#and of course is the catalyst for the explanation

[thelightsgoout]

was no one going to tell me that he gives skizz a lesson in how he designed the thing? like i actually get to hear where the shapes come from and the building that inspired him to build it. incredible.

[ceesimz]

new person, same old mistakes

old habits die hard. (light angst -> fluff)

Alexia’s past relationships had left a hefty mark on her, and she hated it. But it wasn’t just them, it was everybody else she’d ever met and sold her soul to. There was something about her that people loved to abandon, which might be surprising to some but to her, no longer. 

Oftentimes, she saw herself as the catalyst in all those situations. It had to be something she did rather than anyone else because she was who she was. She was Alexia Putellas, a footballer that was hardly in one place for more than a week at once. Then add on top of that the events she had to go to, the cameras and the fans that followed her, how her name was somehow in the media everyday, and one comes to realise that they aren’t appropriate conditions to love another. She was the only one to blame, there was no other sensical explanation. 

It went the same way every time; she met someone, she loved someone, only to become no one. The notorious captain had learned to make peace with goodbyes before the words were spoken, if they ever were spoken. Some left with no warning, and she didn’t blame them, if anything she had to thank them because they were the ones that hurt her the least. They saved a slice of her dignity, a decency the others didn’t bother to give. Whether they didn’t care or didn’t think she deserved one, she didn’t dare dwell on it too long out of fear of what she may find, and she could never, ever, find it within herself to share it with anyone.

It was a problem in her life and her life alone, the ones that did stick around didn’t need to know about it, so she gave them no reason to suspect such a flaw in her character. She didn’t talk about it, didn’t let it shape how she acted in front of the world, but in the moments she was quiet, it was there. The awareness that people left was something she carried with her everywhere without meaning to. And as a result, she’d learned not to expect permanence – the other shoe had to drop at some point.

The only place it didn’t bother her was the football pitch, which wasn't a shock. Nobody could abandon her in the world of football, everyone either wanted to meet her or be her. As long as she worked hard to maintain her fitness and her technique and everything that made her definitively admirable in one aspect of her life, then she at least had something to fall back on.

Despite having gone through countless breakups, each more painful than the last, there was still a part of her that wanted to believe things could be different. She was a person that persevered and she prided herself on that. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, it plagued her mind more often than she’d ever admit. Every new conversation carried the possibility of an ending, every connection came with the knowledge that it would be another thing she looked back on rather than growing into the future with. Nevertheless, it never stopped her from putting herself out there. 

If she gave herself some slack, she would come to realise that that was something admirable and rare in itself. not everyone trusted the world the way she did, even after all she’d been through, but she still did.

And it led her to you. It led her to lying on her sofa, some hours after a Sunday lunchtime league game, tendrils of her hair still damp and a little wavy where it was fanned out atop your thighs as she rested her head in your lap. Your fingers stroked through her hair, every so often lightly massaging her scalp and hearing her hum contentedly. 

Where you both relaxed together, it was the picture of serenity and domesticity. In short, it was all Alexia could wish for. Moments like that, she managed to keep her head in check, because you were there and present to make her past seem a million miles away. But it was a past you were unaware of, through no fault of your own of course, yet none the wiser all the same. 

“What are you thinking for dinner tonight?” You wondered, keeping your voice even and low so as to not disturb the peace in the room. The woman below you gave no reaction for a little while, to the point you thought she was asleep, until she opened her eyes and smiled softly up at you.

“There is the ingredents for your favourite.” The blonde murmured in her thick accent, the little trip-up of her English bringing an amused look to your face.

“Ingredients.” You gently corrected her, which she often told you to do. But at times like that when her grammar and pronunciation was the last of her concerns, was when she made the majority of her errors. She was a perfectionist, or tried to be at least, in all avenues of her life, you just didn’t know the root cause of why. 

“Eh, ya sabes a qué me refería.” She grumbled with a click of her tongue that made you laugh a little. “I will cook for you, sí? No choice.”

“You had a game today, you don’t need to.” 

Before you could even finish your sentence, she was waving you off. Then you said something that was intended as harmless, not knowing that it’d feel like the end of the world for your girlfriend of just a few months.

“You love me too much.” 

A phrase that was simple to speak held far more weight to it than anyone outside Alexia’s mind could ever realise. The thing was, she’d been told that exact thing before, right when someone she once loved walked out on her, where that was the only reasoning she received. It ate away at her constantly. 

She cursed herself for it, because with her it was always either too little or too much.

‘You’re hardly ever here, I deserve someone that is.’

‘You’re too much for me.’

‘You don’t appreciate me enough.’

‘You love me too much.’

Relationships were the one thing she couldn’t win at, when funnily enough it was the only thing she felt she needed in her life.

She wanted another Champion’s League, she wanted to win the Euros, she wanted an Olympic medal. She wanted to win every single match she played. Yet she didn’t need any of those. She’d come to realise that, aside from her family, the sole thing she needed was you. And she had ruined that. Again. Like she did with everyone else. This time the heartache was immeasurable, because of who it was she’d messed up with. Or assumed she’d messed up with.

It took a while for you to notice what you’d done, by the time you suspected something was wrong the sun was long gone and the two of you had gotten into bed. Where you both normally lay together, engulfed by the duvet and each other, the footballer couldn’t have left more of a gap if she tried. 

She loved you too much, so she gave you space. That’s how her thought process worked. Whatever she had to do to make you stay, she would do it even if it killed her. But God you’d be damned if you didn’t dig her out of the worthless rut she’d been thrown into the last few years. 

And thankfully, for the sake of your futures and her life, you were a little less scarred and a little more aware than she was. You shuffled over across the bed and put a delicate hand on her shoulder, letting her know you were there. She didn’t move a muscle, not even an inch. The only thing she did was try to hide the slight shallowness to her breathing, which in the silence of the room, was a very futile attempt.

“Ale, what’s wrong?” You whispered, still not getting any sort of reply. “Alexia. Talk to me, please.” 

“‘tas bien, amor. Es nada.” She mumbled hoarsely. 

At that point you could feel her shoulders shaking under your hand, and knew there was something far more concerning going on with her than you initially realised. You were right, couldn’t be more right; the midfielder was minutes away from delving head first into a panic attack. 

With one short sentence from you, a mere five words, you’d unknowingly dredged up years worth of repressed memories and wounds she’d hidden from herself and the people in her life. Just a few months with you and there she was, nearly sobbing as you lay next to her. She hadn’t done that in any other relationship. It was either her breaking point, or the start of something new. Something better for her, much healthier, where she was valued wholeheartedly without a shred of doubt. Whatever it was, you knew you could tackle. Whether that be with her, for her, or to stand by and watch her. On this occasion, it was all three. And that didn’t put you off in the slightest. 

“No, it’s not nothing.” You argued, sitting up and trying to urge her to do the same with your hand on her back. Somehow that only led to her crying harder, her whole body wracking with the sobs leaving her throat as she turned to hide her face in her pillow. “Ale, sit up. We need to calm you down, you’ll make yourself feel ill.” 

At that, she gave in. She allowed you to help her up and sit her back against the headboard, your hands clutching hers tightly as she squeezed her eyes shut so she didn’t have to see you looking at her so pitifully. Would have just made her feel worse. First she loved you too much, then she cried like a baby. It was one thing after another and you shouldn’t have to deal with that, it tore her in two that you did. Never did she want to break like that in front of you, or anyone for that matter. Worst part was that it was far too late to do anything about it. 

“You’re going to end up having a panic attack, you’re hyperventilating. Breathe for me, nice and deep. There you go.” You instructed, and she followed along with all her might because there was no way she'd put more on your plate when you already had a blubbering, emotional mess to deal with. You didn’t need to witness a panic attack from her on top of that, it’d be immeasurably embarrassing for her and she didn’t think she could ever look you in the eye if things went that far. “Keep going, you’re doing perfect for me, Ale. Like that, little more.” 

Not so long later, her breathing was finally under her control again. Though, her emotions weren’t. Tears continued their path down her cheeks and you stayed in front of her, thumbs running over her knuckles as she came back to herself. Her eyes were red and swollen, and they had a heaviness to them that made your chest ache. All you could do in that second was pray she opened up to you. 

“What got you like that? That was almost pretty bad.” You smiled sadly, raising a hand to delicately wipe away some of the drops on her face, only for them to be replaced by more. Her mouth opened and closed a couple times, like she wasn’t quite sure what to say. She was caught between two minds; should she open up to you? Or save you the trouble, the drama, the theatrics and the sympathy?

“I…” She breathed out shakily, not daring to meet your stares. She settled for the one thing that seemed suitable. “Sorry. I am sorry.” 

“You’re sorry? What for?” You frowned in utter confusion, shocked that’s what she landed on when it was the last thing you would expect from her. In fact, you wouldn’t ever expect it from her, not after the state she had just been in.

“Sorry for a lot. A lot of things.” She stated insecurely, chancing it and glancing up at you before immediately averting her gaze again. There were too many feelings present on your face that overwhelmed her, that she felt she didn’t deserve. Just another thing on your plate.

“Explain for me, Ale, because I’m lost. I don’t know what you’re apologising for.” You prompted her, squeezing her hand that you still held while the other landed on her knee. 

God, where to start.

“Sorry for… this. Sorry for, uh, being me. Being a footballer and spending too many weeks away. Sorry for lo-” Whatever she was about to say next seemed to be too much for her, but when you went to tell her she didn’t need to be sorry for anything, she broke your heart in a rather unconventional way. “Sorry for loving you too much? I am sorry for that the most.” 

How on earth could she apologise for that? When she was the most loving, caring, adoring, thoughtful, and selfless human you’d ever encountered, nevermind be loved by?

Then you realised, it was a much deeper problem than you ever could have assumed. As you sat there in front of her afterwards, you slowly started to connect the dots too. This breakdown linked a lot of things together like a red string dating back to the very first date you met.

You scrambled internally to find the right things to say because you were speechless, more than you had been in your life beforehand. There were so many things rushing through your mind yet you knew it was next to nothing compared to how Alexia must have been feeling. That revelation was what kicked your head into gear.

In a split second, you went from being sat in front of her to having her in your arms. You caught her off guard with the speed you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her in, desperate to have her close to you so that your actions matched your words. You realised this broken woman with a desolate heart needed all the love she could get, to the point where she’d have to accuse you of loving her too much.

“You don’t need to apologise for anything. Not a single thing, Alexia, and I swear my life on that.” You told her sternly, ensuring she took in everything you said and more. There was simply no way you were leaving that bed before she knew she could never do any wrong by loving you. “I love you for you. Not for anything else. I love you for who you are, for being a footballer, for loving me how you do. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

The girl stayed silent, her forehead dropped against your shoulder as you kept up the strength of your embrace. From the way she let herself drown in it, you knew she needed it far more than words could describe. Needed you. 

Neither of you moved for quite some time. A lot needed to be said but getting it all out there and then wasn’t what was best. No matter what her mind told you, you weren’t going anywhere that wasn’t with Alexia in your life. You’d wait a year, five, ten, forty years if you had to for her to explain why she had apologised. And where she stayed in your arms, Alexia was beginning to recognise that, finally. It was a few months later than you’d hoped but better late than never, and it was worth it when she leaned back and gazed at you with gratitude so evident on her face. 

“You…” She started, though she trailed off, because she had no words in any and all languages to be able to voice how… astounding you were and how thankful she was. Whether you’d approve of it or not (she knew you absolutely wouldn’t) she would happily take the years of torment and heartbreak if the end product was a life with you.

Fixing years worth of emotional and psychological damage from past relationships wasn’t a one-conversation job, nor could it be done overnight. It’d last for a while into the future, but the knowledge that she hadn’t scared you off and that you had said the right things for now was more than enough for the both of you. Alexia’s ability to trust, even after all she had been through, was a unique thing. It only came from someone that had faith in the world and saw beauty in it even in its darkest moments. You didn’t know the full lengths of it then, but when she felt she was in a place to tell the whole story of her past, it would turn into something you cherished and would be in awe of her for, daily. How she found you, trusted you, chose to love you and accepted all that in return with no visible qualms was astonishing to you. And you would make sure she knew it.

But back in her bedroom, you let go of her with a kiss to her cheek before you moved down the bed for you both to lay down again, this time with the intention of sleeping without descending into a panic attack. Though that was wishful thinking, because your minds were individually running a million miles per hour where you lay, limbs tangled with Alexia’s head on your chest. A question slipped off your tongue before you could stop it.

“Why are you so… insecure, Ale?” 

You physically felt her recoil, felt her cower in on herself, and went to rush out an apology before she lifted her head up and looked at you. She addressed you with earnest and honesty, giving as much as she could in that moment.

“It’s a long story. Not for tonight.” 

That was enough for you. You nodded and placed a hand on the back of her head, gently willing her to lay back down again. She did, with ease. And you thought that was that for the night. 

Some time passed, the hands of the clock on the wall ticking away as you traced your fingernails up and down her back in a soothing gesture. There was so much on your mind yet you couldn’t land on anything before the next thought came bounding along and pulled you into yet another possible scenario that the love of your life had gone through. All possibilities were terrible, and it killed you that she’d suffered in silence with them all for so long. Until she spoke up about them, there wasn’t anything you could do but love her, which you were content to settle for. If it were up to you, however, she would hand over a hitlist straight away in the case of a possible purge event.

When you least expected it, she spoke up again. It was past midnight at that point, the pair of you exhausted yet minds reeling far too much to be able to relax anytime soon. One step at a time, you would take. Progress was still progress, no matter how little or large.

“A lot of people in the past have, uh, hurt me. In relationships. They always leave. Always walk out on me. I worry you will do the same.” The only thing you could do was hug her tighter. Nothing you could do or say would be remotely close to healing her, to rid her from those memories. All you could hope for was that being there was enough, and for Alexia, it was more than enough.

“I will never leave. I promise, I will never leave.” 

They were words Alexia had heard in the past. Just like the ones you said previously. Yet you were the first person she genuinely believed.

Too long, she had surrounded herself with the wrong people, tried to fit into the wrong crowds just to find someone to keep her bed warm. Meeting you had opened up a new world for her to step into. Your world had a particular rose-tint to it, one she initially didn’t trust because everything seemed too good to be true. But with you, someone so sincere and selfless, how could she not trust you? You were worth losing everything for, but for the first time, she believed with everything in her that it wouldn’t end like that this time. Only a few months of knowing you had told her that, and she didn’t know how she had ever settled for the people she once knew. 

Luckily, that wasn’t her problem anymore. Not with you around for the rest of her life.

—

everything about my writing lately from ideas to length to execution has been abysmal lately and i feel a tad (very) ashamed of that but once things settle down in my life i hope to get back on top of everything :') thanks for putting up with my bs as always and the reverie fic will be finished soon, trust <3

[miss-cincaide]

Can we try…? 

Summary: Megumi knows how to get you to try new things in bed. It’s like a little dance between you two, but even when all the steps are right, there’s still plenty of room for it to take a different route, Or the time Megumi wants to try something new and it turns into a quickie

Pairing: Fem! Reader x Megumi Fushiguro (aged up!) Kinktober prompt 7: Quickie  WC: 1.9K Warnings: Minors DN, 18+ content! Contains (p in v, unprotected), trying new kinks, quickie, light choking, pet names and praises, cursing, PwP

Megumi has an approach, a method to the way he tackles ‘new things’ and ‘sex’ in the same context. It’s never a spontaneous- spurr-of-the-moment request in the middle of getting hot and steamy, or a prolonged nagging until you give in. Instead, it’s always this meticulously planned mission that lasts over several days- if not weeks—slowly giving you hints and time to ease into the idea. To figure out what you want; are you curious? Scared? Comfortable? Aroused? Are you okay with him asking you for it or is it off-limits entirely? 

He always does it in a way that gives you time to think—a chance to set your boundaries without feeling pressured or scared that you are disappointing him. Just react and move on, no questions asked.  

And it drove you fucking wild. 

The kind of wild you’re ready to drop your panties, bend over and receive his cock with a gracious ‘yes please’ and ‘fuck me baby’ in one breath. The kind where you edge him on through flirty texts while he is away on his mission, and if you’re really desperate, then some naughty pictures too. Just enough that when he comes home at midnight, he’s just as fucking hot and bothered as you’ve felt the entire day. Rock-hard on, more teasing which leads to a messy, loud and steamy round one in the shower- the usual catalyst of that equation. 

Normally that is.

But as you stare at the computer and the ‘accidentally open’ history full of search terms spread over the last few weeks, you don’t know what to make of this particular kink. Your hand shakes slightly, moving the mouse to the ‘delete history’ button, then away from it, then back to it. The frown on your lips grows more profound as you bite the inside of your cheek in thought. You don’t know what to do with it. Cockwarming. What the heck even is that? You click through some of the links. Definitions and explanations, but still don’t get the complete picture of it. Or at least what’s so arousing about it. You take a step back from the screen, glance at the clock, and conclude that you don’t have a lot of time until Megumi comes home. Of course, you could postpone deciding- there’s never any pressure for sex or otherwise when he’s around. But also, you haven’t seen him for a few days. You missed him, and want to feel the connection, the intimate closeness that came with being vulnerable and trying something new with your loved one. 

You take a long moment to consider the act itself.  Is it so out there that you’d never want to try it? No. You’ve done plenty of penis in pussy action, a lot of it left you whimpering and asking for more. And part of your aftercare was spooning and cuddling. Technically it wasn’t something you two hadn’t done yet, but you also knew you were gonna struggle with feeling him close without chasing the high of an orgasm. Was that a deal breaker? 

Fuck it! 

You closed down the computer and headed back to your joint bedroom to freshen up before settling under the warm covers, silently waiting for Megumi to come home. 

You must have dozed off waiting for him because you woke up to the feeling of Megumi climbing into bed with you. His wet hair ticking the back of your neck, and the smell of your mango body wash filled your senses. His arm came to wrap around your waist, and you instantly wiggled closer to him, feeling the heat of his bare chest through your thin nightgown and the unmistakable outline of his half-hard cock through his boxers. 

The feeling instantly made you more awake. “Hmmm, you’re home and showered already, Gumi?” you groan out, salvaging the feeling of his lips showering your cheeks, your neck and your bare shoulder in kisses. You’re definitely enjoying the princess-wake-up treatment.

“ Got done early, missed you” Megumi mumbles, pressing a long kiss on your bare shoulder “ How is my baby doing?” the playful tone and care in his tone made you smile and snuggle closer to him, throwing your leg back and he caught it in between his thighs. He adjusts a little, then begins a soft rocking motion, at first trying to get as close to you as possible until you are cocooned up in his arms. Then it turned into sensual grinding. 

You are practically purring at the sensation, the warmth and the closeness. “ I miss you too.. So I.. ehem.. Thought if I napped a little, I’d get to see you sooner,” You slowly blink the sleep away as Megumi chuckles, pressing another long kiss to your neck. Purposefully avoiding the covered skin. “Gumi!” You whine then raise your shoulder, shaking off the nightgown strap until it slides further down your arm,  exposing your collarbone and the top part of your tits to him. 

You hear his humm, a clear indication that he is listening as he covers the newly exposed skin in kisses “What is it? Is my baby unhappy with something?” Megumi smirks against your skin, making sure to roll his hips just right as he asks. You feel every inch of him, from his needy tip to perfect lengths, and you grind right back against him, your hands seeking his out on your waist before tugging it down to where your nightgown meets your thigh. “Does my baby want something?” 

“Megumi” You’re whining now, rocking together with him. You want him, and you weren’t ready to untangle yourself from him anytime soon. You want him closer, closer, to lay in bed wrapped up in each other's arms. “About the thing- why?” 

 “ Why?” Megumi repeats slowly, blinking in thought, his long lashes brushing against your cheek as he tries to formulate his feelings into thoughts. “Because I want to feel my baby close, to be as close as we can physically be without rushing or needing to clean up the mess.” Megumi takes a shaky breath, kissing up your neck to your ear “Can– can I?” 

You hummed a little. You could understand that sentiment, in a way, “But there’ll be no pleasure.” You mumbled quietly. “Won’t it be boring?” 

“Does everything have to pleasure and excitement?” as if to prove his point, he presses another long kiss on your shoulder, holds his lips there, looking at you through long lashes. His gaze is intense; he is eating you up with his eyes, turning your insides on fire and mush all at once. 

You fall in love with him all over again. From the messy hair, gentle touch, and worshipping kisses to the way he looks at you as if you’re the most precious thing in existence. Most precious to him. 

“Let's try”, you whisper, and you see him hesitate for a second, clearly not sure if he’s pushing you too much, and it makes you smile.’ God you adore this man’, you think to yourself as you press a kiss to his forehead, another on his hair, and then duck down to his lips. The kisses are soft and loving, a stark contrast to the way you grind your ass against his crotch. Your nightdress hikes up until it's just your bare skin against his damp boxers. 

Megumi breaks the kiss, biting down the moan on his lips as he drops his head on your shoulder.  “Fuck baby, you’re too good to me” Reaching out he clutches your hand in his while the other one leaves your thigh to pull down his boxers. “Too good.” Another kiss is on your shoulder while he adjusts your leg, shifting it from between his legs to on top of them. 

“You’re one to talk” you breathe out, spreading your legs wider, salvaging the feeling of his cold fingers between your legs. Checking to make sure you’re okay, that you’re aroused enough, relaxed enough. Megumi doesn’t want to hurt you, and every time he takes extra moments to check on you, it melts your heart; “I love you” Your eyes meet his for a second as he leans over your shoulder. 

“Love you too, baby” 

You both moan as he pushes inside you, slow and steady. Inch by inch until he’s nestled balls deep. You can feel him twitching, and it takes absolutely everything from you not to rock your hips. “God, I’ve missed you, Gumi.” You clench around him, and he curses.

“Fuck baby, Fuck. if you do that again I’m going to lose it” Megumi’s practically trembling in your arms.

“Do what Gumi?” You blink innocently, knowing he won’t be able to see it with his face buried in the crook of your neck, panting like a dog in heat. You know precisely what you’re doing. You can’t help it. “I’m not even–” You gasp as he pulls out and thrusts into you. The hand on your thigh drops between your legs, skilled fingers knowing exactly how to move to leave you breathless, while the palm of his second-hand lands on your throat. 

“Ohh just like that, Gumi, don’t stop” You whimper, turning your words into gasps and moans as his hand tightens ever so slightly around your throat. Let's go, then tightens again as he rolls his hips just fucking right and you meet them with a thrust of your own, your leg on his thigh spreading wider “Mmm s’close Gumi, ahmm, close” 

“God baby, yes, just like that pretty baby, clench just like that. You’re so good to me, your pussy feels so good, fuckk you’re so pretty like this-” 

You moan at the sweet nothingness in your ear, each breathless my pretty baby making you weak. You feel his thrusts quicken, the fingers on your clit rolling the bud a little rougher as Megumi cums first. The twitch, the hot cum, and the way he’s so deep, rocking his hips as if trying to go even deeper, sends you right after him. 

Everything stills, your hands clutch at each other, your head thrown back, barely getting air from the death grip on your throat, your hands clutch at him, nails dig into his skin. He isn’t much better with the way he clutches you. 

You’re trembling; he is trembling. 

The moment passes, and his grip loosens. You take a deep gasp of air, slumping into the sheets. Megumi rubs your leg, keeping it propped up against himself, thrusting a little deeper around the slick and the cum in a desperate attempt to keep his softening cock inside your warmth. 

Despite yourself, you giggle, and your eyes practically shine with mischief. “I thought cockwarming was without movement-” 

Megumi stiffens, and you don’t doubt his cheeks are tomato red. “Shut up” 

“-and I thought not everything needs to be excitement and pleasure.” You’re enjoying this a lot, almost as much as the sex. 

“Seriously, shut up.” Megumi raises his head and gives you a pointed look, which doesn’t look the least bit menacing when he’s bright pink, half from the embarrassment of having his words thrown back at him and half from the orgasm. 

“Or what?” You smile, twisting your body just a little more to face him. You feel him slip out of you in the process. Your eyes flicker downwards for a second before Megumi grasps your chin in his hand and forces you to look him in the eyes. 

“Or it’s round two. And this time I won’t be gentle” 

All you can do is grin, another taunt playing on the tip of your tongue. Quick loving sex after being apart for a few days is amazing; a rough several-hour-long fuck as round two is a treat you know you won’t be able to pass up.

 Maybe ‘Cockwarming’ had it’s uses after all..

Author note:

Main |Raven|Rules & Requests |Masterlist | Cred & Other 

All fics are unique works by © miss-cincaide 2024. Do not copy/repost/translate or spread my work(s) without my explicit permission. If you see any of my work(s) reworked/reposted/copied anywhere, please inform me!

[heartmaddie]

childhood best friend! isagi yoichi who everybody thinks has more than platonic intentions with you. maybe it’s the way he grips your hand a bit too tightly in public, or how he shamelessly acts more needy in your arms, however many people were watching your every move.

he sounded too hopeful when the occasional interviewer asked about his relationship with you. lazily wiping his sweaty brow while tired lips tug into a smug smirk, because really, what’s stopping him from claiming you as ‘his’ on national television when you’re still a couple metres behind him, out of earshot?

isagi remembers the catalyst for the epiphany of his feelings for you better than yesterday. how could he ever forget his last name plastered proudly on your back, and his number adorning your cheek in blue paint? he can recall the excitement and pride which mingled satisfyingly with your scent. for him only, of course. yoichi remembers — more than anything — how his name sounded, uttered from your lips as you looked up at him, eyes wide and expecting as sapphire shined down upon you, tongue darting to lick his own chapped lips which lingered near yours. he was then reminded of the eruption of miscellaneous cheers which forced him to pull away from you, nose opting to bury itself into your hair as he tugged you impossibly closer into his chest.

his fingers lingered over the ‘post’ button of his phone that night, an explanation of the somewhat unexpected intimacy displayed hours ago, his fans could sniff out the romance between the two teenagers better than you could yourself. he was more hesitant that time, more than any other before, he wanted everyone to know you’re not ‘on the market’, that you’re only for him. 

he was snapped into reality by your sweet voice calling him, his laptop perched on your thighs as you questioned why he’s taking so long. he let out a deep sigh, thumb pressing harshly on the device before he threw it onto the bed, away from him.

because he knows you’re not his, regardless of how many of his sleepless nights you end up wrapped in his arms.

©heartmaddie all rights reserved. please do not repost my work.

special tag for @dearru , &everyone thank sahri for proofreading.

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[hivemuthur]

Tightrope - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!, frenemies/academic rivals to lovers, modern university AU. This is part of a request for @pxszels

Ch.1. | Ch.3.

word count: 5,4K

tag: #tightrope

summary: You and Viktor are tethering the line between friendship and rivalry, Jayce being one amongst the few common factors you both acknowledge (of course more is there but for the smart people you are, you tend to be very stupid about things). Oh, and you have to do a project together.

author's note: okay, things escalate, all I'm gonna say :v Very dubious science warning and thank you @rennethen for beta reading!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

A lot of intrusive thoughts clatter through your mind as you glare pure death at Viktor, sitting two chairs away from you. Jayce—a buffer that protects the both of you from yourselves.

Strangulation is the first, most obvious one, but it dangerously quickly turns into something borderline erotic when you watch Viktor’s neck. And you really stare at it—the sharp angle of his jaw turning into the smooth column, porcelain skin interrupted with freckles, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he speaks out his infuriating truths. Ugh, since when is this happening?

The second, also obvious, is electrocuting him—just successfully this time. But then again, an unbidden image breaks into your mind’s eye: Viktor’s startled expression, his hand clutched to his heaving chest, hair tousled from the electric current, cheeks a bit flushed under your palms cradling them.

The heat on your own face almost betrays you, but fortunately, the picture of Viktor’s mouth saying I could make you gag gives you a comfortable explanation for the roses blooming across your cheeks—you are just really, really pissed.

You’ve been at each other’s throats for over a week now, and each encounter has been a small battle to win. So far, as expected, it’s a tie, but you are determined to stomp his head into the ground, his ear in your teeth.

You’ve just sat through Viktor’s answer to Heimerdinger’s conundrum:

"Given the choice between a platinum-based catalyst and an experimental cobalt-nickel alloy for an industrial hydrogenation reaction, which would be the superior option in terms of efficiency and long-term viability?"

"If the goal is efficiency, the answer is already clear," Viktor says in a flat tone, and you almost break your pencil. You parrot his voice in your head, your face doing a tiny, mocking expression—one that Jayce immediately counters with puppy eyes.

"Platinum’s catalytic activity remains stable across multiple reaction cycles, and its surface energy allows for consistent molecular interactions," Viktor continues, his posture so unbothered it’s as if he’s already won. "Even if alternative materials show potential, they introduce variables that compromise long-term reliability."

"You're focusing on controlled lab conditions, but industrial applications aren’t perfect systems," you mutter, leaning over your desk and addressing the entire thing to Heimerdinger. "In real-world settings, we need materials that are adaptable, not just reliable in a vacuum."

Your tone becomes more passionate, encouraged by Heimerdinger’s eager nodding. "The alloy has a wider range of operating conditions and costs significantly less—why cling to a metal that’s prohibitively expensive when there’s a viable alternative?"

"You're assuming ‘viable’ just because it works in some conditions," Viktor counters, his voice clipped, clearly irritated. "There’s a difference between potential and actual applicability. Platinum has proven efficiency—your alloy is a gamble."

You huff, leaning forward and turning to face Viktor this time, as Jayce slowly sinks into his chair. "And you're assuming ‘superior’ just because something is well-documented? Science doesn’t advance by relying on what’s already been done. You can’t just dismiss an emerging material because it makes you uncomfortable."

Viktor’s lips curl slightly in that way that always makes you want to throw something at him. "Uncomfortable? No, I simply prefer optimised methods over—what was it—guesswork?"

Your jaw tenses. "Right, because clinging to the safe choice is the height of scientific innovation."

"Optimisation and recklessness are not the same thing," Viktor snaps.

"No, but stagnation and cowardice are pretty damn close."

That’s probably what prompts Heimerdinger to finally step in.

"As fascinating as it is to observe your ongoing academic duel, might I remind you that this is a classroom, not a battleground?"

The words should sting, should make you shrink into your seat, but the bemused glint in his eyes softens the blow. Viktor, ever the picture of self-restraint, merely tips his head, as if the interruption is a minor inconvenience. You, on the other hand, can’t quite suppress the triumphant curve of your lips as you lower yourself back to your seat.

Heimerdinger sighs. "If either of you would like to continue this discussion, I suggest you do so after my lecture."

You don’t quip a single sound throughout the rest of the class, and Viktor doesn’t either. You can feel his eyes on you periodically—or rather, you can see them in the corner of your eye when you try to make it look like all your focus is directed at Heimerdinger’s blackboard.

By the time you get to worrying about how your afternoon project session with Viktor is going to go this time, the class ends, and Joe picks you up for breakfast. A brief reprieve is interrupted by Viktor’s dry, “Don’t be late this time.” But before you can poke his eye out with a pencil, he passes right by you without even sparing a glance.

All that tension dissolves into laughter when Joe makes fun of your miserable crossword choices.

“Aren’t you supposed to be ridiculously smart?” he teases, tapping his finger against the newspaper. “Why the hell did you put 'Beethoven' for ‘Famous deaf baseball player’?”

You groan, snatching the booklet back. “I was in a rush!”

Joe smirks. “The answer is Dummy Hoy, by the way. Actual deaf baseball legend. Try to keep up.”

“Well, excuse me, smartass!” you say, flashing a ludicrous grin as you hurriedly scribble over the letters. “Huh, okay, it does fit. Words are not my strength, what can I say.”

Joe hums, watching you with an easy smirk as he takes a ridiculously large bite of his apple. “What are your strengths, then?” he asks, chewing thoughtfully.

You tap the end of your pencil against your chin. “Huh. Engineering, I suppose. And I’m a pretty okay friend, I’d like to think.”

Joe raises a brow, amused. “A pretty okay friend? I’m not sure I can resist such attractive advertising.”

“Oh, shut up,” you scoff, nudging his arm. “I’ve had some bumps in my record recently.”

Joe’s smirk softens into something more genuine. “As I said—I probably won’t resist.” He leans back, tossing his apple core into a nearby bin with practiced ease. “And speaking of being good friends, since I do aim to become one, I should probably drop you off at the lab?”

Your stomach drops. “Oh, shit, yes. If we want me to live, definitely yes.”

You shove a chocolate bun and all your other things back into your bag and urge Joe to move faster, which prompts him to pry whether the skinny guy glaring daggers at you in front of the classroom can really do any significant damage. He demonstrates a few rugby pacifying moves, which you try to take with a straight face—but you burst out laughing when, just as you reach the lab’s door, he tells you, “Remember the dump tackle.”

And you have no idea where the urge to hold your breath as you enter comes from but releasing it upon seeing that your two favourite buffers—Jayce and Sky—are there to ease any blow coming your way makes you feel somewhat lighter. They sit hunched over their notes, so you only wave hello and approach Viktor, who is leaning over the intricate layout of books and papers splayed across the workbench.

"Glad to see you on time for once," he mutters, not even bothering to spare you a look.

"I tried very hard," you sigh, dropping your heavy bag onto the floor. "For you."

He smiles. Odd. The smile vanishes as quickly as it appears, and Viktor is back to his stuck-up self when he turns and says, in a tone seeping with boredom, "Alright. I rewired the band properly while you were gone. It's time to discuss the possible power supplies."

Properly, huh. "What do you have in mind?"

Viktor straightens, gesturing vaguely to the mess of notes sprawled across the workbench. "A micro thermoelectric generator would be the most efficient choice. Converts body heat into electrical energy—self-sustaining, minimal maintenance, and no reliance on external charging."

You arch a brow. "Efficient, sure. If you ignore the fact that it's highly dependent on temperature gradients. The output fluctuates, and if the user isn't generating enough heat, the power supply suffers. You'd be relying on biological inconsistency."

He hums, noncommittal. "There are ways to stabilise it. A supplementary capacitor—"

"Which introduces another point of failure," you cut in smoothly. "Supercapacitors have high charge cycles, but they degrade. If we're adding redundancy, why not go with something that guarantees a steady output?"

Viktor glances at you, unimpressed. "And what would you propose?"

"A miniaturised kinetic energy harvester." You lean forward, tapping a finger on the notes in front of him. "Energy is gathered through natural movement—walking, gesturing, any kind of physical motion. The output is consistent and doesn’t rely on external conditions."

"Consistent, yes, but also inefficient in comparison." He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "Kinetic harvesters require constant motion for optimal performance. What happens when the user is sedentary? The energy reservoir drains, and there is no backup supply."

You purse your lips. "Then integrate both. A hybrid system—kinetic as primary, thermoelectric as auxiliary. Movement generates most of the power, and any residual body heat supplements it. Redundancy without overcomplication."

For a moment, Viktor is quiet, his fingers idly tapping against the workbench. Then, almost reluctantly, he gives a small nod. "A reasonable compromise."

You blink. "Did you just agree with me?" Unthinkable. But you do have witnesses.

He exhales sharply, picking up a pencil. "Do not make me regret it."

Before you can fire back, Jayce, having had enough, loudly shuts his notebook and stretches. "Alright, I am starving," he announces, shooting a meaningful glance at Sky. "Lunch?"

Sky, who has been keeping her head down and very obviously pretending not to listen, perks up immediately. "Oh, yeah. Definitely."

Neither of them waits for an answer before standing. Jayce claps you on the shoulder as he passes, his voice overly casual. "Try not to kill each other before we get back."

"Can’t promise anything," you mutter.

Sky just snorts as she follows Jayce out, leaving you alone with Viktor, making the forced civility even a bigger challenge. He writes down your ideas on the board, when a loud growl of your stomach makes him pause.

“Haven’t your himbo—erm, sorry, Joe—fed you properly?”

“Get lost,” you counter stupidly, rummaging through your bag for your safety bun. You tear off a piece with exaggerated nonchalance, throwing Viktor a shit-eating smirk. “He fed my soul.”

Viktor rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Good for you,” he grumbles, turning back toward the board, but you catch the briefest flicker of something—mild annoyance, maybe—as he refocuses on his work.

Viktor taps his fingers against the edge of the workbench, gaze fixed on the equations scrawled across the board. “The issue with the stability of the connection isn’t the materials themselves,” he says, his tone clipped with focus. “It’s the uneven current distribution. If we integrate a secondary regulator—” He gestures to a hastily drawn diagram, circling a particular point with the chalk. “—we can stabilise the output without overhauling the entire circuit.”

You exhale sharply, arms crossed. “That’s just putting a bandage on it.”

“It’s refining, not patching,” Viktor corrects, finally glancing at you. “A full redesign would be unnecessary, and we don’t have the time for it,” he mumbles, less sure of himself and you take a note of his brows furrowing.

You linger on the rebuttal, but ultimately, you step forward, coming to stand beside him. Your eyes scan the board, taking in the schematics, the modifications—annoyingly, frustratingly sound. You rub at your temple and sigh.

“Okay. Okay,” you state firmly, staring at the board. “I will admit the superiority of your idea over mine, because I am decent.”

You turn to Viktor, for once glad to admit defeat with such grace—only to catch him outright staring at you, his eyes almost absent. It usually doesn’t take him that long to formulate a comeback that is supposed to land like a slap but of course bounces off and figuratively flares up on his cheek instead.

No slapping this time, though.

“What are you looking at?”

“You have a—” he says quietly, pointing at the corner of your lip.

Your hand flies to your mouth, wondering how long you’ve been walking around with a chocolate moustache before he noticed. You nag at the spot with your fingers, but Viktor scrunches his eyebrows, looking almost pained when he whines, “God, not here.”

“Well, you showed me there!” It’s ridiculous, but you actually laugh, still trying to blindly locate whatever food dirt clings to your mouth after eating that cursed bun.

“Ah, damn, not here—here!” Obviously, you’re doing a poor job because Viktor huffs, half-annoyed, his lips turning into a pitying smile. “Ah, just—” He sighs, exasperated, then finally—oh.

He licks his thumb, stills you with a hand on your shoulder, and leans in. “Let me,” he murmurs, swiping his wet thumb over your skin.

“Oh.”

Viktor does such a great job of not looking at you while performing his little mercy that this gesture—almost sweet, if you two weren’t dangling from that tightrope right now—might have had a chance of passing as friendly. Maybe—if his touch resembled that of a mother cleaning dirt off a child’s face. Maybe—if his thumb weren’t caressing your lip with lingering tenderness, as if trying to memorise the order in which your mouth would wrinkle were it to come to kiss his.

He’s possibly, most likely done at some point, and you should be all cleaned up. But he doesn’t stop. He takes in your face—chin tilted up, leaning into his touch. Eyes hooded, defenceless. Such a gentle, fragile picture before him, so different to the way your mouth twists into a groan when you see him or the way you smirk when your insult lands on a fertile ground.

A calloused, trembling thing keeps swiping over your lips, and you inhale sharply. His hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, and your eyes fall closed.

And then, oh, he still doesn’t stop.

His hand is shaking, breath held tight in his chest. Quivering fingers—index and middle—ghost over your upper lip, and for the love of everything sacred, you have no idea what overcomes you. When you part your mouth.

Viktor has a faint idea of what possesses him when he accepts the invitation and slides his fingers inside. It’s that nagging, ever-present thought—or wonder, rather—of what this mouth feels like from the inside. He’s thought about shutting your yapping mouth many times before. He just didn’t know his fingers would do as good a job as his tongue.

For a moment, it’s so insanely erotic that your brows scrunch. He pushes in and out, glides over your teeth and tongue. It’s all quiet, just the soft clicks of your make, until—

“Oh, fuck,” Viktor exhales, his thumb swiping beneath your jaw.

You hold him firmly between your lips and, at one point, even hum softly as his fingers part and graze the inside of your cheek. With a sharp exhale, he retreats, dragging your spit over your skin before cupping your face.

Your eyes open, and he’s so close you can taste his breath. An impossible moment.

You don’t think. You just do.

You let your face be pulled closer and closer until you think his mouth almost brushes yours—when your eyes meet. And then Viktor looks to the door.

His expression changes. A spatter of darkened gold flicks between the entrance to the lab and you, back and forth, before suddenly—he withdraws. His hands leave you in an instant. He rushes away, drops onto a stool, grabs a notebook, and starts scribbling as though nothing happened.

And you barely manage to take a ragged breath before the door swings open, laughter spilling inside—Jayce’s, loud as ever, followed by Sky’s.

Jayce looks around, eyebrows raised. “Huh. Nothing’s on fire for once.”

He passes you, and you can only bulge your eyes out to yourself, the only silent embodiment of the shock coursing through your veins. And goddamn it—Sky fucking catches it.

“Are you okay?” she asks, stopping in her tracks, eyeing you from head to toe.

First, you nod. Many times. Smiling like an idiot, completely fake. “Yes.”

“What was that then?” She mimics your expression, and it looks so fucking stupid you almost snort—but unfortunately for you, Jayce sees what Sky is trying to express, and now his attention is on you.

Quickly, you turn back to your previous position, lean on one leg, drill your eyes into the board, and a half-smile onto your face.

“I’m just… thinking. With my face. About this,” you gesture vaguely to whatever Viktor managed to cross out and write over in your split second of focus.

“Just some internal monologuing. In fact,” you say, slapping your thighs. “I need to… excuse me for a second—” is the only thing you manage before turning on your heel and rushing out.

Jayce immediately turns to Viktor. “What did you do?”

But you don’t hear the answer. You let your face twist and turn as you walk fast through the corridors, bumping from door to door, praying that one of them will be unlocked—some classroom or a janitor’s closet good enough for you to hide and slam your fists against a wall.

Finally, you find one—a small storage room stocked with backup sanitary items for disinfection. You barge in, leave the door ajar, and begin your dance.

You fall into a crouch and contemplate whether you could scream. You probably can’t, so you just hide your face between your knees, bury your hands in your hair, and mouth, What the fuck?

You take a couple of breaths. Stand up, take a few steps. A thousand expressions fly across your face as your mouth falls open and closed between cut whispers, crumbs of your thoughts. No and what and oh, God fall out, barely audible, as you gesture wildly with your hands and walk around in a tiny circle.

You try to jump it out, kick something that’s not there, before muttering, fuck. What the fuck. Then, a long exhale, and your hands just fall to your sides.

Fuck, again.

You press your lips into a thin line and breathe heavily through your nose, eyebrows all scrunched.

“Are you alright?” Viktor’s voice startles you.

He is standing in the doorway—for God knows how long—and you just clutch a fist to your chest, still unable to speak.

He stares at you, half-smiling at this display of internal conflict. He looks like he wants to say something. Or like he wants you to say something. You have no idea.

The longer you don’t speak, the more worried his face becomes. You take two steps toward him—then turn again, leaning over a small table. Then straighten back up, mouth something at him, but it’s impossible to say what. Chew on your cheek to the point of drawing blood.

As you get closer and closer, something breaks within you. Your hands reach for him—then retreat again. One more step, and one more.

And Viktor is stuck in place in the doorframe, having not even the faintest idea what to do.

Finally, you’re so close you could touch him. And you nod, as if to yourself, as if admitting some kind of defeat—when your hands cup his face, and you close the distance between his mouth and yours.

Just one kiss. Deep but fleeting, no tongue.

When you break away, you lick your lips and look at his nose. You make a tired, strangled sound, but Viktor doesn’t let you back away further.

He hooks his cane over his forearm, hands come to grab your waist and your neck, and he kisses you back—this time with tongue. Walks you inside, breathes through his mouth into this kiss that is neither fierce nor gentle. It’s just… so wanting, his moans are almost cries.

And you, too, want him to the point of crying out, when your hands don’t calm down with his touch—simultaneously mussing his hair and tugging at the collar of his shirt, signalling you want it off, you want to feel more of him. You slide your fingers underneath, nails scratching his collarbone, and he releases a low growl into your mouth.

It must look absolutely idiotic, when you bend backwards and pull him with you, making him hunch to not lose your lips, and Viktor stumbles, almost knocks you over before using your body for balance. You wrap your arms around his neck so tight his head almost snaps off and he responds with an equal strength of his palms crushing your ribs.

Hoarse breathing and little needy cries fill the tiny space, and you almost rip the shirt off his back, until—

The sound of your name echoing down the corridor startles you.

And then—

“Viktor!” Jayce calls. Behind him, Sky calls yours.

You detach from each other, panting, pure peril oozing between you.

“I’ve messed you up,” Viktor says quickly, adjusting your shirt back into your skirt. You could smile at the sweetness of the gesture, but—

The voices—closer, and closer, and closer.

“God, your hair,” you whisper, hands flying up to smooth down the strands you’ve mussed with panicked fingers.

Viktor’s hands drop from you. He lets you fuss over him but the more you touch him the more distant his expression grows. You almost deem your work decent, when he leans back in and shoveshis tongue into your throat again, as if he can’t stay away.

“Viktor, no, they will—”

You get cut off by a firm push to the table. He steps between your legs, yanks the door closed with his cane, and clasps a hand over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he pants. “They won’t.” And then he licks your neck, and your legs kick around him, thudding against the table leg.

“Shh, quiet,” he whispers between breaths. Bastard drags his tongue up your neck again, his free hand coming to pin your wrists together on your stomach. A kiss under your ear, a gentle suck of his lips gets your thighs clenching, trapping him between your legs and he has the audacity to smirk against your skin.

The sweet torture continues, when, feeling your fidgety hands grow pliant he releases you, only to use the newly gained freedom of his arm to slide a flat palm up your back, between your shoulder blades, all the way up so his fingers brush under your hairline before grabbing a fistful at the base of your skull. Have you known any better, you would bite the silencing hand, but you moan into it instead.

The moan dies into a whine, when Viktor’s tongue abandons your neck, and he comes back to look you in the eye all serious, then kisses the knuckles of his own palm as if they were your lips. “I meant it when I said I could gag you,” he hums and either he is not ready to see your eyes rolling to admire the insides of your eyeballs or the mere thought gets him to turned on his lids shut involuntarily.

And when Jayce and Sky clearly trot right next to the door that is now holding a secret dearest to your heart, you both freeze and keep your eyes shut, following the moronic rule of if you can’t see them they can’t see you either.

“All right, I’m ready to give up,” Jayce says, and Sky responds with nothing, but you can see her nodding in your mind’s eye. “Let’s just hope there aren’t any bodies lying around come morning.” That, Sky dignifies with a chuckle.

You both listen to the sound of their chatter and steps descending down the corridor in complete stillness, and when he is absolutely certain you are now truly alone, Viktor releases your mouth, its tender flesh pulled with his retreating hand, a quiet sticky sound follows.

He bites on his lower lip and stares at the glistening inner side of his palm for a moment and you wonder if he contemplates whether to lick it or wipe it into his pants. Then, he looks back at you, unsure and searching and you take one more step toward utter insanity, wrapping your legs around his and fisting his crumpled shirt.

“Is that a yes?” he asks against your mouth, cane comes to rest by the table and needy hands accept the invitation before his brain does as they cup your ass, pressing you against him. The feeling of his cock, hard between your legs and straining in his pants sends a cramp all the way to your core.

“A yes to what?” you bounce the question off as your tongue darts to lick his upper lip.

“To gagging,” Viktor still tries, but the chuckle gives him away.

“You’re disgusting,” you snort, nearly into his mouth. He swallows it in another kiss, prettier than the last one, gentler. Deeper as well, when he cups your face and licks into you through pleased hums, his eyelashes brush underneath yours and you can smell chalk and paper on him.

Of all people, Viktor giving you kiss so full of emotion, is not a thing you would bet on. But you accept it, messing his hair back into the state from before you licked it down with your palms, soft strands fill the gaps between your fingers as you flex them to tug, pull, and scratch your nails on his scalp and as you crack your eyes open, goosebumps rises and falls in waves down the taunt skin of his cheeks.

“For fucks sake touch me,” he rasps, showing you his underbelly. “Please.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say this word to me,” you tease him, licking into his mouth and shifting your hips so that your clothed cunt would press on his crotch. He groans your name out in a warning and doesn’t let you win this one, biting your neck, almost unhinging his jaw in the process.

You don’t retaliate either. Shaky fingers come to undo the first few buttons of his shirt, and you caress his collar bones before placing a soft kiss in the pool where they meet. Viktor’s head lulls back on his shoulders, hips roll into yours and mouth moans out the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.

“Ah, fuck,” you hiss against his skin despite yourself. Very reluctant to let him know how hot you find him right now, you drag your tongue up his neck to shut yourself up. Viktor, obviously at the edge of his patience, grabs the back of your neck and collides your mouths back into another greedy kiss, making you almost, well, gag, on his tongue.

“Yes to gagging, then,” he says triumphantly. Tired with waiting for your hands to touch him where he wants it the most, he slides one palm under your skirt, pressing on a thin, wet barrier of your knickers and hums, pleased that he is not alone in his overwhelming want.

“Ah!” A gasp escapes you when you feel how desperate his touch is. “So, there is, fuck—” you stutter at the feeling his fingers sliding the material to the side and finding your clit. “Kindness in your touch after all.” Your hands already fumble at his belt and Viktor smirks at the stark contrast between the overall cockiness of your message and a very poor delivery not backing it up.

“Only kindness,” he whispers and there is honesty within him you’ve never seen before. He sinks two fingers inside you, thumb fixed where you throb and pulse, and you almost lose his cock from your hand at the stumbling realisation of how good he is with his hands. You brace yourself with a firm grip on his shoulder, your free hand spreads the beads of precum over his head and Viktor exhales a shuddery breath. You give him a couple of experimental pumps and decide to push him further, retreating your touch only to present him with your palm open, waiting below his chin when you say, “Spit.”

“Who’s disgusting now,” he chuckles but obeys. Soon a warm wet splash lands on your hand, and you cannot take your eyes off his lips when his cheeks hollow out and tongue rolls to gather his spit for you. You’ve never seen him doing it either. The movement of his fingers doesn’t waver for a moment, and you have to use all of your massive brain power to not get distracted between your own pleasure and his cock.

You grasp him at the base and spread the slick all the way to the top, rolling your fingers on the sensitive spot under his head, to which Viktor replies with a firmer rub against your clit. The more you edge him, the more he coms forth, curling his fingers inside you, making you scowl and lose your rhythm on his cock and he’s willing to make this little sacrifice only so see how lovely your face contorts the closer you are to falling apart.

He defeats you almost entirely when a third finger gets introduced to your hole and all you can do is just hold him in your palm, your other hand slides back up his hair and you tug him close to taste his lips again and send your groan into his throat. Finally, you come in a couple of clenched out spasms, losing control of your mouth as you press yourself into him and Viktor gulps down your moans, humming and smiling with something clean and genuine.

Your legs go limp on his sides, forehead comes to rest on his shoulder, and you allow yourself a couple of shuddery breaths before moving your hand again. You lift your head to look at him, face all pink and covered with a sheen of sweat and his lips part sweetly when you resume languid rolls of your wrist.

Viktor braces himself on the edge of the table, hands come to grip on each side of your hips, his knuckles pale, and he leans in, holding your gaze. Utters a quiet fuck when you smile at him, all blissfully complete and you suddenly find yourself wanting to make him feel just as good. So you pump his cock faster, taking cues from the way his cheeks flare up, eyes flutter and breath hitches. He grunts and moans and pants and you record each and every one of those sounds in the grooves of your brain.

When’s he’s becoming unbearably hot and twitching in your palm, his hands crawl back to cup your face, and he kisses you deeply, soft tongue invading your mouth again and you know he is almost there, so you pull your skirt up and make him paint your inner thighs with cum. Heat spreads across your skin when Viktor shakes out the last spasms of his orgasm, your lips still glued together.

“Who knew you are such a sweet creature,” he mumbles hotly between kisses, his softening cock rolling in his own cum on your thigh.

“It’s a secret, don’t tell anyone,” you whisper, reaching blindly to the shelf above your head to grab a roll of paper towels. You hand it to Viktor, and he tears off a piece and sets the roll outside of your reach. With a protest already dangling off your tongue, you let it crawl back into your throat when Viktor wipes himself off your thigh with tenderness and care that gets you borderline embarrassed.

Then, he cleans himself up and you watch him with wide eyes as he tucks everything back into his pants, throws the cum-stained paper into the bin and leans back to kiss you, as if something just got established.

“A compromise agrees with you,” he says, resting his forehead against yours. “You too,” you reply stupidly, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones. And you wonder—how long is the fall off this tightrope going to be? When will you crash into the ground and break your neck?

[bitebitekxll]

Physical Catalyst

Notes: Years ago I read an isekai fic that referred to guns as ‘physical catalysts’ which is where I got the name from (haven’t been able to find it but I’ll link it if I do) but the rest are just my own musings about a reader with a gun in Teyvat. Also first attempt at making a divider, but I think it’s kinda cool

So whether it’s SAGAU or regular isekai, imagine reader is in Teyvat, no one knows they’re not from Teyvat, and they have a gun.

This in and of itself isn’t a big deal, most people carry weapons in this world and tons of them have guns. But the thing is, they’re not the same as real world guns, are they?

Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but every case of guns we’ve seen in genshin (pyro fatui skirmishers, Chevreuse) shoot out what looks like elemental energy. Maybe they’re bullets infused with elemental energy, like what we see with the arrows for the bow users, except the bow users can still shoot regular arrows. We never see the guns shoot regular/non elemental bullets.

Which is why my theory (that might be pulled apart in a future update but for now…) is that they don’t exist. Teyvat guns are capable of shooting elemental energy, maybe fuelled by the wielder’s vision/delusion or maybe using some kind of pellets, but they are not equipped to shoot with the force needed to make a regular bullet be of any use.

So when reader shows up and has a gun from their world? Oh boy. A handgun is no weapon of mass destruction, but anything that can take down a lawachurl in one well-aimed headshot will terrify Teyvat’s inhabitants. I mean, their guns do damage too, sure, but it’s a relative amount. A burn from a shot of pyro, a shock from a shot of electro. The concept of a gun that can instantly kill someone, quicker and easier than an arrow? Using a tiny piece of metal that isn’t even sharp and doesn’t explode? You are going to throw entire nations into chaos.

If word gets out about it, you’re gonna have law enforcement from across all the continent investigating you, not to mention the fatui— be prepared for the harbingers to be hunting down your ass trying to get their hands on such a powerful weapon

Of course that’s only if you let the cat out of the bag. Use your weapon away from prying eyes, and you’ll probably be fine. Dead hiluchurls tell no tales, after all. Or men, if you’re more chill with murder.

It probably wouldn’t be too hard to find a metalsmith who could take one of your bullets and make more. Though I wonder what explanation you’d give as to what it is, without giving away the ‘deadliest handheld weapon in history’ thing.

Idk I just think the introduction of bullet-operated guns in Teyvat is interesting, might write some stuff for the different characters reactions to it at some point

[skitchune]

#01 G8 Draw-in-your-style Challenge!

I believe that this is an old challenge, but I decided that there’s no better way to dust off the old gear than seeing the boys in my style. Really liked playing around the filters. I liked given them this old, Sunday Morning Comics style. The grain is just beautiful.

I guess…I should give a little explanation?

Basically, in how I write Hetalia, there was ONE major event that changed the course of their timeline during WW2. Though the world mythos in itself is very different, suffice to say that it was that ONE event that changed the course of their world moving forward. Currently, the Nation Folks assemble as their own private entity to develop livelihood and development projects for underserved communities across the globe, instead of other global matters. Still, many retain a degree of political connection, Nation Folks, in general, all agree that they will always put first the good of humanity over the gain of any singular country. That being said…

🍝 Feliciano Vargas - more actively sexual and flirtatious, pretty much a ladies man, has a problem keeping his dick out of places it shouldn’t be but he’s a lovable tramp regardless and knows that he can get away with a lot. He has a good heart and a good head, but maybe a little bit of too much casual machismo that makes his comeuppance so fun to watch.

📋Ludwig Beilschmidt - still pretty much stiff and serious, efficient but also too much of a stickler, is the youngest of the bunch and always has something to prove, Gilbert helps him here and there but he doesn’t want Gil to meddle, it may frustrate him that everyone treats him like a kid, but he also knows that it sometimes works in his favor being the ‘spoiled’ baby brother to many.

🐉 Seiryuu Honda - to keep things short, Seiryuu is and always has been this universe’s Nation Folk for Japan but Kiku does/did exist for some time for [story reasons] Sei is calm, level-headed but can come off as rather aloof and dazed, he can act a little too familiar with new people and is quite affectionate to friends. He’s a bit of a Casanova and likes the game of courtship like a round of Shogi. In many ways he might not be stereotypical, but in many ways he comes off as traditional and anachronistic.

🤠Alfred Jones - Heroism runs deep in this hot-blooded cowpoke, not the flashy guns or the prestige, but the hard work of running down the pavement for change. He’s charming, mature, headstrong, and value honest and just work. He’s the singular cause of the ONE event, becoming a catalyst to multiple OTHER notable events during WW2. Unfortunately, this has caused him excommunicated from the US government, which suits him fine as he can more actively participate in projects.

🎸Arthur Kirkland - No one fucks around with the ruling class more than Art, who has historically been a thorn in many administrations throughout the colorful history of his homeland. He is a rebel with a cause down to his core, sticking it up anyone’s arse if it means fighting for what’s right. Boston Tea Party? He was also pissing on the cartons before throwing them overboard? The IRA? Girl, he was a damn recruiter. Has he been beaten, threatened, and killed because of his insolence? Sure, but no one is gonna look good as him doing it.

⛱️Francis Bonnefoy - (P.S. I meant to draw him removing his shirt because someone accidentally spilled wine on him) Residing far away from the bustle of Paris, Franc lives the coastal orchard life along the south of France. He’s a country boy at heart who likes living the simple life. He is very introspective, usually keeps to himself, but isn’t really afraid to voice out his measured opinions. Some might say he is a tad but wistful, but many friends know he’s just daydreaming of being back in his orchard surrounded by good company and a glass of the finest wine.

💅Ivan Braginsky - No one can take this MATERIAL GWORL. Daddy Russia is a Mama Bear who claps back at heartless Capitalism and works tirelessly as the acting Chairman of the Union to increase wages and living conditions across the social classes. He is tongue-in-cheek, no nonsense, and fabulous, but above all, a big and caring figure who thinks much for others more than himself sometimes and is just grateful to come home and be wrapped around by a certain Lithuanian’s strong arms—Big Mama deserves some honey after a long day’s work.

🍜Yao Wang - Wang is a funny characters to me. He can come across as uncouth and overfamiliar, but he just doesn’t take life as seriously as the others. It’s been a long ride and there’s too much more ground to cover than he wishes to put the effort into. He likes to complain about the silliest things, but damn, if he isn’t telling the truth every time he opens his mouth.

Alternate gradient map styles under the cut

[jinmindeulle]

proven chemistry | lee juyeon

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 lee juyeon x fem!reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 1.3 k

𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆 fluff | college au

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 none

you see juyeon laughing with someone else and, driven by jealousy, you finally admit how you feel about him.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ 　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　 ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚

You have always known that Juyeon wears his heart on his sleeve. He couldn’t hide his true reactions even if he tried, and that’s something you loved about him. Sometimes it could be hard to get explanations out of him, but you can usually guess what’s going on by how his eyes light up, stare in deep thought, or just avoid your gaze. 

“Why is he so giggly?” 

Your best friend looks at you with a tiny smirk, and you know what comes next.

“You’re jealous” she giggles, nodding her head.

“I’m not!” you cease to look at the scene displaying just a couple of meters from you and face Jihye, who is waiting for you to elaborate “It’s annoying how he just flirts with her in the middle of the library.”

“Relax, dear Jesus. He’s just laughing at what she said! They are partners in Mr. Choi’s project, they have to interact with one another. Remember?”

Your Chemistry professor had randomly assigned your partners for your final project. You got lucky enough to have been partnered with Jihye, not only because she was your best friend, but also because with her, choosing the topic was fairly simple: it was either related to environmental or green issues. However, as you sneakily look at the pair again, you wished you were in that girl’s place. 

“What’s so funny about molecules?”

Juyeon had told you everything about their project and how well their first trials on the software had gone. They had decided to simulate molecules and predict their properties, but instead of experimenting physically, they did it virtually. Now, they just had to write down the first draft to hand in.

“I don’t know, but we still have to narrow down the conclusions on this thing, or else Mr. Choi will dump this paper right in front of our eyes!”

Although your chosen topic was way too interesting for you, esterification (making esters for flavors and scents) and how to replace the acid catalyst with an enzyme/greener catalyst to eliminate hazardous byproducts was proving to be nowhere as entertaining as looking at Juyeon from across the room. 

“I think I need to get out of here”

The rest of the evening was spent back at your dorm, surrounded by lab trials on paper, coffee cups, various sweets, and the typing sound in two different laptops going on for the longest time you’ve ever heard. 

“Last one?” Jihye asked with hope, looking at you with reddened eyes. The topic was no longer of you guys’ interest. You just needed some sleep.

“Think so! ‘For the last approach…’” You took the lead, ready to get over with it “‘Lipases (enzymes) were used to catalyze the reaction under mild conditions.’

After typing for some minutes, your best friend added “And we conclude that… ‘Every method proved to be efficient’?

“Well, they all were so…”

“Are we done?”

“Hell yeah”

Your celebratory dance was interrupted by a knock on your door. You checked the time — 9:48 PM. Had your roommate forgotten her key? 

You stretch out on your way to the door, finally feeling your butt after hours of sitting down in the only chair you could bear. You were in the middle of a yawn when you opened it, and of course, he would be there, laughing at you in that state. 

“Still working for Mr. Choi?” Juyeon asked, giggling at the sight of you. 

“How did you guess?” you hid your face behind your hands, trying to make your burning cheeks less obvious. “What are you doing here?”

Completely ignoring your question, he walked past you and greeted your friend, who was already packing all her ‘study pack’, as she liked to call it, to go back to her dorm. 

“You guys have a good night! I can’t handle myself any longer”

Juyeon got himself comfortable on your small couch and eyed you as you started putting your stuff away. “How did it go?” he asked in a low tone, well aware of how strict quiet hours were in your campus buildings. 

“We’ll hand it in on Monday. The topic was fun at the beginning but after writing so much about it, it just fell out of my interest. What about you?”

“We finished it in the library a couple of hours ago. I thought you guys would be there as well.” When you finally sat down next to him, he pressed his back on the armrest so he could better see you. 

“Hye and I decided to leave-”

“Because…” he inquired.

“It was too loud”

“The library?” he smiled, not tearing his eyes away from your increasingly reddened cheeks. “I know you were looking at me. At us” he corrected, his smile turning into a bigger grin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” You looked away, busying yourself with the hem of your top. 

“Your cheeks seem to know” 

“You were being too loud” you murmured, unable to return the gaze. 

“What? I didn’t hear you” Juyeon replies, clearly messing with you. By this point, it was obvious that he knew more than you’d like to. He showed it, proved it, and said it. 

But how could you just tell him the truth? How could you admit that your heart beats faster when he’s near you? How could you preserve the amazing friendship that had blossomed over college years if you had to tell him that you like him more than that?

“Do you promise not to panic after I tell you?”

“Y/N…” he sighed, making the small distance between your bodies disappear. He took your hands in his, and kissed each one with a care you could’ve never seen coming “I like you too.” And if your cheeks had been red before, you now probably looked like an extra spicy hot sauce bottle. How…? When…? 

“I-I… what?”

“I was testing you out before I said anything. It may have slipped from Jihye at some point…” he giggled at the face you made. That little bastard…“But I wanted to make sure that it was not just another of her ideas. Well… this afternoon, it was pretty clear to me”

“I couldn’t disguise it, huh?” 

“You were shooting daggers at her.” Juyeon chuckled, playing with your fingers. His touch felt so intimate and gentle that you couldn’t stop looking at the way he caressed you “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I felt relieved in so many ways. I had been in the dark about your feelings for way too long and that was a very evident sign.”

“Are you sure you like me?” you whispered, too shy to look at him. 

It had been hard enough to picture what being romantically with Juyeon could look like, that you never wanted to have to do that again. So many different scenarios, so many ways in which he showed his love for you, and so many caring stares that you didn’t want to imagine anymore. Cuddling with him? Kissing until your lips hurt? Meeting his family? Sharing a home? It had to be real, or else… 

Your heart wouldn’t be able to handle seeing him in any other way than being yours.

“Do you want me to prove it?”

You snapped out of your thoughts, ready to finally have a taste of what you have longed for so many years. “Please”

Your whisper was rapidly cut short by his soft lips on your own, his big and rough hands cupping the sides of your face to angle you better. You couldn't help but smile in the middle of the kiss, too entranced in his touch to care to hide your true feelings. He took his mouth away from yours with the cutest smile you have ever seen.

“I might need a little bit more convincing, sir. Just to make sure… ” Your grin was now sly, daring. It was ridiculous how down-bad you were for him. 

“Lee Juyeon at your service, madam” 

His kiss was confident and eager. His lips moved at your pace, making sure he never crossed your boundaries. 

“I’m officially addicted to your kisses” He whispered in between pecks, leaving your lips a little to continue pressing them all over your face and neck.

“How could we miss this for so long?”

“Better later than never, darling.” 

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ 　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　 ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚

back at it! missed writing for my boyz so much 💙

[jesswritesthat]

Bakugou Katsuki: Killer Skills

Fandom: BNHA // MHA — [ Masterlist ]

Summary: 1.2k, angst, fluff

• Being an ex-assassin provides skill, but when your secret is shared it makes things complicated with an explosive pro.

Warnings: Mature language, pro-hero age, mentions of killing.

>>>>——————————>

Never had you expected to be the catalyst of one night drastically changing form, yet neither had you expected your life to be thrust into the light by explosives either.

Calmly you stood, arms folded and expectant brow raised at said explosive.

"Look I'm not asking for help shadow shit, just a sous chef. I'm getting the extras together and need a hand since they're all still fucking useless in the kitchen."

"Alright, what are we making Katsuki?" Still addressing him so informally left him diverting his gaze but he gave a detailed list of his menu with vicious confidence.

—

It wasn't until hours later when surrounded by former classmates of UA did you feel minor pressure, even though you were trained to fit into any situation, this was still unnerving despite Bakugou giving a shoddy introduction. So many heroes, so many former enemies...

Did they didn't even know who you were?

What you were?

"Wow Bakugou, you finally found someone who's as good with a knife as you are!" The commentary of a bright brunette ripped you from your depths, the woman bubbly and impressed by the sight of the two of you dicing vegetables.

"Still think it's weird round face?"

"Yeah, how'd you get so skilled (L/n)?" Your blade paused mid strike upon hearing her question, low and regretful reply breathed into the world.

"Having skill with knife is pivotal to an assassin, luckily such a talent can be applied to various situations."

Aside from to Katsuki, you think it's the first truth you've told.

The room fell silent, Uraraka stepping back ever so slightly nearer the comfort of Izuku and beside you there was a prevalently harsh whisper from Bakugou.

"Shit."

That's when you realised you'd screwed up, of course they didn't know, Dynamight probably hadn't a chance to tell them nor the priority to either.

"Assassin? (L/n)-san you...?" The gravity quirk user stuttered out, the heroes in the room suddenly more defensive and dawned upon you one by one.

"Not anymore but my hands aren't clean and they never will be. However I'm trying to be better, now that I'm free. I swear upon my life."

"You are The Shadow, right? I suspected as such after their mysterious prolonged absence." Izuku decided, just as Katsuki predicted he would, but never had you been disappointed by sheer terror and anger tainting once gleaming faces before. Until now.

"I was. Then like you said, I disappeared. I made my first choice in a long time and chose to kill myself so I wouldn't be forced to do anything else I didn't want to." With your harrowing explanation and final assassination poetically being that of your previous alias, the room fell tensely silent once more upon the digestion of such a tale.

"You're responsible for so many d—" They were cut off before they could finish (but you knew where it was going) by the deafening sound of a knife stabbing into your chopping board with knuckles white on its handle. You felt the dangerous presence towering behind you, enough to make anyone think twice about a comment so brash.

"Bakubro why aren't you saying anything?! You should be blowing up right now unless—" A flash of realisation as Kirishima settled upon his friends' protective frame. "—you knew."

"'Course I knew, you think I'm an idiot?!" The blonde aggressively barked back, you felt his riding temperature against your back as he leaned forward slightly.

"No but this is insane! Since when were you one for villain redemption?"

"Like you fuckers can talk about redemption, we've seen plenty of assholes do bad things and sometimes it ain't their choice. You still saved them didn't you?" A knowing look was directed at Deku, who already seemed to emphasise.

"Kacchans' right, we can't assume a situation based on actions. Only that if a lighter path is what (L/n)-san has chosen, then we should support it until given reason otherwise." Miraculously the words of this admired man seemed to resonate with them, yet Katsuki remained somewhat defensive and hadn't revoked himself entirely from your space quite yet.

"Besides, if (Y/n) wanted to kill any of you, you'd be dead already. Take that as a trusting start." He made a point of eating your food, almost as if making an example of his guests' unanimous wariness once stepping back to his station.

"Katsuki! Don't say that, it doesn't help my case."

"What?! It's not a fucking lie, you even gave me a hard time." He bit back defensively, glaring daggers that all most matched the sharpness of yours.

"Someone who made Bakugou sweat? I'd like to take a crack at sparring you sometime if you wouldn't mind." Kirishima seemed revitalised with newfound admiration that was mildly unnerving, maybe this new hero generation hadn't forgiven your crimes but they were willing to get to know you at the very least.

"Uh— I mean I'm trying to be better, if helping you improve accomplishes that then I'll participate." You bowed, Katsuki only snorting and providing a venue proposal.

"Could use my training room? It's been a while since I've seen shitty hair and Pikachu get their asses kicked."

———

So after turning the night upside down, Red Riot and Chargebolt became your opponents in an orchestrated game.

"Alright I have two powders, if you get marked you are dead as per my previous occupation. If you can hit me, you both win." Came your brief explanation, holding up a pair of red fingertips on your left hand which everyone agree and understood.

With that, the onlookers could only watch as you manoeuvred varying attacks, sidestepping, jumping, and swishing past jolts of electric whilst simultaneously avoiding the hardened combat from Eijirou.

Suddenly, after about 3 minutes, you came to a solid stop which allowed Kaminari to barrel into you rather unceremoniously a second later who dizzily voiced his victory.

"I got them!" A panting breath. "I win!"

A chorus of applause and laughter echoed in the room with comments spewing from observations.

"Kiri check your back man!"

"Denki... you've got a little something..." Jirou vaguely gestured to her forehead and lo and behold when mirroring her actions, his fingers came back dusted with scarlet powder.

"Also I should say that the second powder was UV sensitive, so if Katsuki kindly adjusts the lighting?"

Immediately there was gasps of astonishment, both bodies were decorated with reflective vibrant marks that almost made you feel sick of your own competence.

"Woah?! You coulda killed use twenty times over and we didn't even manage to zap you!"

"Told ya morons." Katsuki joined your side, a nudge to your arm to knock you from your worrying thoughts and a diverting suggestion to get you away from the situation. "Let's eat, we didn't go through all that shit to waste the food you damn extras!"

"Sweet, then you can tell us the story of how you both met over dinner!" Despite being beaten, Kaminari had newfound interest in your past life as did the rest of the heroes - you couldn't blame them, you were infamous for a reason.

The domino sound of agreement left you snapping to the host in mild panic upon the possibility of having to relinquish such a turbulent memory. You hadn’t even told him he’s the reason you quit killing and he hadn’t dared bring up that kiss you shared in case it meant nothing to you. A seemingly mutual whisper escaped both of your lips.

"Shit."

<——————————<<<<

[ Masterlist ]

[chiiroptereh]

[Please zoom in, there's a lot of detail! And a massive file size...ouch]

Hi guys, long time no post! Been working on Art Fight and life stuff, but I've got something kinda fun for you.

This is a compilation exploring how a mortal Bill may interact with our world if there were still some kinda Euclidean instincts buried in there. Y'know, before the Book of Bill ruins all my headcanons >:P (EDIT: IT HAS BEEN READ. YAHOOOOOO)

Also quite an experimental piece as you can probably tell. Lots of details on both said headcanons and the art stuff under the cut, but I invite you to study the colorful texture yourself beforehand and think about what it might be representative of, just for fun because I got some really cool answers from my friends when asked :]c

TL;DR: the headcanon is that Euclideans have exceptional eyes for geometry. They find things like symmetry, tessellating patterns, graphs and fractals very aesthetically pleasing. If pushed into our 3D world, they feel comforted by the familiarity flat objects/spaces bring, as well as high-contrast patterns. Shadows especially are a familiar dimensional reduction that may bring them much comfort.

Bill would surely not be happy about these inclinations, constant reminders of a past long gone, but I'm not sure he's even aware of them here :P I think his ego gets in the way to the point where he just views these interests as common sense, which, of course, us lame humans just don't understand because we aren't nearly as cool as him. Of course he likes perfectly symmetrical leaves and staring at the kitchen floor, it's called taste, look it up!

And yet, he can't seem to shake the strange sense of melancholy he gets from viewing his own shadow.

~ End of TL;DR, long version below! ~

🔺 Headcanon Development

So, the catalyst of this idea was in relation to my friend and I's AU ( @love-triangles-au ). TL;DR, Bill's brought back mortal, meets another triangle named Y.V. (it's his hand holding the paper in the piece, actually), at some point they fall in yaois together, you know how it is. And, in writing a pair of triangles (or, more broadly, writing from the perspective of a different species), something I've had to consider was that you really can't get much further removed from a human being than sentient geometry.

The anatomical aspect was mostly figured out (see my piece on Bill's eye-mouth), but I wanted to consider what psychological differences might be at play. I wanted them to be weirder, more alien, double-so for Bill. At first I explored these possibilities through the lens of Bill and Y.V.'s relationship, specifically the question "what might a triangle find appealing about another triangle?"

Well, really the only things that came to mind were straight lines and symmetry, anything related to the geometric form of such a creature. That's more-or-less where that ended until the thought struck me that there's no reason this aesthetic appreciation couldn't extend to the rest of the environment, and then further when I realized, "wait, this is a species that is designed to live in a 2D environment. Like, they should seriously be really weird. I need to push this like 200% more."

So...yeah! I did some thinking and brainstorming with others and came up with a pretty long list of things a Euclidean in our world may be inclined to enjoy or find some level of comfort in. It's worth noting again that in this piece specifically this is a mortal/powerless Bill, so he can't really escape this Earthly environment. IF he's aware of these instincts at all (and that's a big "if"; when have you last been cognizant of your own instincts let alone known where they were stemming from?) I think he'd have snuffed them out in immortality and/or purposefully gone against them; he doesn't take kindly to being told what to do.

In order from left-to-right, top-to-bottom, here's an explanation for each!:

Flat objects such as paper are something he may find particularly engaging. It's basically 2D!

Tessellations are especially fascinating, and our world has them everywhere in the form of tile floors. Symmetry and such a predictable pattern...as the infinity of the starry sky might for us, the infinite potential of tessellations might invoke a similar sense of awe in him. Add on the maximum contrast of black on white kitchen tiles and the forms are only even better defined! A sensitivity to contrast would be very helpful for a 2D being navigating their environment.

Fields are flat and open, much like Euclydia itself. Laying flat may make him feel a little more at home.

More tessellation in the honeycomb of hymenopterans (bees, wasps and friends)! It helps that pain is hilarious.

The city is an absolute treasure trove. Rectangular buildings, precise architecture, square sidewalks and straight lines abound...he may as well be looking at a rainbow or an art gallery! I think a Euclidean's brain is very fine-tuned to mathematics, especially in regards to trigonometry. What may appear to be a straight painting might appear obnoxiously crooked to him.

Zebras are high-contrast :]

Another flat surface, another relaxing space <3

I think graphs are about as high as high art gets to most Euclideans.

I've touched on shadows before, and for good reason; truly they must be something borderline magical to the Euclidean and perhaps bitterly nostalgic.

This one kinda speaks for itself. Dweeb.

🎨 The Artsy Stuff

Lately I've been trying to find ways to fit more color into my work, as color is perhaps one of my favorite things in the world. My wardrobe is rather garish; my dad jokes that you could see me from space. My fursona is obnoxiously bright for a reason -- I feel my soul is a very colorful one!

I also realized recently that I don't actually know the exact style that speaks to me. I could talk about the phenomenon of the "style crisis" that many artists have all day, but in my mind the best cure for this feeling is to go against it entirely and begin stealing as much as possible.

So, I've tried to keep an eye out for more sources of inspiration everywhere I go, physical and digital. I've tried to train my mind into making a habit of considering, "can I do anything with this?" everywhere I go, and it recently paid off!

The glittery rainbowy texture you see plastered all over Billiam is this one, a photo-manipulated set of fruit stickers. I must confess I've been obsessed with this image for the past 72 hours, and this seemed like a good excuse to try it out!

I worried throughout the process if it might be so abstract that it loops back around to being horribly deliberate, if that makes sense -- like each sparkle was not a piece of a whole but rather an object in itself -- but it seems like that hasn't been a problem, so I'm grateful for that :Dc

I hope it can dazzle and delight you as it does me, but as long as you find it fascinating at the very least then I consider it a success! I really enjoyed hearing my friends' interpretations while workshopping it, and got tons of amazing answers from opal to kaleidoscope to fossilized bone marrow! I truly believe that the best art has some room for interpretation and it really excites me to be surrounded by that kind of creative energy that follows said pieces. That definitely adds to my pride in this work. It's weird, it's colorful, it's detailed and yet ambiguous. I'm feeling pretty autistic about it

Alright, I think that's about it. Thanks for listening!

[jellyfishsthings]

Detective on site...

Warnings: nothing just angst

navigation

It's a peculiar ache, isn't it? Not the sharp, immediate pain of a broken bone, but a dull, persistent throbbing that settles deep in your chest. It’s the ache of a friendship shifting, a bond loosening thread by thread. And for you, it’s been two months, one week, and five days since that ache started to take hold, since Peter Parker, your best friend, started drifting away.

You remember the first subtle shift. A cancelled movie night with a flimsy excuse. A text message that felt clipped, devoid of the usual banter and shared jokes that defined your conversations. You brushed it off, of course. Peter was always a little…scatterbrained. Maybe he was just having an off week. But then the off week turned into two, and then a month, and the subtle shifts became more pronounced, undeniable.

He moved with a different energy now. It was almost as if a switch had been flipped. He possessed an agility you hadn’t seen before, a newfound grace in his movements. He could navigate the crowded hallways of your school with a fluidity that seemed almost impossible for the Peter you knew, the Peter who was usually a walking catastrophe of dropped books and tangled limbs. He was…different.

Naturally, you confronted him. You didn't accuse him or demand a grand explanation, but you expressed concern. You asked him what had been going on, wanting to understand the change, hoping for a return to the easy camaraderie you both cherished. You expected him to open up, to confide in you as he always had. Instead, you were met with a shrug and a rather weak attempt at an explanation. "It's just…puberty," he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

Puberty? That was the best he could come up with? You knew Peter. You knew his quirks, his nervous habits, the way he fidgeted when he was lying. And that was definitely a lie. You’d known him for years, you’d grown up alongside each other, you’d seen him navigate the awkward teenage years, and this sudden transformation wasn’t some hormonal surge. This was something else entirely.

He was pulling away, strategically creating distance. The white lies started popping up more frequently. He had to help his Aunt May with something, or he was suddenly swamped with homework, or he was just…tired. His excuses were so out of character that they became another layer of the mystery. You knew Peter, he hated lying, and now he seemed to be weaving a tapestry of them. It was like watching someone you thought you knew unravel before your very eyes.

And as you began to investigate, it was hard to ignore the nagging suspicion in the back of your mind. You knew Peter wasn't simply going through a growth spurt, or suddenly developing a passion for homework. He was keeping something from you, something significant, and the more he tried to hide it, the more determined you were to understand. You’ve always been good at putting the pieces together, at noticing inconsistencies, at unraveling a puzzle. It’s just who you are, and Peter knew that. Perhaps he also knew, with a growing sense of panic, that it was only a matter of time before you uncovered the truth.

But what was this truth? You went back over the last two months, one week, and five days in your mind, looking for the catalyst, the moment where everything changed. You analyzed conversations, recalled his sudden disappearances, and the strange cuts you’d caught sight of on his arms, quickly covered with long sleeves. The pieces were there, scattered like fallen leaves, waiting for you to recognize their pattern.

You found yourself thinking about the rumors whispered in hushed tones around school and the city. The tales of a mysterious vigilante, someone with incredible agility and strength, swinging through the city. You remembered seeing a flicker of red and blue in the corner of your eye as you walked home one night. It was a fleeting glimpse, but something about it resonated with the way Peter had changed, the strange grace he now possessed.

Could it really be? Could Peter, your awkward, sometimes clumsy best friend, be the same person behind the mask, swinging from buildings and fighting crime? The thought seemed almost laughable. But the more you pondered it, the more the evidence seemed to line up. The late disappearances, the strange injuries, the sudden change in his persona, the lies...it all pointed towards the same improbable truth.

He hadn’t wanted you to know, clearly. He was creating distance, hoping to protect his secret, hoping to keep you safe from whatever danger he might be facing. You could imagine his internal conflict. He knew you, he knew your inquisitive mind, he knew that you would eventually uncover the truth, but he also desperately wanted to keep you out of the mess his life had become.

It was a strange irony, wasn’t it? The person who used to confide in you about everything, the person who knew you better than anyone, was now actively constructing a wall between you. It was a twisted form of protection, one that left you feeling both confused and, let’s be honest, a little hurt. You felt like a detective in a mystery you desperately wanted to resolve. Your best friend, in a strange twist of fate, had become the center of a puzzle you didn't even know you were trying to solve, until now.

So, here you are, at a crossroads. You could confront him, demand answers, reveal what you’ve pieced together. You could express your hurt, your frustration, your confusion. Or, you could wait, observe, continue to meticulously collect the clues until you're completely sure. Either way, the unraveling thread of your friendship, once so vibrant, is now a tangled mess. And you know, deep down, that it's on you to decide whether to grab the end of that thread and start pulling, or to let the knot tighten further. One thing is for sure, though, after two months, one week, and five days, the game has changed. And you are ready to play.

[rosenapppiing]

alright now hear me out: The Purple Incident inspires Uzi to start trying to diagnose the issue by digging deep into her OS, complicated by the fact that it’s organized completely differently than what she remembers. Eventually she digs deep enough and finds that the Solver program is quite literally running UziDoorman.exe in compatibility mode. Now, there’s probably a reasonable explanation, after all her filesystem’s been streamlined and her body has had some… changes (why would a robot need digestive organs?) so maybe the compatibility mode is just so she can keep running on her body? But then why can she see herself running? No other WD can see themselves running, and as far as she knows, the same applies to DDs too. An entire neural network, compiled and compressed into a single exe, what else was changed? What else was streamlined? Why isn’t Cyn listed here? She’s picked up some new habits too. Mild shift in clothing preferences, her posture’s changed, even anime she used to love now seems like trash. Drones change, that’s life, but are these changes hers, or someone else’s? Is she just a copy? An emulation? Nothing more than an increasingly self aware façade to be switched on and off like a light by something beyond her? And when V comes charging at her, claws outstretched, murder in her eyes, demanding to know the truth, how can Uzi answer when she doesn’t even know herself?

ive kept this one in my inbox for so long bc its just so cool. I have no experience w like. Computer talk. Idk anything about files and programs. But this is so inspirational to me that i just kept comin back n reading it for fun. Honorary purples drones contributer right here.

Uzi faces a lot of identity issues in this au- the program that murdered every human on two planets (supposedly), mutated worker drones into cannibalistic death machines designed to starve, infected her mom, infected her, fatal-error-ed her and her friends like 2 dozen times- the catalyst for every bad thing to ever happen to anyone she knows, is currently coursing through her programing. Theres a horrible feeling in her gut every time she looks at n and v, something that calls them inferior to her, that calls her to keep them in line, under her control, why shouldnt she? Its what they were made for.

She doesnt know if thats her tails voice in her ear, or if something broke in her.

Between that and the acquisition of world edit, she doesnt feel like herself. Its shameful feeling like she has no control when V and N have their new owners color branded on their visors, again. Her color. But its almost like cyn didntt die, only playing another game like v said. Just istead of v being the puppet, its uzi. Shes on edge and is near inconsolable for a good while as reality sets in.

[tired-lamb]

lone honeybadger: bunga

what did you bury, before those hands pulled me from the earth?

trigger warning — the following post includes mentions of dead animals and loved ones, hunting and killing of animals, hallucinations, a brief mention of dissociation, and talks about grief. please proceed with caution.

[ pt: trigger warning ]

briefing . . . lone honeybadger is a tlg au exploring a ‘what if?’ situation where ono is unable to save bunga in the volcano in the battle for the pridelands and bunga dies. the events that follow include kion losing control of the roar and causing the volcano to erupt— killing more than half of the population of the pridelands and the outlands, as well as resurrecting scar (again). the survivors are now forced to live a life under scar’s rule, for there is no longer anyone to save them. fast forward a few years into this apocalyptic-like universe, and a miracle occurs. bunga, the honeybadger, returns.

[ pt: briefing . . . ]

character’s importance . . . bunga is the cause and the catalyst for the eruption, though he is unaware of it. he is revived presumably by the circle of life (which, it seems, is not yet ready to let bunga complete his journey). there is no explanation given to him whatsoever. for bunga, he was gone in a blip and returned in the same way. he is the same age, in the same state as he was during the battle for the pridelands. he has no knowledge of the events that passed after his ‘death’. 

he serves as a reminder to the survivors, both of the outlands and the pridelands, of all that they had been promised and all that they had lost. none of them have had the time to properly process or grieve those they’ve lost— and so when bunga returns all that they can think of upon seeing him is how betrayed they feel by the guard, how they wished they had escaped the pridelands before any of this happened, and how lovely things had been before they realised they had lost. 

the survivors form the group known as the resistance, led by jasiri. apart from the young ones and jasiri herself, none of them accept bunga and none of them are willing to take him in. they barely have the heart to even tell him what happened. bunga, on the other hand, is in severe denial about the events that followed his ‘death’ and of the death of his friends, too. he tells them that they are lying, and that there’s no way they failed to defeat scar. unfortunately, bunga being bunga, he then plans an.. adventure, of sorts, and travels to the volcano in order to prove that scar is defeated. 

of course, bunga is met with his worst nightmares and is forced to accept that he, too, has lost everything while the glowing head of scar floats not far from him. he is lucky enough to be saved by jasiri and the resistance before scar sees him, however he’s put the entire group at risk and thus has forced them to relocate. the entire resistance is unhappy with this development, and insist jasiri to let him go. before jasiri can turn around, however, bunga’s gone already. 

[ pt: character’s importance . . . ]

character in present timeline . . . bunga in the present timeline is.. rogue, in all senses of the word. he’s not himself anymore, nor does he feel like it. this is where his character takes heavy inspiration from ronin from the tmnt last ronin comics. he goes missing for sometime before, all of a sudden, there is news of a honeybadger in the lands. there hasn’t been one since the time before scar’s reign, and so this catches everyone’s attention. fruit and hoards of insects are found near the resistance’s ever-changing base, mysteriously appearing just at the right time and the right place. hunting is usually reserved for scar’s army (a law that the resistance don’t follow as much as they can), but these days both sides find animals dead and bearing scar marks that none of them can recognise. there’s a chill, a sense of someone new in the game. the resistance hope this will mean something good for them. scar’s army fail to make scar think of this as a serious situation. after all, how could a single honeybadger ever break the hems of his carefully stitched and crafted plan? 

as most of you have probably guessed by now, the ‘mysterious honeybadger’ is bunga. he does, indeed, go on rampages and ‘killing sprees’, though he doesn’t do any of this on .. purpose. it’s a panic reflex; an involuntary action. maybe even a coping mechanism, of sorts. he blanks out— dissociates, in a sense, and next thing he knows he’s back with blood on his claws and a dead or injured animal in front of him. he never means to do this. it takes some time before he gets used to it and decides to at least have something good come out of it, and leaves the animals close to where he believes the resistance base is. the resistance are always relocating, so sometimes he gets it wrong, which leads to scar’s army getting to know that there’s someone else, someone more bold, in the lands now. someone who dares to hunt and leave it out in the open like this.

another important aspect of present lone!bunga is that he carries the ghosts of the guard with him. not in a positive, ‘I’ll carry their memories and hopes with me’ sense, but more of a literal sense. bunga is plagued with hallucinations of the guard in spirit form, and they come and go as they please. they never say a lot. they first started a couple of days after bunga ran away from the resistance. bunga is not at all ready to process the death of his friends nor is he ready to process the raw loneliness that is bound to come with it. at the back of his mind, he knows they’re dead, but instead of letting himself move on from this he lets himself live in the past— that’s all bunga does, really. live in the past. can you blame him, though? 

[ pt: character in present timeline . . . ]

character as grief . . . bunga is one of four main characters in this au that represent something. he, in particular, represents grief. the way I portray this is bunga going through the stages of grief, while also being a symbol of grief for everyone else. as mentioned above, he reminds everyone of what once was and what was lost. he’s a walking corpse, literally and figuratively. he was meant to stay dead. he was not supposed to be revived. he is grief and grief is him. the stages of grief he goes through each and every day consume him entirely. bunga’s current fate was never meant to be— he was never meant to be. not now, not here, at least. he is not of this world. he will never be. 

[ pt: character as grief . . . ]

[street-light-poetry]

See the best and most fulfilling thing about writing cryptic poetry & most importantly, sharing it, is that you get to experience many different types of reasoning - it's like this excerpt I read on here not long ago, in which the author describes how a party made up of a chemist, a musician, and a painter reacts to a green vase shattering unexpectedly, each one of them perceiving and interpreting the event according to their own experiences, interests and skills (the musician identifies the note made by the bowl when it shattered, the painter marvels at the deepened hue of the broken pieces, and the chemist deduces that the vase shattered because someone left a lit cigarette in it, which caused a temperature differential). All of these perspectives do add different facets to what could have been, otherwise, easily chalked up to an unfortunate accident undeserving of undue attention. And of course it would be silly to say that the musician's perspective is less valuable than that of the chemist, or to ignore the chemist's explanation on account of it not having stopped the vase from being destroyed in the first place, or because they weren't the vase's owner.

So far, one person has guessed the word I had in mind for the riddle-poem, and even her reasoning & previous guesses didn't exactly follow what I had expected to see, taking separate paths until both our interpretations converged - but all the guesses I've seen are really fascinating and definitely not something I would have guessed on my own (I am also handicapped by "knowing the solution" here, as it were, which makes it difficult to consider other avenues of enquiry, since I came up with the text myself), all of which is truly enriching to read. I love the scientific method displayed by @emcapi, because it's definitely not how I tend to function, while someone else in the notes - at the other end of the spectrum, in a way - has intuitively identified with laser precision the exact motif I had in mind while writing the second stanza. These two readings of the same words are not mutually exclusionary! And somewhere in the middle of the "scientific deduction to intuition" spectrum, all the different guesses draw upon different parts of the poem, which is always fascinating to see - the way everyone will focus on a different part of the text, will react & build upon different foundations and sometimes ending up at a similar point never ceases to intrigue; this is a phenomenon I try to cultivate & that has happened with every poem I've been sharing for quite a while now, which I am really grateful to all of you for.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that my goal is to make poems that work as catalysts of a kind, that will not be read as separate and inert "works of art", but will read their readers & react to (and with) them in return. How you read reveals quite a lot about you and this phenomenon is both unique & precious; thank you all for playing along, it really means a lot to me.

And of course, the game's still open!

[outcropbythesea]

I think Belinda’s plot this season is interesting because instead of getting character development in the normal way, with a character growing and changing over the course of a season, it’s more like we’re getting character development sideways?

Normally in Doctor Who, the Doctor’s backstory changes all the time and contradicts, and canon doesn’t always make sense. The logical explanation for this is that the Doctor’s timeline changes slightly, because time is always in flux, and we just mostly ignore it because that’s what we do.

Or sometimes, there’s an alternate timeline for an episode, and then it’s all fixed and the timeline never happened, and maybe you remember it or maybe you don’t. You get echoes.

With Belinda, it’s really hard to avoid the temptation to see one of her timelines as the real one and the others as fake or echoes. I think we can agree that the wish world one was fake, because it was inherently unstable and designed to fall apart if thought about too hard. But her initial and finale timelines are stable ones, as far as we know.

Belinda’s life is not a fixed point in time. Some parts of her character are consistent in stable timelines – she’s a good nurse, she cares a lot about people, she’s close with her mother. She’s smart and stubborn.

When the Doctor goes through Belinda’s timeline to save her in the Robot Revolution, they obviously don’t see Poppy. But Belinda does see Poppy in the Story and the Engine, echoing from the other timeline’s memories.

I don’t think either timeline is more real. It’s jarring and confusing for us because we see Belinda through the Doctor’s perspective, as a fluid element in the timestream and not from the linear, fixed perspective through which we experience our own timelines. If we saw either story from Belinda’s perspective, her character arc would make more sense to us.

Despite being unstable, the main catalyst for these two timelines intersecting is obviously the wish world timeline. It’s like a bubble timeline, it’s always going to pop in on itself, but although people can’t escape from it, sometimes emotions can. Prior episodes in this season have had themes of perception, and belief, and the power they can hold. The wish timeline wasn’t powerful enough to exist forever, but it was powerful enough to pull together two timelines that both really existed.

In one of them, Belinda is as we know her for most of the season. She lives in a crappy flat with some roommates, works as a nurse, and doesn’t have children. She wants to get home because she wants to get on with her life and resents being kidnapped and put in danger, but starts to appreciate the Doctor and the potential of travelling with them more as they get drawn into adventures together.

In the other, Belinda is as we know her at the end. She lives in a nicer home, works as a nurse, and has a daughter whose father she is on good terms with but not married to. She wants to get home for her daughter, and refocuses on that every time she starts to get drawn into an adventure, despite enjoying the thrill of it.

In between the two, Belinda balances for a moment as the wish world dissipates. She loves and remembers Poppy, but also wants to travel with the Doctor, and if Poppy is part Time Lord it’s probably fine to do that, right? She can have it all. And then she forgets Poppy, and the original timeline reasserts itself, and now that she’s no longer being involuntarily kidnapped she’s excited to travel again.

When Ruby reminds them of the wish world timeline and of Poppy, it’s like a coin balancing on its edge – a breath and it can go either way.

Belinda and the Doctor both end up conceptualizing it as though Poppy was a casualty of the timeline, probably because of the lingering effect of the emotions from the wish world timeline. For Belinda, it’s probably also because that’s how humans are generally predisposed to think of timeline changes, and for the Doctor it’s probably influenced by lingering trauma around Gallifrey – both in terms of being alone except for enemies, and in terms of feeling responsible for its downfall and not wanting to sacrifice part of it again.

They end up deciding, together, that they want Poppy to exist. I think Belinda imagines the Doctor doing some sort of science miracle to bring her back, and the Doctor expects to possibly die bringing her back, but hopes they can get away with just regenerating normally.

I don’t think either of them intended or expected to instead flip into the other nearby timeline, but I think if the Doctor was able to think rationally about it they probably could have predicted it. A timeline where Poppy was the Doctor’s daughter with Belinda was too far away to pull from even with the power of regeneration energy, once the wish was gone. A timeline where Poppy was Belinda’s child was comparatively pretty close by. The Doctor’s inability to see that is almost definitely from a combination of denial, desperation, and also the effect of the wish world on their brain probably doesn’t help.

The end result is that the timeline shifts, the coin flips, and Belinda has always been as we saw her at the end of the episode. But even though it’s a timeline changing, it also isn’t. I think it’s more like changing lanes in traffic? Both timelines are real, but even Time Lords only experience them one at a time. It’s really hard to explain or hold in my head, but in a good way.

Tldr; Both of Belinda’s timelines are equally real, and the wish world was the catalyst for them intersecting. Belinda and the Doctor mutually agreed to flip to the other timeline, but neither of them realized that was what they were doing. Both Belindas are equally real but we can only experience them one at a time because even Time Lord brains are still sometimes linear like that.

[chemos-factories]

Angel of the Underworld commentary writeup

a couple friends do little behind the scenes posts for their fics, and since i'm unreasonably proud of this one, i thought i would talk a little about my thought processes for it! under the cut because while i don't see it getting too terribly wordy, i'd still like to spare mobile users

so! this fic, or something like it, has been in the back of my mind for. ages. i love a planetswap, and with the general gothicness of nostramo, it practically begs for sanguinius to land there and end up a sort of VtM-y, Underworld-y sort of vampire. that post the other day about goth sanguinius really was just the catalyst to actually write it.

as for his design; as i said in another post, i couldn't find a good place in the fic itself for an outfit description, but please trust that he's in one of those leather and latex with a long jacket type outfits everyone was doing in a post-Matrix world. very much selene from the Underworld series but with the fetishwear aspect turned down eeeeever so slightly. his wings, though. when i hear 'gothic angel' my brain immediately goes 'anne stokes'. her illustrations are so gorgeous, and absolutely influenced my decision to make nostraman!sanguinius's wings black.

(nostraman!sanguinius inspiration collage. yes i've used two photos of selene from the same scene. can you blame me? its iconic.)

terran!fulgrim doesn't need too terribly much explanation. he had a rough childhood in canon. i thought he deserved to grow up in luxury and be daddy's specialest princess. and pouting about getting a new brother gave him an easy excuse to not be there for sanguinius's initial arrival on terra.

and there are actually a few lines where sanguinius watching/stalking fulgrim is foreshadowed! i draw particular attention to the lightning 'illuminating the crouching grotesques' because that's where sang is, crouched and hidden among them. if this were shot like a movie, that first flash of lightning would show them all lined up, and then the next one (that 'almost looks like a flicker of movement at the corner of [fulgrim's] vision') would show the lineup missing one... all spooky-like.

then of course, sanguinius flies over and gets in through the window, and purposefully doesn't close it behind him. he's just playing with his food now, but it's not like he learned not to on nostramo. the implication when fulgrim hears his footsteps is that he did that on purpose.

fulgrim probably could have gotten out of this encounter un-vampired, just menaced a little bit. but sanguinius looming over him, spreading his wings as if he's trapping him there... fulgrim's heartbeat kicked up to the point sanguinius noticed his pulse, and.. well...

vampire's gonna vampire.