#ts ask game

[goddessofmischief]

Chemtrails over the country club by Lana

the MOST shanks coded song in history

"You're in the wind, I'm in the water, nobody's son, nobody's daughter" like excuse me

[insertdisc5]

How much of the core audience of isat will crossover with project ts?

th... the.... the sifloop enjoyers. i think. but i think the isafrin enjoyers will find their happiness here also. yeah. thats what i think

[sweet-milky-tea705]

Draw Kuras with his very real and legal doctor's license

I believe him..

[delimeful]

how easy you are to need (redux) (7)

warnings: misunderstandings, feeling trapped, unhealthy thoughts about an assumed situation, death and injury mention, discussion of debts, unreliable narrator, virgil horribly misinterpreting yet another normal conversation, literally embarrassing levels of thick-headedness

-

Letting his guard down around the humans was far, far easier than it should have been.

He still eased his defenses down slowly, bit by bit, of course, he wasn’t a complete fool. An understanding between him and Patton didn’t necessarily mean that the others felt the same.

They were humans, not shifters, after all, and while he could see the shape of a pack in their closeness, that didn’t mean he could assume the same principles would apply. They all took on equal responsibilities in maintaining and protecting their home, and none of the three had shown any particular indication that they were a designated envoy, meant to speak for the entire pack.

Frankly, with it only being the three of them, a lack of envoy wouldn’t have been too surprising even if they had been shifters. Some smaller packs forewent assigned roles, rotating them as needed, or were close-knit enough that they essentially acted as one whole, any individual able to speak for the pack.

The humans loved to bicker, though, and it would have been like a slap in the face to trust in Patton’s promise and then have them argue about it right in front of him. Instead, Virgil tested the firmness of the new ground he’d been offered with slow, tentative steps, like a deer crossing over a frozen lake. Better to take his time and test the ice than plunge right through.

Irritatingly, the humans made it far too easy for him to forget how precarious his standing was.

Even the simplest of interactions seemed to please them. When he’d responded to Patton’s friendly greeting for the first time, the morning after their midnight conversation, the human’s expression had lit up like a lightning bug at dusk. When he’d finally answered one of Logan’s questions during a meal, the scholar had blinked a few times in quiet surprise before smiling in a way that made his entire face look softer. When he’d pursed his lips and snapped out a sharp retort to something annoying Roman had said, the hunter hadn’t hesitated to needle him right back with friendly delight, the same as he did with the other two.

They were keeping him trapped here, because they were human and they knew better than to let a monster roam free in the woods around their home, but they didn’t want a starved prisoner or a ticket to easy riches. They wanted to offer him comfort and belonging in the time that he had left.

He’d saved them, and they were repaying it in the only way they could afford to.

It was pathetic, how relieved he felt. How genuinely grateful he was for the simple fact that he wasn’t being forced to relive the unending torment of his first imprisonment. How such basic offerings of food and warmth and companionship made it possible to ignore or even briefly forget about the executioner’s axe hoisted over his head.

He’d been on his own for a long time. Returning to that solitude would be its own kind of death, a slow and painful relearning of what it meant to be alone. He knew this, but tried not to dwell on it. He’d survived it once before, and he would again. Better to endure the loneliness than lose the safety of isolation.

So, he forced himself to keep focusing on methods of escape, on the ways this slowly-growing camaraderie would offer lapses in security, on the new freedoms he could take advantage of, and didn’t think about what he would do afterwards.

With this goal in mind, he immediately decided to test his luck by poking his nose where it didn’t belong.

He’d regained some mobility after another week of healing, though he kept his walking pace to a slow shuffle out of caution, and the humans still tended to hover like agitated honeybees whenever he was on his feet for too long. The cabin was small enough that he had mapped out most of it within a day or two, and now he approached the only room he hadn’t yet entered or peered into.

When he pushed the door of Logan’s workspace open, the human’s head snapped up immediately, wearing the beginnings of a frown. Once he saw that it was Virgil who stood in the doorway, though, the displeased turn of his lips faded away, replaced by eyebrows raised in intrigue.

“Hello,” he said, voice polite despite the interruption. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Of the three of them, Logan had been the most respectful in his formality, and so Virgil impulsively tested the bounds of that patience by not answering right away, instead letting his gaze drift over the room and its contents.

There were far more plants scattered about than he’d expected, though perhaps he should have expected as much from the dedication Logan tended his garden with. Pots of different shapes and sizes were settled on every inch of the window ledges, and planters hung from shelves and hooks on the ceiling alike. There was an entire corner of the room dedicated to racks of drying herbs and flowers, both wild and homegrown, which lent the room a pleasant dusty floral smell that almost covered up the sting of ink and chemicals.

There was a table against one wall, the shelves around it packed full with bottles of miscellaneous ingredients, all of them labeled in neat handwriting. The table itself was covered in neatly-organized supplies, with protective sigils carefully carved into the outer edge of the wood, keeping any experimentation contained. It stank less than he’d thought it would, for human magecraft, but then he hadn’t yet seen Logan doing any of the typical dissection and harvesting of supernatural creatures, either.

After the full moon, it would have the bitter tang of magic made through unwilling sacrifice, the distant preserved rot of bottled blood. Virgil would recognize the stench of post-harvest ingredients anywhere. Not that he’d be there to smell it, at that point. He forcibly pulled his attention away.

The last section of the room was less orderly than the rest, primarily due to the heaps of books that were stacked and shoved wherever there was space. Logan’s desk was the only semi-clear spot, and even that had a few precarious book towers sitting atop or alongside it. It was also covered in stacks of parchment, with lines and lines of writing or intricate diagrams sketched on the paper.

Logan sat behind it, still awaiting a response, those keen eyes watching him right back.

There was no sign of the lodestone for the ward around the cabin at first glance. He had known better than to think it would be that easy, though.

He hadn’t known that he would actually get this far, assuming that they wouldn’t want their magic prisoner sticking his nose in the most likely place to find a way out of their wards. Even Roman and Patton didn’t tend to disturb Logan too often when he was working in this space, so he’d assumed he’d only get a few moments to glance around at best.

“You haven’t been to the leyline crossing,” he said, because the silence had begun to grow awkward and he’d panicked and they really hadn’t, even though it was well past the usual time of the month they went.

Logan’s stare sharpened, which was probably a bad sign, but he only stood up to clear the books off of a second chair, and gestured for him to sit.

This had been a bad idea. Virgil slunk forward with extreme reluctance and sat.

“We haven’t,” Logan answered affirmatively as he returned to his seat, adjusting his spectacles. “It didn’t seem wise to venture into the woods, seeing as that is where the bear headed, last we saw it.”

That was… a really good reason, actually. Virgil shuddered at even the idea of them running into that creature again in the dead of night, without him to help.

“I take it that you’ve been familiar with us for a while, then, since you know of our routine offerings?” Logan continued, sounding more curious than angry.

Virgil froze up, regardless. He should have known better than to hope he could make it through a conversation without giving anything away. He hadn’t even managed to make it through the first sentence.

“I am not upset,” Logan offered, glancing down at the open book before him in a gesture that seemed designed to give Virgil a moment to breathe. “On the contrary, I am… rather relieved, to have my suspicions confirmed.”

“Relieved?” Virgil echoed dubiously, his voice a low croak. It tended to go raspy and hoarse if he wasn’t focusing on speaking, probably the result of not using his human vocal cords to speak to anyone in literal years.

“Indeed,” Logan answered. “I will admit, my initial impression of you was made hastily. We had never seen you before, and yet you didn’t hesitate to defend us, and you earned a significant injury in the process. It was worrying to unexpectedly incur such a debt.”

Virgil managed to shove aside his embarrassment in favor of confusion. It was strange to mention a debt, especially one owed to a shifter. Humans didn’t consider shifters worth trading with in any fashion, in his experience, and even other supernatural beings knew that wolves weren’t fond of holding debts or grudges. Really, the way Logan spoke about it sounded more like…

“You see, I was aware that it is rather rare for a shifter to reveal themself to humans for any length of time, as I’m sure you know, and I was also aware that the fair folk are often deft hands at taking on wild shapes of their own, particularly when interacting with humans, so…” Logan trailed off, looking a bit flustered at the admission.

“You thought I was fae,” Virgil completed the thought, feeling a bit taken aback at the idea. He certainly would have done a fair bit more against that bear if he’d had the sort of natural power that faeries so often courted.

Of course, things also would have turned out a lot worse for the humans if he’d been a fae, more likely than not. Humans who had fallen under the attention of one of the fair folk frequently met an unfortunate end because of it. Whether the faery in question was maliciously fixated or lovingly obsessed, the human would be lucky to come out irrevocably changed. They’d be lucky to come out alive at all.

“It was a working hypothesis,” Logan said primly, turning a page in his book despite the fact that he almost definitely hadn’t been reading while they spoke. “It was disproven easily enough, and so my precautions weren’t needed in the first place, but seeing as my haste has gotten me and those around me in trouble before, I thought it best to perform them anyhow.”

Precautions? Patton had said that Virgil saved his life, if not all of theirs. To the fae, a life debt like that could only be paid off one way, whether they’d been tricked into it or not.

Oh. He had wondered why Logan had been so uncharacteristically careless before, carrying an agitated and injured shifter back with its teeth only a handspan from his neck. If Virgil had been fae, if he’d chosen differently and torn out Logan’s throat, that would have been the end of any debt between him and the others. A life paid for a life owed.

“Did you run that plan by the others, first?” he asked, despite already knowing the answer.

Logan waved a hand dismissively, not bothering to pretend at regret. “They traveled out here on my behalf, in the first place. To let them suffer for my mistakes would be a poor repayment.”

From what he knew of them, Virgil thought Patton and Roman would disagree. Loudly.

“…Right,” said Virgil, in his most dubious tone. “On your behalf?”

“I’m cursed,” Logan explained shortly. “I don’t have the constitution required to perform magework without damaging my health. It was intended to make me choose between my health and my passion, but I was willing to give up neither, and found a third option: proximity to powerful natural magic, which would prevent spellwork from being as taxing.”

“Huh.” It was a clever solution. Logan might have been the one to propose their solution to Virgil, too. Offering a shifter a peaceful last few weeks certainly wasn’t an option he would have expected from any normal humans.

Right. He’d almost forgotten that his plan had been to push against the boundaries of his cage, to force them to acknowledge that he was stuck here, to remind himself that no amount of kind company was worth the pain of how this month would inevitably end.

“Well, you don’t owe me anything,” he said, a little too sharply. “And in that case, there’s no point in me staying.”

Logan sat up straight, posture stiffening as he frowned. “You’re still far from healed. I understand why you don’t wish to shift, but surely, leaving is a bad idea for the same reason?”

There it was. In the end, that was the biggest flaw in the arrangement the humans had come up with. If Virgil attacked them or tried to leave, they’d be forced to kill him immediately. He would lose, but so would they; killing him in his human form would make his corpse far, far less valuable.

“You’re only making things more difficult on yourself,” Virgil told him, crossing his arms as tightly as he could without jarring his wound. “I’m not fae. There’s no worth in being hospitable to me.”

It certainly wasn’t going to convince him to stop trying to escape. He might be pathetic, but he wasn’t that pathetic. Honestly, it’d probably be easier for everyone if they just cut their losses and killed him now.

Logan closed his book, folded his hands over it, and met Virgil’s eyes squarely. “We offered you our hospitality because we wanted to. It is freely given, no matter the ease or difficulty involved.”

Virgil couldn’t help the way his eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. That implied that they would keep on offering him this kindness even if he did get caught attempting to escape.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t ever been truly punished for that first desperate sprint to the wards, had he? None of the things he’d believed to be threats or punishments had ever panned out the way he’d assumed. Ultimately, they hadn’t so much as directly scolded him about the escape attempt, as though the act was hardly surprising. He hadn’t been drugged, and he still wasn’t guarded.

He couldn’t be certain unless he got caught again, but… the signs were all there. They were confident enough in their cage to indulge him even when he was caught gnawing at the bars. They were underestimating him.

“Don’t blame me if you regret it later,” he said dismissively, but he couldn’t help the disbelieving half smile creeping onto his lips.

Logan returned his smile with an encouraging one of his own, apparently unfazed by Virgil’s renewed determination. “I very much doubt I will.”

He snorted and left the human to his work, not cowed at all by the arrogance. Logan could doubt all he liked. Virgil had beaten much worse odds before.

[wri0thesley]

Diluc and L, pretty please!

L - Lily (purity): “I shouldn’t taint you like this. Not when you’re so pure.”

cw: injury, dub-con, captive reader

You're trembling. Diluc is blood-stained, his jaw set stubbornly, his clothes a mess of blood and charred carbon and mud and Archon-knows what else. You shouldn't have done this, you think, as his hand grasps your chin in his, as his fingers sink into the soft flesh of your cheek. He takes a slow, shuddering breath.

"You want to clean me up?" He asks you again, and you curse yourself for your own stupidity. He is your captor, not your lover. It can be hard to remember, wrapped in luxury, brought breakfast in bed by maids and dressed in pretty morning gowns of fabric you could never have afforded before Diluc's attentions - those days when Diluc is not here, and you can imagine Dawn Winery is yours.

But you are, at the heart of it, his captive.

When he is at home, he broods through the house; tells you shortly that you're not to leave this room, you're not to go onto the balcony without anyone with you, you're not to eat that, or say this, or forget your manners again. He sleeps beside you, arms like vices around your waist.

But he has not been home for two weeks, and when you had seen him at the door to your shared chambers, his face bruised and his lip swollen and bloody and his entire body bowed with exhaustion . . . you had forgotten all of it in a moment of weakness, and the memory of who you were before Diluc had made this your life had come rushing to the forefront.

You had seen to plenty of men and women injured like this, when you were in the employ of the Church of Favonius, running their clinics. You had patched up children's knees and sewn shut the wounds of the Knights with the same sweet smile and gentle disposition. You had learnt what to say to men like Diluc, who gritted their teeth and insisted it did not hurt and they did not need your assistance even as they fell to their knees on the marble floor of the cathedral and you had to ask some of the sisters to help carry them into the infirmary room.

You could backtrack. Slink back into bed, shake your head, say something about the mess and the scent of the blood--

But you couldn't really, could you? Diluc had - at least, he says - fallen in love with you in those little backroom infirmaries, elbow deep in blood and medicines and bandages. He had looked at your soft smile and heard your gentle voice and, he says, thought you far too sweet and precious a thing to languish there, at the mercy of any rogue who could walk into the Cathedral and ask for sanctuary. He would know you were lying.

You give him a wordless little nod instead, your face still cradled in his gloved hand. A look flits across his own visage; something so sweet and adoring and disbelieving it makes your stomach twist.

"I don't deserve you," he rumbles, and truer words have never been spoken, as he lets you take him gently by the arm and tug him towards the adjoining bathroom. You ignore the muddy boot-prints on the floor; you try and will yourself to imagine the Cathedral around you. Nothing more than Master Diluc Ragnvindr, needing your aid - you think, as your fingers reach for the fastening of his shredded, tattered jacket and push it off the broadness of his shoulders.

He lets out a hot breath that reminds you that this is not just an ordinary day at the Cathedral; looks at you through half-lidded eyes as you busy yourself with running warm water into the basin, searching for cloths and sponges. There is nothing untoward kept in this bathroom - Diluc does not even shave in here, lest you get the wrong idea about something sharp - but there are, thankfully, enough cloths and a tiny bottle of antiseptic, so that you can clean the wounds on his already scarred chest even as he hisses.

He . . . isn't often undressed around you.

That, he tells you, he will wait for - big soulful crimson eyes trained on you. Until you're ready. Until you realise just how hard he is working to take care of you and you return to him the affection he knows you have in your heart. He would never, he promises, hand on his heart, force you to do anything--

He says, as if you are not forced to play house like a pretty little spouse in his luxurious winery already. He says, as if you are not forced to bite down your growls and hisses and sharp words about the life he has stolen you from. He says, as if you are not forced to pretend you are someone else lest you simply go mad.

His breath is coming out in pants as you work your fingers through the matted crimson strands of his hair. His cheeks have flushed beneath your careful, slow attempts to clean him and his wounds. He groans, chest-deep, as you swallow and reach for his trousers, where you can already see that a gash on his thigh has stuck the fabric to his skin.

"This is how I fell in love with you," he grunts, as you manage to undo it, as your cheeks burn with humiliation as you undress him and he sits there, placid and silent. "So . . . lovely. So . . . caring. Even to those who don't deserve it." You kneel before him, so you can check over the wound to make sure there is nothing stuck in it--

And your mouth goes dry and fear and disgust war in the pit of your stomach as you realise he's hard, the stiff outline of his cock pressing against his underwear. Diluc reaches out for you, one hand curling around your shoulder, another soft groan falling from his mouth as he looks down at you.

You freeze where you are. The moment shimmers between you, charged with possibility, and you find yourself reciting a prayer to Barbatos in your head over and over again, muddling over the words in a fever pitch that Diluc will keep his word--

But he's been off ever since he limped into the Winery. Muddled. A blow to the head? Whopperflower nectar? Some creature's venom, some spell from the Abyss? You don't know what it is, only that Diluc is looking down at you and there is a hot, burning kind of hunger that he usually tries to hide written clear in his crimson gaze.

"You're so pretty down there," He says, voice low and dark and husky. "I . . . I shouldn't taint you like this. Not when you're so pure."

"Diluc?" Your voice comes out thready and reedy, your body trembling like a harp-string. "Let me patch you up--"

"No," Diluc says, more to himself than to you. "I've waited so long--"

The hand on your shoulder curves upwards, thumb brushing your collarbone, your jawline. You curse the thin little morning gown you'd let Adelinde dress you in this morning, the square neckline a little risque - giving Diluc unfettered access to the soft, vulnerable skin of your throat and your collar.

He's not interested in those, though. His thumb presses against the seam of your lips, instead. With a strength that an injured man should not possess, he uses his other hand to pull you closer at the same time as he hooks his thumb into your mouth, forcing it to open up.

Panic flaring in your mind. Diluc pulls your mouth open as wide as he can, uncaring that you're drooling - his eyes are somewhere far away now, as he mutters to himself--

"It's not so bad," he's saying, "I'm not . . . it's just your mouth, and I've been so calm, and you're so beautiful-- it won't . . . ruin you--"

"--'iluc--" You can't speak for his thumb in your mouth, for the saliva filling it, for the fear that runs through you as his other hand slowly goes to unbutton his placket as if in a trance.

"Shh," he says to you, and you have never heard a less reassuring hush. "It's alright, sweetheart. I would never hurt you. You offered, remember? I would never . . . force you to do anything--"

[kimdokjas]

tag game 💌

this is my first time starting one of these!! i stumbled across this picrew and i just thought it was so cute and wanted to share!!

tagging: (no pressure!) @karura @chuuyaaz @itoshisae @reinerist @rampopurin @mauxanhduong @focryst @hayakaws @apparently-artless @gojosattoru @inahochi @rorronoa @mx-sinisters @silversoulsociety @kkomaism @ryxkenkxgami @milaghoul + anyone else who'd like to do this! 💕

[beheamothscreamoth]

I was watching an Ace Attorney playthrough, and a certain iconic scene from the series came on-- And because I'm really into Touchstarved, my brain decided to combine the two! Touchstarved fandom, I have to ask...

(Scene/Quote below for reference!)

[mispatchedgreens]

Hi!! For the fic ask game - ↻ ouyang pov of the sparring scene in "before i come undone" please

Thank you for putting together the evilest question you possibly could, here's 1k of raw sweaty unhingedness as reward

Ouyang’s left hand knuckles still ache from punching the wall yesterday. He thinks about that, about plaster cracking under his fist and about that half a second that Zhu looked scared, how her eyes flew to his hand on the wall, centimetres away from her face. The flinch made the tendons of her neck stand out sharply against the smoothness of her throat for the shortest moment before they subsided back. Ouyang thinks about that too, about crawling in there in his entirety, about taking a nap on her molars and about feeling the vibrations of her vocals from the inside. He hates her so fucking much. Every time he thinks they’ve found a modus operandi and settled down in it, she’ll say some shit like “You’ll sing with me for this one,” and make significant and prolonged eye contact. She’ll say “The track needs it, your highness” and she’ll mean I need it, Ouyang. He knows he’s protesting for the sake of it, because Zhu gets her way as naturally as the sun rising and setting. But he doesn’t want to fucking sing. He doesn’t want to record and immortalise his disgusting high voice, while Zhu acts like his tenor. It’d be less humiliating if she asked him to go on stage naked.

And then this. I could help out. He could help out? Fucking preposterous. Ouyang looks at him. He’s a beast of a man, neck to shoulders and arms. If Ouyang were to wrap his own arms around him, he wonders how much his hands would be able to touch each other. His hands are massive too. Ouyang remembers their hands next to each on the umbrella, and the disparity of their sizes. The tiny shorts he’s wearing have managed to ride even higher up on one leg, revealing a strip of paler skin, and it’s outside of Ouyang’s powers not to imagine what it would feel like for those thighs to be pressed up against the back of his own thighs, knees against the tender, sunless flesh of the back of Ouyang’s knees, an oppressive strength that could turn Ouyang’s brain inside out, make it leak out of his ears, and leave him a receptacle for its brutality.

His eyes are smiling, even when he’s not. Ouyang feels diseased with the fact that he can’t seem to look away from his face. He hasn’t been able to look away from his face for months on end now. This isn’t a problem that Ouyang has ever experienced before. Nor has any other man looking back at him managed to make his gut tighten into a burning hot coal in the same way that Zhu can. Not like this man can.

The man blushes at Ouyang’s scrutiny and he can’t help the spark of tenderness that fizzles inside him. “You don’t have to. It was only an idea,” the man rushes to say. His voice is smooth and deep and Ouyang wants to swallow it right up.

Maybe we should fuck instead, he thinks and the thought makes fury blast through him. They’re going to spar and he’s going to win and it’s going to be humiliating.

.

The sparring mat is no lei tai. It feels flimsy like a glorified yoga mat underneath Ouyang’s bare feet, and it is level with the ground. Still, the moment that the man lowers his stance, placing his centre of gravity towards the earth where he wants to go, where he wants to send Ouyang, Ouyang’s chest tightens like taking four steps back would be a fall to the death. The bet here is becoming fast enough to be able to dart into the man’s open embrace, do damage and extricate himself before those arms clamp shut around him. Ouyang isn’t so arrogant as to think that a properly executed wrestling hold won’t keep him down, especially from someone that outclasses him so much in weight.

Ouyang circles and dances carelessly. He stays high, utilising the length of his legs, kicking and kicking some more. He doesn’t think about it. Every move he’s ever used is stored up inside of him, a horrifying concoction of styles that barely fit together. His heart beats up into his throat, almost like it’s trying to fill it with blood, like he’s going to taste blood. He reaches up fast, to slap a palm flat on the man’s ear and instead gets punched in the mouth for his trouble. It is a consuming, sharp sunburst of sensation, knuckles against lips, lips against teeth. Ouyang wants it forever.

He gets low to sweep a foot at the man’s ankles but he evades it masterfully if not a bit awkwardly. Ouyang almost smiles. The steps back have left his right side open for half a second. Ouyang springs up with the might of a diver pushing at the sandy bottom of the sea and shooting up towards oxygen. His knee connects beautifully with ribs and gut. The whites of the man’s eyes flash with the shock of it and Ouyang is so well pleased he chances a second kick while he’s up there, jabbing with the knee and then hitting with the leg extended, consecutively. It’s not nearly as powerful as the first one and on the return, the man gets him.

He dives into Ouyang’s body like he’s certain he’ll be welcomed, cradled. His arms feel like huge slabs of stone around Ouyang. It’s this that causes his breathlessness, more so than his back hitting the mats with a thud. While he could do nothing to prevent this, he can stack his odds of escape while the takedown is happening. Ouyang gets an arm inside of the hold, right along his body, to crowbar his way out of there with his shoulder. His feet slip on the man’s leg, scrambling against him to find a vulnerable spot. Their sweat makes this an unrefined business, slippery and uncomfortable, fucking glorious. The man’s hair slips out of its ponytail to stick at his brow. He tightens his hold on Ouyang and his smell is potent, all consuming, masculine and thick and Ouyang thinks if he were to open his mouth right now, he’d surely fucking moan.

The need to stay there intensifies to blind him, as a rabbit stays on the road staring at the oncoming traffic. Ouyang puts his escape plan to action, and it requires all of his might and some more of it to grapple the man into the ground. His muscles tense and tense like they’ll all tear in a second, but he does it, he puts the man face first on the ground and sits on his back, victorious. There’s a churning in his gut, a tiny summer storm, hot rain and electricity, his idiot, tiny hands grasping all of that power, all of that man, and shaping him like plasticine, putting him in his place, where he should be, where Ouyang wants him.

He leans down, his mouth tingling from his gums to his trachea, making spit like it’s waiting for company. “Got you.”

[goddessofmischief]

If you are still doing that ask game where people send you Lana del Rey or Taylor swift songs and tell them I'd they are mihawk shanks or buggy coded then I have a song for you!

Young and Beautiful by Lana del Rey from the Great Gatsby

was gonna say shanks, and it definitely has a bit of a shanks vibe lyrically, but the music is just too mihawk to ignore. the lyrics are very mihawk too. so, mihawk coded!

(and yes, this ask game is permanent!)

[angelbitezzz]

Seeing how Angel has nowhere to live, are you guys gonna take her in? If so, where will she sleep? (Couch, Sans' room, Papyrus' room, or a guest room if you guys have it?)

[tarydarrington]

I must know about hanahakish!

🔥\o/🔥 hanahakish is my special little baby project, the most self-indulgent of blorbo blenders.

it is pretty much exactly what it sounds like! essek catches an engineered variant of frigid woe during the aeor arc, and the somatic components to Spell of Don't Die Horribly include a kiss from someone who loves you.

here's a little (unedited) bit of the middle:

-

"That—"

Caleb kisses him. It's short, closed-mouthed, and deliberate. He pulls away again, hands still on Essek’s arms as though to hold him at a distance, and Essek reminds himself to breathe.

"You are very important to our goals," Caleb says in a rush.

His gaze flicks down to Essek's mouth. As though unconsciously, he runs a thumb along his own bottom lip. For a moment, Essek is certain he's about to lean in again and do it properly. Then he straightens, clearing his throat, and looks away.

“This—I did not intend for—”

He curls his lip, muttering something unintelligible. Essek’s heart threatens to claw its way out his mouth.

It’s the finest knife to slip between his ribs. Caleb loves him—truly, provably loves him—but wishes he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” catches in his throat.

He bites down hard on the inside of his lip. There is little he can do to make this easy for Caleb, but at the very least he can keep from crying.

“Don’t be.” Caleb’s hand twitches in his lap. “I will save you a hundred times over, if that is what needs doing.”

If it needs doing. If kissing Essek is necessary, Caleb will do the practical thing. The potion went down easier than this. Essek swallows it anyway, pushing back the hair stuck to his forehead.

“Your help is appreciated.”

[sweet-milky-tea705]

Leander with maracas

Babygirl your swag too silly theyll kill you

[littencloud9]

um um okay how about "no one has to know." + kunichuu and/or "is it over now?" + souheki (in whatever way you want to interpret their dynamic) <3

perhaps we can have beast kunichuu in these trying times…

“No one has to know, pretty boy,” Chuuya whispers into Kunikida’s ear, hot breath ghosting past his skin, and Kunikida fails to surpress the shiver that crawls up his spine. This is wrong, he thinks, as Chuuya’s hands snake under his shirt, dragging fingernails up and down his stomach. His back is pressed firmly against the wall. Their lips are mere inches apart. He shouldn't. The Port Mafia is bad. Their moral code and system and environment is bad. Their boss’s right hand man is especially bad— Kunikida hisses in surprise when Chuuya squeezes his waist hard enough to bruise, pinning him with a possessive stare, and he takes a second to wonder how he got himself into this situation before he falls over the edge. Their lips clash together in a messy affair and Kunikida’s knees almost give out. He’s only held up by Chuuya’s grip, and when he pulls away with a gasp, he’s hit with a devastatingly handsome smirk. “Well?” Chuuya asks, twirling his index finger around Kunikida’s hair. Kunikida is only so strong. His face burns red as he gives in to desire. “Fine. One night.” Chuuya’s smirk widens. “If you’re sure you won't come crawling back for more,” he laughs, tugging.

and souheki!!

"Is it over now?" Dazai asks, glancing around the area nonchalantly. Well, at least it seems nonchalant to a regular, outsider's point of view. But Ranpo knows better than that. They can see the way Dazai's shoulders are relaxed in a forced manner, like he's fighting to keep them from tensing, completely unnatural. Though Dazai is a former Port Mafia Executive, Ranpo supposes everyone has their fears. And a swarm of feral dogs dashing in their direction, such that Dazai and Ranpo were forced to duck into an alleyway to avoid them, would surprise just about anyone. "Yeah. Probably an area with a lot of strays," Ranpo agrees. Dazai doesn't ease up, but he plasters on a bright smile, shrugging. "Oh well! Those dogs were so ugly, they reminded me of Chuuya a little bit. Maybe I should tell them that I saw their extended family dashing down the street today!" His smile isn't real, and Ranpo doesn't bother calling him out. It's none of their business. They don't need to confront what Dazai clearly isn't ready to confront himself. "Let's go," Ranpo says, stepping out of the alleyway after ensuring that the dogs are really gone. "I want ice-cream." "Whatever you say, Ranpo-san!" Dazai replies.

send me a sentence + pairing!

[wri0thesley]

For your ask prompts: Kunzea with Wriothesley? :D

K - Kunzea (power): “C'mon, love, we both know who’s in charge here.”

cw: fem reader ("atta girl"), vague allusions to sexual assault, dub-con, yandere

You're trembling, and you know he can see it.

He has the nerve to smile. He's looking at you like you're a kitten puffing up their tail before being put in a basket for the first time; the kind of smile one has for a poor little creature who's just too silly for its own good. Your grip on the blade tightens.

"Don't come any closer," you tell him, and your teeth chatter.

It had taken you weeks to be able to get a hold of anything that could do some real harm. Watching Wriothesley in his office after he'd called you in for some infraction or another (these infractions always end in punishment; in his hand against your bare rump, in your body bent in half over his desk, in his grip iron tight around your waist as he dances with you and the gramophone scratches through some old love song), memorising where he kept his things in the hope it would serve you in the future.

"Put the letter opener down," he says to you, his tone remaining almost genial, "and I'll pretend that you're not threatening the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide."

"No," you reply, voice pitching too high, and you make a pathetic little thrust forward at the same time as you take a step back. There's nothing solid in between you - and in your attempt to get away from him and put some distance between his body and yours, you reach the wall, your shoulders bumping against the shelf of books set into the stone. One of them tumbles over your shoulder and you wince as it hits the ground and the fragile binding gives out, the weak glue separating cover from pages. "I-- I won't let you--!"

"That was expensive," he says, mildly. "Another six months onto your sentence for wilful destruction of property? You poor thing."

"I-- I'll serve my sentence," you say to him, and though you wish you sounded sure of yourself, your voice trembles like the needle on his gramophone. "But I won't let you--"

"Won't let me what, sweetheart?" He asks, taking a slow step towards you. The sound of his heavy boot sole hitting solid ground almost sets you into fight or flight - the sound of his handcuffs rattling and his chains clinking makes your stomach twist. "Won't let me take care of you? Won't let me love you?"

"You don't love me," you say to him. He's getting too close to you. You can smell the scent he wears on the air; something like sandalwood and freshly brewed tea. "You just-- you're just a monster--!"

His face twitches. He takes four or five quicker steps, and suddenly his hand is fastened bone-crush tight around your wrist - the one holding his engraved silver letter opener. You cry out, his fingers rough against the sensitive skin - handcuffs in their own right.

"You don't think I love you?" He growls, so low he sounds like a wolf. "You think you'd survive a minute out there without my protection? You think that the inmates aren't just raring to get their teeth into your pretty soft skin and show you what it's supposed to be like for new blood here?"

"You're . . . the things you do to me--" Your voice is clogged with tears.

"Maybe I should let them have you," he snarls. "You'd come fucking crying to me begging for a spanking instead if I let some of the criminals in here lay their hands on you. Could even get your cell reassigned; somewhere close to the tunnels so they have somewhere to take you none of the guards will hear you scream."

Your courage is running out, sand dripping through an hourglass. Your grip on the letter opener is faltering. You think about the side-eye glances you get in the cafeteria sometimes, the whispers that stop when you come near.

You'd always assumed it was because he had singled you out like this. Oh, it's not public knowledge - but there's something easy to work out about a prisoner called to the Duke's office who often leaves it lips-swollen and limping a little.

You had never thought it might be because Wriothesley's favour protects you.

You wouldn't need his protection, if he hadn't started this in the first place.

"Well?" He probes. "Do you want that? Do you want me to stop loving you? I can, if that's what you want. I could stop loving you and watch you get torn to fucking pieces."

Your body is wracked with shivers. The air in his office suddenly feels close and heavy; you are reminded, more than ever, that you are in a prison at the bottom of the sea.

You shake your head mutely, your eyes flashing to the hard-won silver prize in your grip.

He eases up, just a touch.

"C'mon," he says, smiling again. "Put it down. We both know who's in charge here, sweetheart, and it's not the one trembling like an otter with its paw caught in a mekafish corpse."

His fingers loosen up on your wrist and he presents his gloved hand to you, palm up. Those eyes fasten on you with rigid intensity, and you know he is waiting for your decision.

The wolf, or the villagers who are ready to form a mob for you at any moment?

You place the letter opener in his hand.

"Atta girl."

At least the wolf is a monster you know.

[vermilionsun]

Photograph

One photograph—that's all I have. The image is faded and worn, with corners frayed from being handled so many times. Yet, every time I look at it, the memories come flooding back. It captures a moment frozen in time, a glimpse of a past I can't quite let go of.

It's the five of us at the Wick—where else would we be?—and it was taken by that kid that had just arrived a few days prior. I never learned how they got their hands on a camera in the first place; the new technology back then was mostly held by the Senobium.

I can almost hear the sound of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the laughter that echoed through the tavern.

I'm not saying I did or did not mind the rest of the group, but there was something special about that night. I don't regret what happened since—what I did and didn't do. How things ended up, however, is a different story altogether. Some nights, I'll admit, I can't help but wonder if things would have been different if we had taken another path…

No. I don't miss them. And I never will.

[desiring-wanting-needing-you]

“Mm, she the devil,

She a bad lil' bitch, she a rebel,

She put her foot to the pedal,

It'll take a whole lot for me to settle”