if anything is inaccurate! I did my best) Word Count: 1270

Otoya POV: Birthday fic. Mentions of making out. References to Karasu's voice fetish Word Count: 1227

Full Fics under cut!

Karasu groans as he opens his eyes, groggy and his body overall feels ten times heavier than usual. It takes him a short moment to realise two things. One, this is about the third time he’s waking up after going back to sleep, and two, the reason for his awakening is the constant, soft buzzing of his phone. Knowing it isn't his alarm, he decides to ignore it. Reaching up to rub his eyes and groaning at the pain in his chest and throat, and the weight of his own body. 

To be fair, he should be used to this by now. He’s always one to get sick more frequently, and more severely than most people do. Just his luck. As Winter has finally made its way around, Karasu shouldn't have been surprised when he got a dull burn in the back of his throat which turned into him waking up at 3am with a deep pain in his throat and chest, leading to him being unable sleep again due to a hacking cough and blocked nose.  

Currently just gone 1pm, Karasu’s done nothing but sleep. He’s sick and tired, and therefore his lack of productivity is justifiable, and makes a lot of sense. Staring at the ceiling trying to decide what his next action should be, torn between rotting in bed for another 2 hours and finally getting up to get something to eat, his phone buzzes to life again. With a groan, Karasu blindly reaches for his phone, managing to grab it and look at the caller id. He blinks as Yukimiya's contact name lights up on his screen, his mind too foggy to properly register that he’s been radio silent all morning and that his partners are likely worried about him. Without much thought, Karasu answers and puts it on speaker, dropping his phone by his side. 

“Okay so you aren't dead, glad that's finally ruled out. You okay, Tabito?” Karasu goes to respond, but ends up in a coughing fit before he can form even a simple ‘yes’.

“That explains things then.” Otoya's voice says from the other line, and Karasu’s too busy coughing up his own lung to properly register that the two of them are together. He didn’t miss plans the three of them had scheduled together right? He does however register the faint sound of music and the occasional clicking of turn signals. 

“Yeah.” Karasu responds, sounding like he had a serious smoking addiction and smoked a pack a day for ten years. He hears a chuckle and a wince from the phone. If he had to guess, Otoya laughing at his misery and Yukimiya jabbing him in the side for being an asshole. He doesn't consider the potential consequences of Otoya being playfully attacked while driving. 

“We’ll be there in 15. Don't get out of bed.” Yukimiya’s sweet voice fills his ears, relaxing him slightly. 

“Thank you, Yuki.” Karasu sighs slightly, both in relief that Yukimiya and Otoya are coming to his rescue, and from embarrassment due to how his voice sounds at this moment in time. He hears some light chatting from Yukimiya and Otoya, way too tired and groggy to even attempt to process anything or hang up the call himself. He decides that staring at the ceiling is his best option, not that it gives him much to do, but it's better then trying to focus on the conversation Yukimiya and Otoya are having while they drive over to Karasu’s place. 

“You still with us, Tabito?” Karasu simply groans in response, not paying enough attention to know who spoke to him. He hears chuckles from both of them. He finally decides to roll over onto his side, looking at his phone, seeing the timer on the call tick by. He hears the sounds of car doors closing before the call hangs up, then soon after, he hears the door to his place unlock. 

He rolls over to the other side of the bed, facing the door to his room, which after what feels like forever, opens. Otoya walks in, Yukimiya somewhere else in his house, Karasu’s small tortoiseshell cat follows behind Otoya, jumping onto Karasu’s bed immediately, settling against the bend of his legs. 

“You really do look like shit.” Otoya states, getting a roll of the eyes from Karasu, who pulls one of his hands out from under his duvet to scratch the head of his beloved cat. 

“Thanks, Babe. I feel so loved right now.” Otoya pulls his gloves off, stuffing them in the pocket of his trousers as he crouches to get close to Karasu, probably would have sat down if Yuzuki hadn't taken the only spot close to Karasu. Karasu feels Otoya’s hand on his forehead for a few moments, before he pulls away. 

“You're definitely sick.” Karasu once again rolls his eyes, coughing slightly.

“I could have told you that.” Otoya rolls his eyes back, threading his hand into Karasu’s unwaxed and sleep-scruffed hair, brushing the blue-purple hair back and out of Karasu’s face. Karasu relaxes into Otoya’s hand, enjoying the warmth and feeling of his touch. Yukimiya finally shows up to join the ‘care for Karasu’ club, a glass of water in one of his hands, and some medicine in the other. How he knew where it was kept was unknown to Karasu, but he’s too tired to question it. 

“Can you sit up?” Karasu groans, but slowly pushes himself to sit up, resting against the headrest as Yukimiya passes him the medicine and the drink.

“Thanks Yuki.” Karasu puts both pills in his mouth at the same time, downing about half the glass, the coolness of the water helping to soothe his throat. Yukimiya takes the glass from him and places it on Karasu’s bedside table, moving to Karasu’s left, sitting by his side.

“If you want we can stay and I’ll make dinner for the three of us?” Karasu nods, leaning his head against Yuki’s shoulder, who rests his head on top of Karasu’s.

“Shift forward a little.” Karasu glares over at Otoya, who’s busy fighting the laces of his boots so he could climb into Karasu’s bed. Karasu does as told, shifting forward so Otoya can slip behind him once he’s done taking his boots off. With Otoya’s warmth against his back, and Yuki’s against his side, along with the gentle purring of Yuzuki makes Karasu feel at peace.

He always hated whenever he got sick. He’d have to cancel plans and be stuck in bed for however long and often alone as well. Not anymore. He had two wonderful boyfriends by his side to keep him company, no matter how often he got sick. He could very much get used to this.

After leaving Blue Lock, Yukimiya and his partners, Karasu and Otoya decided to settle together in a decent size house, all still pursuing their football career. Despite being on separate teams, the three make the most out of it, enjoying what time they get together, and the occasional match against each other. Now in a break in the season, the three of them are enjoying the two weeks of uninterrupted time they get to spend together.

Yukimiya shouldn’t be surprised when he wakes up and hardly anything in his vision changes. Despite his eyes being open, Yukimiya can hardly see anything, his vision blurry. He sighs, burying his face in the head of silver head which is stuffed into his chest, basking in the warmth which is both against his chest and his back. He should have expected this moment to come sooner than later. He was aware that his vision was slowly getting worse, his glasses doing less and less to make his vision clearer as time went on. But actually waking up and being in the moment where his eyes are the worse they’ve been hits him hard. He curls his arms tighter around Otoya instinctively, longing for a sense of comfort, hoping this is just some horrible nightmare, and not the reality that the match he played just last week would likely be one of his final matches. 

He feels Karasu’s arm tighten around his waist, nuzzling into the nape of his neck. Yukimiya decided not to acknowledge Karasu’s affection, not for any malicious reason, but due to the fact he wasn’t ready to face reality yet. He doesn’t want to acknowledge his faltering vision.

“I know you’re awake, Yuki. Don’t ignore me.” Karasu’s tone is playful, nuzzling into Yukimiya’s neck again, his warm breath tickling Yuki’s skin. He feels Otoya shift against him, tucking his head over Yukimiya’s shoulder to see Karasu.

“Morning, Stupid Crow.” Otoya’s voice is gruff with sleep, and he can feel the rumble from his chest against his own. He also feels the rumble of Karasu’s chest as he chuckles, turning his attention to Otoya.

“Mornin’ to you too.” Karasu’s normally subtle accent shines through, as Yukimiya tries his best to simply ignore his partners, which is made impossible by the fact that they’re both pressed right up against him. “Come on, Pretty Boy. No more hidin’.” Karasu sits up, reaching his hand out to brush his hand through Yukimiya’s sleep-scruffed hair. They fall into a moment of silence, Yukimiya conflicted between keeping up the facade of pretending to be asleep, or just blatantly telling his partners he’d rather be alone right now. He feels Otoya also sit up, Karasu shuffling to sit closer to him. “Hey, Yuki, what’s wrong? Talk to us, Pretty Boy.” Karasu continues to thread his fingers through his hair, his other hand finds a resting spot on his hip. One of Otoya’s hand hold Yukimiya’s own, which he, almost on reflex, squeezes tightly. 

“Hey there, Pretty Boy. What’s on your pretty little mind?” Yukimiya sighs, deciding that talking would be the best course of action. He sits up, going to reach past Otoya to grab his glasses, hoping to at least partially clear his vision, but Otoya’s already sliding his glasses onto his face, pulling the few tufts of hair out from under the arms. He mutters a quiet thanks, leaning his head on Karasu’s shoulder, keeping his hold on Otoyo’s hand. 

Either of them speak, letting Yukimiya speak when he’s ready. He doesn’t want to speak. He wants to go back to when his vision was perfect. Back to when he didn't have to worry about his time running out. 

“My vision has gotten worse” Yukimiya forces himself to say, wanting nothing more for this to be some horrible dream. He can feel the mood in the room drop, Karasu’s arm wrapping around his waist to pull him more into his side, and Otoya squeezing his hand. “...I don't know if I'll be able to play anymore” Yukimiya can feel the tears begin to well up in his eyes. He doesn't want to stop. He loves the sport, he loves his team, he loves watching his partners play, he loves playing with his partners, he doesn't want this to be the end. 

“Don't say that, alright? Not yet, at least. Book an appointment with your doctor. We can come with, if you want to, and we can see if maybe it's as simple as making your glasses stronger, or something, I'm not a genius. But don't say it's over until you know it is.” Karasu holds Yukimiya’s face in his hand as he says this, gently brushing away any tears that fall as he speaks, giving Yukimiya a soft and supportive smile. Yukimiya lets out a shaky sigh, nodding slightly. Otoya momentarily lets go of Yukimiya’s hand, moving to drape himself against his back, his arms under Yukimiya’s, wrapping around his chest as he nuzzles into the sides of his neck, the feeling of the touch subtle, yet so welcome. Yukimiya settles back against Otoya, feeling the ninja place brief, light kisses to his neck, as Karasu presses his forehead against Yukimiya’s, both him and Yukimiya letting out a comforted sigh. 

“Thank you both.” Yukimiya moves away from Karasu, taking both of his hands, which Karasu gently squeezes. 

“We’re your partners. It's what we do.” Otoya speaks into his neck, resting his chin over Yukimiya’s shoulder. Karasu nods in agreement, brushing both Yukimiya’s hair and Otoya’s out of their faces. 

“How about we have a lazy day? We still have a full week to do any exciting things we want to.”  Yukimiya and Otoya nod in agreement. Karasu smiles, slipping out of bed. He cracks a smile when his tortoiseshell cat comes sprinting into the room, meowing at him, letting him know that it’s feeding time. “I know, you noisy thing! I’ll make us all breakfast, you two stay and cuddle” Karasu pats his chest, signalling for Yuzuki to leap up onto him, which she does, clambering onto his shoulders. Yukimiya watches as the two leave the room, focusing on how blurry they are from the first time he saw Karasu show one of Yuzuki’s little tricks to him.

“You’re overthinking.” Otoya states from over his shoulder, tightening his arms around Yukimiya’s chest. Yukimiya sighs, letting his head drop against Otoya’s.

“I just…I don’t want this to end.” Otoya nods, bumping his nose against the underside of Yukimiya’s jaw.

“This won’t end. Even if-”

“When”

“If you go blind, you’ll still have me, Tabito, Yuzuki. All of Bastard as well,  I'm sure. You’re still good friends with the sloth right?” Yukimiya nods. Otoya has a good point. He may lose his vision, and his football career with it. He’ll still have all his friends though.

“I’ve been thinking about applying for a service dog.” Otoya shuffles out from behind Yukimiya, shifting to lay against his chest. Yukimiya wraps one arm around his waist, the other caressing up and down his arm. 

“Yeah? Tabi’s gonna be more helpful than I am, but I’ll do what I can.” Yukimiya chuckles, pressing a kiss to Otoya’s forehead. 

“Thank you, Eita. You and Tabito are too good for me.” Otoya scoffs, hiding his face in Yukimiya’s chest in a poor attempt to hide the blush on his face. 

“You’ve got it the wrong way round. Either if you’re out of our league, we’ll always be here for you.” Yukimiya smiles, feeling himself growing slightly flush as well. He couldn’t ask for more in a situation such as this.

Otoya can’t remember the last time he woke up in bed alone, yet here he is, laying in bed, staring at the wall with neither of his boyfriends to be seen, not even the remnants of their warmth for him to pathetically cling to. Ever since he met Karasu in First Selection, the pair has had a strange relationship, which Otoya realised later down the line was due to Karasu actively trying to flirt with him and Otoya dodging it to try and avoid an inevitable identity crisis. By the end of First Selection, the pair had somehow managed to get themselves into a make out session in the locker room after their final match and that’s how Otoya ended up getting with his first boyfriend.

“Come on, get out of bed, lazy ass.” Karasu pats Otoya’s hip, before jabbing him in the side.

“I’m up, I’m up.” Otoya groans, batting Karasu’s hand away with no effort to actually try and send him away. 

“I can see you’re up, but it’s time to get out of bed. We let you have your birthday lie in, but it’s morning time now. Yuki made breakfast.” Otoya blinks a little, reaching out to grab his phone from the bedside table.

December 3rd. Huh, guess it was his birthday. Otoya can practically hear Karasu roll his eyes. Otoya slips out of bed, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his shorts. Karasu leans in to press his forehead against Otoya’s, pressing a small kiss to his nose. “Happy birthday, ya idiot.” Otoya mumbles a thank you in response, tucking his face into Karasu’s neck. The two walk together into the kitchen of their decent little place. Otoya smiles at the sight in front of him. Yukimiya stands in front of their stove, preparing three piles of pancakes for them all. Between his legs stands his new guide dog, an Australian Shepherd called Archer. 

“Morning, Eita. Happy Birthday.” Yukimiya turns to face him, opening up one of his arms. Otoya happily accepts the embrace, tucking his face into Yukimiya’s neck just as he had done with Karasu only moments ago. Yukimiya’s hand threads into his hair, causing Otoya to let out a pleased hum, relaxing further into Yukimiya’s body. 

“You’ll put him back to sleep.” Karasu teases lightly as he reaches to take his and Otoya’s plates, carrying them to the living home. Yukimiya pats Otoya on the small of his back, silently urging him to follow Karasu. Otoya does without complaint, following Karasu into the living room. Karasu’s in his spot on their sofa, his plate on his lap and Otoya’s on the small table in front of the sofa.

Otoya sets himself down next to Karasu, tucking himself into Karasu’s side before he reaches out for his plate, placing it on his lap. It doesn’t take long for Yukimiya to join them, Archer not following far behind him. Otoya has to lift his plate as Yukimiya takes up the rest of the sofa as usual, his legs resting in Otoya’s lap, and Otoya doesn’t hesitate to put his plate back down into Yukimiya’s legs, silently hoping that the other doesn’t make any sudden movements.

“Thanks for breakfast, Yuki.” Otoya reaches a hand out towards Yukimiya, who reaches out in return to take Otoya’s hand.

“Please, it’s the least I could do for you” Otoya smiles fondly at Yukimiya's soft and gentle tone. He’d always had a weakness for Yukimiya’s voice, and that’s usually Karasu’s thing. 

His soft amber eyes and soothing voice. That was Karasu’s and Otoya’s first impression of Yukimiya during Second Selection. Having just lost Kiyora to Nagi’s team, Karasu, Otoya and Himizu went back down to the third stage, where they encountered Yukimiya’s team. At first, they had their eyes set on other players, but after seeing just how powerful he was in one-on-ones (and how pretty he was) Karasu made the final call to have him join their team. Best call the stupid crow had ever made. Yukimiya was not only a great addition to their team, but Jesus Christ if Otoya didn’t want him he’d be lying harder than he was denying his sexuality. Both Otoya and Karasu could tell the other was thinking the same thing, but neither knew the best way to approach the situation. It wasn’t until the Neo Egoist League that Otoya and Karasu simply grew impatient and asked him out, which considering the chaos of confession, went surprisingly well, far better than Otoya’s and Karasu’s weird post match locker room make out. 

Otoya jumps a little when he feels the weight of Archer’s head rest on his knee. Otoya smiles, reaching out to scratch the shepherd’s head as he and his partners happily ate together. Yukimiya being the first to get up, without sending Otoya’s plate flying. He takes the others’ plates back to the kitchen, Archer following him as always. After cleaning up, the three did their daily workout as usual, all going to their local gym to train and keep fit. They all want to move into a bigger place where they can get their own at home gym, especially for when Yukimiya’s vision goes. Once they all return home, Otoya finds himself being showered in gifts. Yukimiya got him a nice pair of boots he’d been wanting for ages but felt the price was obsessive, because despite popular belief, Otoya’s semi-decent at money management, as well as some good quality rings, since most of Otoya’s were, in Karasu’s words ‘shitty and not his style’ among other things.

Karasu’s gifts were things Otoya had explicitly asked for, mostly clothes, ones from his favourite brand, more beanies to add to his abundance, as well as a mix of general trinkets and manga. 

“Thank you both for the gifts.” Otoya reaches a hand out to each of them. Karasu takes his hand, rubbing his thumb along the back of his palm, while Yukimiya takes his other, pressing it to his own cheek.

“You don’t need to thank us, Eita.” Yukimiya presses a small kiss to Otoya’s wrist, Karasu leaning in to litter his facing in many more. Otoya tries to shy away from Karasu, but the arm that snakes its way around his waist holds him in place. Otoya hears Yukimiya chuckle at the action, which lends him a glare from Otoya.

“Not gonna help me?” Otoya grumbles a little, still trying to push Karasu away from him. Yukimiya shakes his head, closing the little distance between the two of them, joining Karasu in his onslaught against Otoya. “Stop!” Otoya can’t help but laugh a little, truly enjoying the affection. The others laugh in response, both of them sharing a kiss with Otoya, then each other.

“Happy Birthday, Babe.” Karasu speaks into Otoya’s hair, his hand rubbing small circles on his hip.

“Thank you, both of you.” Otoya smiles, leaning into Karasu, making room for Yukimiya to join the cuddle, which he does. Despite being the tallest one, even with his measly 1cm on Karasu, he tucks himself as much as physically possible into their chest, both his arms wrapping around their backs, his glasses awkwardly digging into their chests but they both don't care. Otoya drops his head into Yukimiya’s head, breathing in the scent of his ridiculously expensive shampoo. Oh how he couldn't ask for more from them.

[sirowsky-stories]

Lingerie For Beginners

Summary: Pero wants to give his new lady a present, but he's not exactly at home in the underwear store.

Requested by @suttonspuds

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Pero Tovar x OFC, the images are just for aesthetics, female character is not described beyond being a B-cup, no overt sexual themes but plenty of mentions of breasts and overall mature content. Word Count: 1200

   His hands are already clammy with nervous sweat as he walks into the store, certain he’s about to embarrass himself, but also determined to leave with what he hopes will be an outfit exactly as the one he pictures in his head.    Calling it that might be an overstatement, however, as he stops and looks around a few feet into the establishment, seeing nothing concealing enough to be referred to as a complete outfit.    Lots of it looks fun, though. While some of it looks downright scary.

   “Can I help you, sir?” a silky voice says to his right, and he looks over to find a middle-aged woman, wearing a polka dot dress in 60’s style with matching makeup and hat, all of which somehow suits her perfectly.

   “Yes, well…” he tries, but the words die on his tongue when he realizes he doesn’t quite know how to describe what he wants.

   “First time in a lingerie store?” the woman guesses, and there’s no judgement or even curiosity in her voice, which sets him at ease.

   He nods while feeling his shoulders relax somewhat, and she smiles in response.

   “Alright, no problem. My name is Wendy, now let me just work out what we’re dealing with here.    Are you looking for something for a new relationship or something to spice up an older one?”

   “New. Three months.”

   “Aw, congratulations,” she offers sincerely. “That means it’s not an anniversary, though. Birthday?”

   “No. She has been feeling down lately, because of her job. It makes her feel ugly sometimes,” he tries to explain, and she immediately gets it.

   “So, you wanna remind her that’s not how she looks to you, and maybe help boost her self-image a bit?”

   “Yes, exactly this.”

   “Honey, that’s precisely what sexy lingerie is supposed to be about. You’ve got the right idea, now let’s see if we can find a good fit for you, and for her, of course.    I assume you have her sizes?”

   “Uh… I know she has a B-cup,” he offers, feeling stupid for not remembering to check more than that, but in fairness, he’s never done this before.

   “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can figure it out. Can you show me by hand-measurement how wide her back or hips are?”

   This he knows without hesitation, because he loves to watch her when she struts around naked or just in her underwear in the apartment. And she’s been trapped beneath him both from the front and the back many times, so he knows her size compared to him very well.    Using his hands, he gives the saleswoman as accurate a representation as he can, and she leads him off down the aisles.

   “Okay, first off: which color did you have in mind?”

   “She looks especially good in white. And I like the lace that you can just almost see through,” he admits, feeling a bit vulnerable revealing his preferences to someone he isn’t intimately involved with.

   “And what about style? What type of bra do you think would best show off her bust?”

   This question he feels genuinely unwilling to answer, simply because discussing his woman’s private parts with a complete stranger seems utterly indecent.    She’s come to a stop in one of the aisles and is perusing a variety of white bra’s, some with lace, others with silk, but she pauses when she notices him turning away and displaying general discomfort.

   “I’m sorry, I know this can feel somewhat invasive. I’m just trying to help you visualize so that you can get the perfect set for your woman, and for yourself.”

   “I understand this, I just… don’t feel good about describing her in such detail.”

   “Well, maybe you don’t have to,” she suggests, and then picks out a cute little bra, holding it up to his scrutiny. “For example, this is a balconette. See how the cups form a straight line when they’re filled? It usually gives the breasts a bit of a bounce and rounds them off really nicely.    Whereas this one is called a plunge, because the triangular shape of the cup means that you don’t conceal any skin between the breasts.    And then there’s the cage-bra, which is really sexy with different kinds of straps, either over the breasts, shoulders, or across the back.”

   As she describes them, she holds each of them up and demonstrates their features, then she emphasizes that each of the different styles come in all sorts of fabrics, so there’s no limit to which one he can pick, if he wants lace.    But all this does, is confusing him even more. He really has no idea what his date might look best in. Hell, he didn’t even know there were so many different types of bras.

   “I don’t like the cage one,” he finally manages to work out. “Too complicated.”

   “Good, now we’re getting somewhere.”

   “Which would you recommend?” he asks then, conceding that he is talking to an expert on the matter and might as well trust her judgement better than his own ignorance.

   “Hmmm… Having only a basic sense of your girl’s body-type, I think I would go for the balconette. It generally makes any bosom look good, provided it’s a good quality piece.    And actually, come to think of it, we have a gorgeous lace version, with a satin/lace hipster panty to go with it.    Let me get it for you, and see what you think.”

   She darts off before he’s had a chance to respond, so he stands there awkwardly while he waits for her to return, idly looking at some of the choices available in the nearest aisles, some of which he can’t even work out how a person’s supposed to get into.    But he also spots something interesting. A teddy made almost entirely from glass crystals, strung together into the shape of a bra which connects to a tiny pair of panties, only the crotch of which is made of fabric, but still see-through lace.    It’s not at all what he thought he might be drawn to, but he can almost see how good it would look on the body he most desires, and he just can’t take his eyes off it.

   “That one’s not as expensive as it looks,” Wendy promptly informs him when she sees where his gaze has gotten stuck.

   “Really?” he hears himself ask before he manages to reel in his racing thoughts. “Uh, but it’s not what I was looking for. It is nice, though.”

   “Maybe next time,” she suggests, and he shrugs, so she proceeds to show him the piece she’s gotten for him.

   “Oh… this is perfect,” he whispers, not sure how his bumbling efforts of explanations enabled her to find exactly what he’d envisioned.

   “Excellent! I had a feeling you’d like it. But just so you know, if you keep the receipt, you can exchange it if your girl doesn’t like it.”

   He pays for the gift while she wraps it for him, in what has to be the most beautiful package he’s ever seen, and before he leaves, he throws one last glance at the crystal teddy, glinting at him from the back half of the store.

   “Next time. Definitely.”

THE END

[buckets-and-trees]

Buck's Eleven

Characters/Pairings: Bucky and Steve with mentions of Bucky x ex!wife Reader Word Count: 1.6k Summary: Going into a job this big, you have to take the house or know the house will hunt you down and swallow you into its belly. Vegas is unforgiving. Good thing they're the best at what they do.

Content/Concept Warnings: Thief/Con Artist AU, smoking, 1960s elements, references to sexual acts

Notes: CONQUERING FOUR EVENTS/CHALLENGES, which is my crowning moment this summer:

@buckybarnesevents WEEK FIVE of Hot Bucky Summer: "When I First Met You..."

Sixth square of @buckybarnesbingo U4: "AU: Historical"Playing Games"

Featuring Lemonade and a Road trip for @the-slumberparty's June Challenge

AND MY FOURTH AND FINAL SQUARE for Connect4 Alternate June-iverse: C4 "Thief/Con Artist" (and including an Alpine sighting so I can collect my TOE BEANS)

This is an MCU homage to Ocean's Eleven drawing direct inspiration from the 1960 and 2001 films. The 2001 has been one of my favorite heist movies since it came out, and I had never seen the 1960s original until this week, but once I started watching it, my jaw dropped with excitement over how ripe it was to adapt for a Bucky (and Steve) AU because in the original, it's 15 years after WWII and the crew is a reassembled group of guys who were in the army together!

I borrowed some dialogue directly from the 2001 film, and those are in bold italics.

Story graphic by me, dividers by @firefly-graphics, reblog graphic by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Bucky takes a seat in the chair across from the penitentiary’s release board and settles his hands casually in his lap.

The man in the center taps his cigarette in the ash tray before returning it to his lips. “Please state your name for the record.”

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Thank you. Mr. Barnes, you’re meeting with this board today to answer a few questions so we can determine whether or not you intend to break the law again.”

Bucky nods. Contrition. Congeniality. A touch of charisma, but nothing too memorable. That’s what he must serve up.

“This is your first conviction, but you have been implicated in a long list of other cases for confidence schemes and frauds. Is this a fair and accurate record?”

Bucky glances at the doll off to the side at a small table of her own, clicking away impressively at a typewriter.

“I expect your records to be nothing but accurate, though – as you said – I’ve been implicated but never charged.”

“Mr. Barnes, what we’re trying to find out is: was there a reason you committed this crime, or was there simply a reason you got caught this time?”

“My wife left me. I was upset. I fell into a self-destructive pattern.”

Exactly what he knows they would like to hear.

“If released, is it likely you would fall into a similar pattern?”

Bucky cocks his head almost imperceptibly. “She already left me once; I don’t think she’d do it again just for kicks.”

“Fellas, you know I’d do almost anything for ya, but not… not this,” Banner looks between them, rubbing the back of his neck.

Steve smiles warmly, the smile he knows tricks his friends and his marks into whatever he needs. “Why waste all the little tricks that the army taught us just because it’s sort of peaceful now?”

The din of the night club around them – games of cards, dames performing on stage, drinks being served up all around – gives them all the privacy they need to hold a sensitive conversation around the table, just the three of them.

“We’re trained men,” Bucky adds.

“I know. I know you are, and we always did good work.”

“Better with you on the crew, you keep us careful.”

“You remember a little operation called Stacks back on the Sokovian front?” Steve asks.

“Do I! Eleven of us in and out under the cloaking of the trees at night with more Axis piles of cash than was decent for either side to have stockpiled away.”

“We should have buried it,” Bucky says.

“Speaking of money, you’re going to need an enormous amount of backing to pull this off in Vegas. The city’s not a sleepy little town tucked away near the mountains and off the grid of the main occupation, it’s got a million neon lights glowing on it every night.”

“Fury, easy.”

“None of us are gonna be as easy as you think. You’ll need the best electrician around, and Tony’s out.”

“Got religion?” Bucky asks.

“Naw, he and Pepper have got a kid now.”

Bucky looks to Steve, but he seems unconcerned. “Morgan – she’s cute.” Steve looks back to Banner. “I think he’ll do it.”

Banner shakes his head, but grins. “Pepper’s already unhappy he’s back in the game on the fluffy jobs, but if you think you can convince him… You get Fury and you get Tony, I’ll play ball with you.”

“You can’t do it. It’s impossible. I made it impossible. I invented casino security. When I first met you boys, you were bright young cocky upstarts. Now you’re bright and cocky – and just lucky that most of the time you’re not too cocky. Now I like you boys, but it can’t be done.”

“You know what? You’re probably right.”

“Eyes were too big for our stomachs.”

“You would know better than anyone.”

“Sure, sure. I just don’t want to see you boys behind bars, especially since you’re fresh out, Barnes.”

“Well, we appreciate the lemonade all the same,” Steve says, setting down his now empty glass.

“It’s hand pressed every morning down at the river market.”

“And thank you for taking care of Alpine while I was away,” Bucky scratches the the head of his white cat, who hasn’t stopped purring since being reunited. He scoops her up to his chest, and he and Steve stand to leave.

“It was good to see you, Nick,” Steve says.

“Give Maria your addresses on the way out, she’s got me a good source on Cuban cigars, I’ll send each of you a box.”

Bucky nods. “That’s sure nice of you.”

They turn and start to walk across the terrace toward the patio doors.

Fury looks after them. He sighs. “Tell me the marks.”

They slowly turn back, appearing to casually answer, but knowing this will bring him in.

“The… Sahara–“

“–Sahara, the Riviera, and the Dunes,” Bucky finishes.

“Hold on.” Fury stands. “Those are Pierce’s places. What do you two got against Pierce?”

“Pierce is the king on top of the mountain right now, nothing more than that.”

“I still owe him for how he got me with Project Insight,” Steve adds, “but I could get him back some other way. The golden opportunity to knock over his casinos on the fight night of the year, Thor vs. Starlord in a few weeks? That’s just destiny giving me the gift to make it sweeter that it’ll be his money.”

“And, Rogers, you’re okay with this knowing full well who the dame rumored to be attached to his son’s arm?”

“Yep,” Steve says without hesitation. “It’s not about her. Pierce is the king on the top of the mountain right now, we just want to topple him over. I still owe him for Project Insight. Besides, Buck’s not stupid enough to make this about a dame who divorced him, and like you said it’s only a rumor that she’s his doll.”

Fury turns his stare to Bucky. He shrugs. “She’s made it pretty clear with the divorce papers.”

He studies him for a moment, then seems satisfied.

“And you’re just going to go on your little road trip across the country recruiting your team?”

“Who doesn’t love a summer road trip?” Bucky asks, a full grin on his face.

“Sam’s already in Sin City, picked out a nice house for us to set up and lay low in Henderson.”

“Henderson’s nice and sleepy. Banner will be there by the end of the week, and we just came from seeing Tony.”

“You should swing through Salt Lake City, look in on the Maximov Twins, they’re pulling off some impressive stuff among the locals there.”

“I’ll put them on the list.”

Steve leans up against the side of the convertible while Bucky starts to pump the gas.

“Sam’s not eager about the kid.”

“I know he’s not,” Bucky smirks. “But he’s our grease man. There’s a reason they’re calling him the Spider Boy Wonder now. Besides, he was a kid before I went in, it’s been four years, he’s not a kid anymore.”

“He’s impressive.”

Steve lets silence fall for a beat.

“Tell me it’s not about her. Tell me you are not stupid enough to make this about her.”

Frankly Bucky is shocked and impressed that it took Steve thirty minutes to press him about you now that he knows.

“It’s not about her, it’s about five million cool a piece.”

Steve looks dubious. “Because when we say ‘till the end of the line…’”

“It’s not about her, she just happens to be there, but I’m not ignoring that fact – we’re just going to use it to our advantage because she’ll be a blind spot for him.”

“Because she was a blind spot for you?”

“No, she was never that.” She was fireworks, electricity, what kept him sharp when he was on his game, before he got caught and sulked behind bars.

Steve sighs and his face softens. “I know. Just promise me we don’t do anything stupid.”

"No, nothing stupid. Too much riding on this. Heist of our lives."

As they pulled out onto the street, car aimed for the interstate, Bucky wouldn't spend the duration of the road trip thinking about you, but you would cross his mind frequently, as you always had.

With the miles ahead of them, the memories of you could distract him in peace. Thoughts of when he first met you. Thoughts of sneaking into rooftop parties and pools at places like Fury’s like you two had done when you were both too broke to get in any other way. Thoughts of his hand disappearing under your skirt and up to tease the delicious heat between your thighs. Thoughts of your head falling back and exposing your throat to him. Thoughts of your head falling forward to rest against his. Thoughts of you gasping beneath him as he thrust inside you. Thoughts of you wrapped up in his arms, leaning against his chest as you watched the sun set on your little balcony of that third-floor apartment in the city. Thoughts of the soft mornings and late nights in the bed you had shared together until you didn’t. Thoughts he fights both to hold onto and forget.

But you were unforgettable. You were his. You had to be his again. He's waited for just the right angle to set you in his sights again, and he knows he can get you as sure as he knows they will walk away with over fifty million and without a trace.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[brunhielda]

As I am unable to indulge in my yearly Independence Day tradition this year, I instead reccomend it to total strangers on the internet.

(If you are reading this and it is not July 4th, USA, this is still a decent recommendation in general)

Watch 1776, the movie musical from 1972. (It is available on Amazon and Apple TV for less than $5, and is free with Hulu)

“Why?” I hear you ask, “would I watch that old thing when I have Hamilton?”

Firstly- I will not compare quality. The two shows are apples and oranges and the only thing they have in common is the subject matter being the Revolutionary period of the USA.

I will openly admit that Hamilton has much more dynamic staging/dancing, and there is simply no rap to be heard in 1776.

That said, reasons you absolutely SHOULD watch it:

1) You have already seen Hamilton. Presumably you have not seen 1776. It will be something new.

2) The line “Sit down John, you old f-!” from Hamilton is a reference to this musical, so you know Lin Manuel Miranda is a fan.

3) The main character, John Adams, is played by a much younger William Daniels. You may know him as “Mr. Feeny.” And yes. He is glorious.

4) You will enjoy such fun quips as-

“I have better things to do than stand around listening to Benjamin Franklin quote himself.”

“Hold on John- that was a new one!”

(Arguing with God)

“A simple plague of locusts I’d accept with some dispare. But no, you gave us Congress! Good God Sir, was that fair?”

“May my horse be turned to glue if I can’t deliver unto you a resolution on Independancy.”

(Said horse- a paid actor- turns around to bite him)

Jokes from old congressmen about being so old it hurts to piss.

Jokes about bull testicles.

(Refusing to help write the Declaration)

“I cannot write with any style or proper edicate! I don’t know a participle from a predicate! I am just a humble cobbler from Connecticut.” (He is so relatable for that. The whole song is one big- everyone is trying to ditch this “group” project)

5) Thomas Jefferson being too horny to work is a major plot point.

6) The most romantic subplot in this film, and I mean, actually beautifully romantic, is John arguing with his wife, Abigail, via letters. Best part about that is these parts are straight from their real historical letters. Perfect in every way. 🥰

7) The discussion on Slavery is intense. I will say this version of events paints Jefferson rather rosy, but it was written before we knew what we knew about him, and he is documented as fighting hard to end slavery with the founding of the nation. It is bizarre, knowing that, that he continued on in the manner he did. People are multifaceted, and some just get worse with age.

But the part in this movie that is worth watching is the argument the South gives back. Thier argument is basically “If we are sinning by this practice, then you are sinning with us, because you benefit.” While it is a lack luster argument to keep doing as you are doing, it does allow a nuanced understanding of privelege before the term was even used in that manner.

It also delivers a bone chilling example of the triangle trade in the form of a song that has haunted me since childhood.

“Molasses to rum to slaves. Who sails the ships out of Boston? Laden with bibles and rum? Whose fortunes are made in the triangle trade? Hail Charleston! Hail Boston! Who stinketh the most?”

8) “Cool Considerate Men” is also bone chilling, as a bunch of conservative congressmen dance calmly while listening to a casualty report from Washington. The song will never not be relevant.

9) In the same way, “Mama Look Sharp” will always always bring me to tears. It is a song from a Messenger Boy sent with Washington’s missive from the front. He sings about his friend calling for his mother as the young boy lay dying on “the green.”

The green was where people held meetings and parties and festivals- the green is the old fashioned version of “the Town Park.” The first battles for freedom were faught in town parks, where boys crawled off under thier favorite tree to die.

In light of everything that we have heard about fighting for freedom around the world, the line “The soldiers they fired! Oh Ma, did we run. Hey! Hey! Mama, look sharp,” is making me cry right now, and I haven’t even heard this song in a year. 😭🎶

10) “Is anybody there??? Does anybody care?! Does anybody see what I see? I see Americans, ALL Americans, FREE, forever more! Is anybody there??? Does anybody care?! Does anybody see what I see?”

The older I get the more I relate to John Addams screaming into the void because he simply cannot fix all the problems by himself.

There is more I could say about this musical, but at that point it would just be telling. Go watch the film. It’s funny and fun and poignant and powerful, and might make you cry. As good broadway often does.

[romeoeatzkorn]

OKAY!!!!

Goldenpunk (aka Hobie x Pavitr) HCs cause I can

Hobie is a SKINNY MF (slightly from malnutrition) he’s also very light and is 6 foot something

Pavitr is pretty toned for a 16 year old and is avarage height

Hobie is a Transmasculine Enby (he/they/it he/him pref)

Pavitr is a Nonbinary Demiboy (he/him)

Pavitr when sleeping takes up a LOT of space and Hobie takes up very little so they’re perfect

THEY ARE TFT (both nonbinary)

Pavitr is Bi while Hobie is Gay

Hobie wasn’t able to afford top surgery so he got it done for free in a sketchy back alley and also cause fuck capitalism

Hobie is AFAB and has been on testosterone for 2 years (which once again he gets in a sketchy ass alley once again also cause fuck capitalism)

Pavitr is AFAB nuff said

I was informed that GRLwood is cancelled for completely fair reasons (one of the members is a sexual abuser) so i simply removed this HC

Hobie is fairly strong for such a skinny guy

Hobie doesn’t like his mom a lot

Pavitr misses his mom and thinks she would think he is a disappointment

They’re inlove

Hobie has a soft spot for stray animals of any kind so do with that HC what you will

The first time they met Hobie tried to murder Pavitr out of instinct and instinct alone

Pavitr sometimes helps Hobie with his hair but he really loves running his fingers through hobies hair same with hobie

Hobie HATES cold weather

Pavitr will complain if it’s a little too hot

Sometimes Hobie will just crash through Pavitrs window and Pavitrs basically numb to it at this point

Mentioned in the previous post but Hobie wears lipstick and is heavily affectionate so….it didn’t take a lot of people long to figure out they were going steady

Hobie constantly uses the term Necking instead of Make out cause Miguel hates it and he loves to make Miguel mad

I call the ship Chai Tea sometimes ( Chai = pavitr Tea = Hobie) just cause it feels right in my bones

Pavitrs aunt maya loves Hobie just she’s a little suspicious about the fact he’s British, not to mention she makes a FUCK ton of jokes about Hobie stealing pavitr like the british stole India's history which slay girlboss

Pavitr makes a lot of jokes about Hobie being British too

Hobie wrote an entire song about wanting to kiss Pavitr and it took Pavitr two years to figure out

Miguel hates their constant PDA so Hobie calls him Homophobic (and also a nonce)

Jess thinks that it’s sweet that they’re so affectionate with each other

Miguel will piss off Hobie and hobies like “aight OI PAVITR LETS GO NECK IN MIGUELS OFFICE”

Pavitr likes Hobies accent a lot

Same with Hobie

Hobies 17 and Pavitr is 16 but Hobie is older by 3 months

Hobie is easily flustered he just is good at hiding it

slightly angsty one but Hobie (when they were first developing crushes on each other) was terrified that pavitr would either get killed because of him or pavitr would turn out to be homophobic, this caused him to have a breakdown in the middle of a fight

Hobie and Sunspider are best friends cause WLW and NWLNW solidarity

Sometimes Gwen and Hobie hang out in Pavitrs universe but Hobie hangs out there all the time

They like to have really meaningful conversations while beating up facists

Both of them hate facists

On Hobies back there is a tatto (which he shouldnt fuckin have but once again sketchy ass alley and fuck capitalism) that says Stay woke as a reference to something said in the black community years back to fight against police brutality

stole this one from @toshkakoshka and made some adjustments but Hobie and Pavtir have matching henna designs of each others spider symbol

aunt maya did it for them

hobie will NEVER admit but he is a HUGE snuggler (also he'll never admit hes a fan of weezer)

Hobie is the parent of the friend group.

THEY ARE Black lab and golden retriver

After quitting Hobies watch slowly stops working so he started collecting small pieces of tech that were given to him by gwen and other friends who think miguel should pull the stick outta his ass and just let miles join *cough cough* sunspider *cough cough* so hobie makes the first version of the watch that gwen was given near the end of the movie, this first version has a time limit so when ever Hobie wants to go hang out with pravitr, miles or gwen (usually pravitr) he has to stay vigilent so he doesn't fucking die

and because of this and being homeless he rarely gets sleep

Pavitr and Hobie are either roughhousing when ever theyre around each other or Being a lovey dovey couple cause the fucks refuse to separate

Pavitrs type in men is tall guys with piercings and who dress androgynous his type in girls is usually gals who are the same height as him who are smart, have short hair, and can rock both the fem and masc style

Pavitrs and his Gf spilt up because they both realized they were going complete separate ways in life (she never wanted to have kids and Pav wanted kids one day) so they spilt but they are very very good friends still and are slightly queer platonic (Hobie is completely comfortable with this)

once Hobie shaved his head and when i tell you pavitr had Bisexual panic i mean it

even if the relationship was only platonic Hobie would still be heavily affectionate to Pav since thats his way of showing people he cares about them

Pav can be VERY bitey at times this annoys everyone except Hobie

Hobie writes cheesy ass love songs then plays them for pav but he never finishes them

Pavitr needs reminders that Hobie still wants to pursue a romantic relationship with him (similar to me lmao) Hobie is completely fine with this and reminds Pav when ever he needs to

Pav is a ACCIDENTAL shirt thief he forgets to give them back (same lol)

Aunt maya loves the entire group (even though they make her life slightly harder) and calls them little nicknames in arabic

here are the nicknames (Sry for the butchering im using google translate) Miles = العنكبوت الصغير Hobie = بريطاني gwen = فتاة ذكية and finally Pav = حمار (pavs is a tad mean but hes okay with it)

Hobie only lets the friend group call him Spider-punk, with anyone else? ON SIGHT ASS BEATING

Hobie AND Pav have abandonment issues just in two different fonts

Hobies gender envy sums up to Demonic shit and beings

Pav (by other people) has been described to be as loyal as a dog which can bite him in the ass based on the people hes friends with

heres a Gwen x Miles HC for your troubles, Gwen did the kiss thing except She stuck Miles to the ceiling and took off his mask to kiss him

Sun spider started teasing Pav about his and Hobies relationship kinda being like romeo and juilette after Hobie quit, just for shits and giggles (Pav didnt mind at all)

Charlotte calls Hobie hobo or faggot and Hobie calls her Slag or Dyke (They are NMLNM and NWLNW solidarity)

so a common interaction between the two would go like "sup fag" "hey dyke" then the two laugh about it

Hobie and Gwen have set a building on fire together like besties do

Miles asked Hobie if he liked Gwen and Hobie laughed and just said "Im gay bruv"

Gwen and Hobie (at first) COULD NOT handle eating in Pavs universe

Pavitr (when kissing) bites for some fucking reason he doesnt even understand the reason he has the impulse to bite his romantic partners

Sometimes Hobie just screams for no reason other than "fuck you miguel"

Hobie thinks we should get rid of the pride parades and just have riots (he has a bit of a point)

sometimes hobie will just carry people like they're wet cats (its mainly charlotte)

Charlotte and Pavitr had a Greece moment in which was of course ruined by Miguel

Basically SunSpider wanted all the deets about Pavitr and Hobie

Hobie calls Pavitr Pavi and Pavitr calls Hobie Hobs (sometimes)