#fic: to my dear friend

[ekingston]

the full fic can be found here: Tickled Ink (by ekingston) on ao3!

[caxde]

still live | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary you and Eddie have been friends for ever, but have chosen to keep your feelings quiet, until a single afternoon changes it all. (2.7k)

warnings fem!reader, fluff (like a lot of it) hurt/comfort, friends in love, mutual pining, yearning etc, slowburn friends to lovers, idiots in love!!!, english is not my first language so I apologise if there’s some mistakes, not proof read! 

-

It had never been a question. 

You had started painting even before you learned how to talk, your house was always messy and stained because of you. As you grew up, stained carpet floors turned into stained old clothes, paint splattered all around your wardrobe, and a burning passion was developed. 

So, of course, when the dreaded question of what are you going to do after high school started going around, your answer had always been the same ‘art school’. 

But anxiety and stress were getting to you, you had been working hard on your portfolio, barely sleeping, painting canvases that were bigger than you, held by reclining it against your bedroom wall, and working in sketches nonstop, not even in the middle of class. 

He would tease you, everytime he heard the pencil scratch against the yellowish paper. He always does the same thing, he starts watching quietly, admiring the way your fingers hold the pencil ever so delicately, the way your eyes follow the grey stain so closely, concentration evident on your expression, and your hair messing your face when you look down.  When he couldn’t hold it any longer, a soft smile curves the end of his lips, as he brings his body closer to yours, and he always whispers, his voice always sweet and soft when he calls your name to get your attention. 

And he chuckles everytime you jump out of concentration as you breathe out his name. 

But today was different. 

Eddie knows you, better than anyone for that matter, and he also knows that you had been a little too stressed about it all. He knew you needed quiet company while you worked, so he asked you to come finish your last one over to his house. 

He had made his room tidier, in his own way. He cleared the floor, no dirty clothes could be seen, and the table was what he would charmingly call an “organized mess”, little piles of things in a neat position, a clean composition. Window open and clean air coming in, with a space under it so the smell of the acrylic paint can leave as fast as it comes. 

“You moved the bed.” You let out as soon as you step inside his room, looking at the open window. 

“You need to paint.” He answers, as he shrugs, trying not to give it that much meaning, even if he feels his pulse quickening as you smile grows deeper. 

“Thank you.” 

“No problem.” He answers quickly, really trying to not hyperfixate in the way your smile is caused by him, or the way it seems to illuminate the room a bit more. 

You laid the canvas against the wall, and started organizing your paint tubes in your particular way. Black, blue, red, yellow and white. The other fancy special colours away from them, the lilac, teal and silver pulled apart. 

He knew you needed your space, just as much as he knew you appreciated the quiet companionship. 

It was nice, being in the same room as him, not feeling alone, and knowing that he’ll be here when you inevitably feel tired or burned out and need a little push. 

And you liked feeling him look closely at you. Though you think he’s looking at the way the thin light blue haze is staining the pristine white of the canvas, he’s actually looking at the way your oversized, full-of-various-faded-splatters-of-paint shirt is hanging from you, the way it wraps on your waist, and the way your hair is falling down your back, your face tilted, only makes him more nervous, and in a way, realize even more that he wouldn’t do this for just anyone, so he might as well admit to himself that he does have some feelings for you. 

He played music on his guitar, quietly, and smiled deeply at the sound of you muttering the worlds of the songs he always chooses absentmindedly. Even if he only plays Bowie when you’re around. 

You're obvious to it all. You only focus on the way your hand won’t stop shaking, and you’re not even sure why, so the frustration is starting again, and with it so does the headache. You need to finish the stupid sketch so you can actually start painting, but your hand won’t stop shaking and you don’t even have a good enough reference. You’ve stopped singing and are instead biting your lip, an anxious tic that Eddie knows a bit too well. 

He doesn’t say anything, instead he stops playing, goes to the kitchen and brings two cups of tea. 

He decides to sit down beside you, and instead of startling you as he normally does, he instead leaves a soft touch on the small of your back, his fingers feeling the beginning of your jeans through your shirt. The familiar warmth left in both of your bodies. 

“Here” He whispers, a bit too close to your ear. 

You turn to him, realizing that he’s never been as close, that now you could if you wanted and had the time to count every single one of his eyelashes, and that his lips look pinker than ever. And in that moment, something seems to click, a warmth awakens in the inside of your chest, and you move a bit far away instinct kicking in. 

“Thanks” You whisper back, blood travelling fast to your cheeks as your fingers touch his for a moment, grabbing your tea. 

“So, what’s wrong?” He chooses his words carefully, his tone softer, his voice quieter. He raises his eyebrow in concern, making you frown for just a second. 

“It’s all wrong.” You whisper, in anxious shame, nervously, avoiding his eyes. 

“What do you mean it's all wrong?” He echoes your voice, not really following your train of thought. 

“It’s all wrong Eddie.” Your voice is stronger now, more impatient. But still barely above a whisper, it felt stupid to speak at a normal volume when he’s so close to you. “ The proportions are awful, the reference is shit, and I can’t start painting until I finish the stupid sketch but I can’t manage to finish it.” You’re trying your hardest to not stumble over your own words, it’s complicated, frustration getting the best of you, making your voice shake as you can feel the small tear threatening to form on the verge of your eyes. 

“Hey…” He whispers once more, the hand he had on your lower back petting you once again, trying to get you to calm down for a second. “Step by step, yeah?” He watches you nod at his question, and he waits for you to take a deep breath. “What can you do to fix it?” 

“I need to restart it all.” You answer in defeat, you were tired, and with a clear idea in mind that didn’t seem to transform as well as you wanted to. 

“Okay, so restart it, what can I do to help?” 

“Nothing really.” You add, looking back at him for once. You're captivated by him for a moment. The way his curls frame his face makes you really want to put the little flyaway away from his complexion, touch his pale face for a second, but instead, you hold the cup harder, your knuckles turning white. 

“What’s wrong with the reference?” He asks, trying to refocus you, snatching the photograph off the floor. A blurry image that’s barely recognizable, a kiss between two people that you don’t know. 

“It’s shit.” You admit, hiding a chuckle. “ I found it on the floor of The Hideout and thought that a kiss scene would be the perfect ending for my project, but… I’m not… I don’t know” You admit, defeated, tired, and anxious about you having to start the whole project again. 

“Why a kiss?” He asks, innocence in his tone. He tries to hide his curiosity with that Eddie grin, that stupid grin that makes you smile in return even if you're not aware of it. 

“I…” You look at him for a moment. Stopping at his lips for a second, and this time it doesn’t escape you that he does the same. “It’s about melancholy. The whole thing. Situations that have happened and you miss, and the ones that haven’t but you wish they did… Love… I wish it happened to me but… Yeah” You stop talking, as you feel his eyes not leave yours, it’s stupid, but talking about this in this space, for some reason is making your heart beat faster, and wherever your body touches his, it tingles, electricity flying between both of you. 

“You haven’t been in love?” The question took you out, it didn’t make sense for Eddie to ask this. It doesn’t fit the way he has always acted around you, but in a weird way, when you look back at him, and see the way his eyes look softer, kinder. 

You always saw Eddie repel the idea of love, avoiding it at all costs, so it was weird seeing him like that, like he was hopeful for an answer, as he wanted to tell you how he started feeling, he also knew he would never dare to tell you such a thing. Much too proud, much too careful. 

“I have. But, they don’t love me back.” You mutter, not ready to voice it fully. Not sure if this is the best time to say, yes, Eddie, I have been in love, I’ve been in love with you for ages. 

Because, even now, you’re slowly realising that what you’ve been feeling for him is love. 

“I understand.” He mutters, his sight leaving you for the first time, looking down at the photo, while he yells to himself, his brain is telling him to not do anything stupid, while his whole heart and body are begging for him to tell you that he could learn how to love you if you let him. 

For fucks sake, he tells himself, he cares so much about you, he wants you to be happy and loved and cared for so much it pains him a bit not knowing what to do to help. He slowly lifts his head up.

Coincidence, destiny or just dumb luck, he makes eye contact with his old, beaten up Polaroid and a stupid idea, oh so stupid crosses his mind, and he narrows his eyes. 

You notice. 

And before you can stop yourself you're asking him a soft and questionable “What?” that leaves him looking back at you. 

“We could take a picture.” He states, blankly looking back at the camera. A nervous smile that makes his eyes shine. 

“What picture?” You’re left even more confused, following his glance. 

“A kissing picture.” He says. Your body frozen, heart skipping a beat. Eddie’s does the same, amazed at himself for actually having said such a stupid thing. “Just so you have an actual reference… I just… Wanna help.” He’s now avoiding your sight, embarrassed about his idea, he begins to get flustered, and the only thing he can get himself to do now is stare at the floor. 

You need a second. 

A moment. 

Silence fills the room, as the only thing you can feel is the beating of your own heart, loud in your eardrums, a rhythmic rhythm that begs kissme kissme kissme. 

So, once again, it wasn’t even a question. 

“Who’s taking it?” You answer, sweet quiet voice. Your eyes also set on the floor, as you can feel your cheeks burning. Anticipation forming in the air. 

“I’ll do it.” He answers, his smile bigger than ever. As he stands up, you leave the cup on the floor, wiping your nervous hands on your jeans. One swipe, two, three. 

You’re left looking at him, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think that he was just as extremely excited and nervous as you are. And then it comes, the realisation of what was about to happen, he’s going to kiss you, and you’re going to kiss him. You’re about to do what you’ve been wanting to do for ages, all for some stupid excuse that you can’t be worried about. 

As he moves, gracefully, it all stops mattering for a brief moment. 

It doesn’t matter if the painting is good enough. 

It doesn’t matter if the admission committee thinks your work is good enough. 

It doesn’t matter if this complicates your friendship or not. 

He sits down beside you, a trembling hand pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his lips slightly parted, his eyes switching between your eyes and your lips. The electricity is tangible now, you almost feel like you could fill up jars with it, a weird anticipation, an excitement. A promise almost. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, his thumb gracing your lower lip, his breath so close to your lips you could actually drink it if you wanted to. He smells of vanilla and sandalwood.

“Yeah.”

Then it happens. 

Eddie kisses you, softly. 

A soft, sweet kiss is left on top of your lips, as you close your eyes and enjoy it, one of your hands travels slowly to the back of his neck, tentatively, you start playing with his hair. You see a flash, a bright light that makes you giggle, only brighter when you feel the way he’s also smiling. 

Eddie can’t stop kissing you. 

He’s delighted that he’s finally doing this. He doesn’t care that he can’t fully give in, somehow worried that the photo won’t turn out good, he takes a couple more. And then he finally gives in. One last touch, a small bite to your lower lip, and he gently pulls away. His forehead against yours. Catching his breath, you can feel the way your lips are left tingling now. How your heartbeat seems happier in a weird way, like something got fixed for a moment.

When Eddie opens his eyes, he can see that yours are still closed. And that your lips look pinker than before, that your cheeks are flushed and you’re breathing faster than usual. He smiles quietly to himself, and looks down, between your bodies, lays the camera and the polaroids spread around, proof that he didn’t imagine it all. Proof that he did just do it. 

He carefully bumps his forehead into yours, playfully almost. 

You open your eyes, looking down. 

He hands you one of the photographs, you can’t help but smile. 

“I don’t think I ever had such a beautiful photo” You whisper, as you’re taken back for an instance. You’re blooming with joy, an uncontrollable smile decorates your face. The shyness gone for this brief moment. 

“Me either.” Eddie adds as he holds another one. 

You’re both idiots. 

Happy idiots, unaware of each other's feelings, not knowing that it was more than a favour. 

“Thank you, Moon.” You tell him, as he blushes even harder. 

And he’s not sure if it was the eye contact, the way you look right now or the fact that you had just given him what might be his new favourite nickname. 

“Now, get back to work.” He teases, while he decides to lay down, resting on his forearms so he can still look at you. 

“Don’t distract me.” You add back, a flirty banter evident in the air now. 

“I won’t kiss you until you ask for it.” And in that moment it's clear, he’s being sincere. 

You can’t help but laugh, softly. And he can’t help himself, echoing your laugh. 

He doesn’t need to say anything, and neither do you. You just know that now he knows something more about you, you know that now that he’s tasted your lips he will be left craving for more, just as much as your craving for a new encounter. 

Eddie is left mesmerized, proud of you, seeing how now you’re determined to finish this painting, with a soft smile and quick brushstrokes. So, you spend the next afternoon painting, and stealing soft glances at him, as he just sits there, amazed by you, as he continues talking with you as if nothing has changed, as if his heart isn’t now all yours, even if you know as well as he does, that it is. 

[trpiaep19]

Liam: I might have traced your scent here.

Normal person's reaction: You did WHAT?

Theo's reaction: Wow his senses are really good even for a werewolf. I should examine his brain.

_________________________________________

just so you know what's going on in my head while writing these two idiots.

also, I'm writing again so... yay!!! I don't want to promise anything but the next chapter of it's all lies, darling might drop tomorrow.

[ctrl-alt-cel]

when i was 13 i wrote an essay explaining the rationale of puppyshipping to some guy in a skype chatroom. found the essay again. wanted to rewrite it. without further ado:

HERE’S HOW PUPPYSHIPPING CAN STILL WIN: THE SEQUEL: 2 PUPPY 2 SHIPPING (4.3k words)

⠀

kaiba and jounouchi’s relationship stands at an awkwardly undefinable place in canon: they're not on good terms, but they're not enemies either. they know each other too well to be called passing acquaintances, but kaiba hardly acknowledges jounouchi as a duelist, let alone a potential rival. at best? they're mutual nuisances.

or, that's how jounouchi and kaiba choose to define it. both of them would love if their dynamic were that simple, nothing more than a back-and-forth of petty insults—but that’s not the truth. and they'll dance around the truth for five whole seasons, purposefully downplaying why they’re so obsessed with provoking each other whenever they’re in the same place.

they're foils.

—but the term "foils" is so dulled within fandom lexicon now that it can mean literally anything from two guys who just disagree with each other sometimes, so i'll sharpen this further. jounouchi and kaiba see their counterpart less as an individual person but more a representation of who they could have become if they had respectively, in their eyes, never learned the lessons they needed to. they project their own ideals onto the other and come away thinking they already know how the other operates, and the fun thing is, even when working from conjecture, their assumptions of one another happen to hit far closer to home than they have any right to.

so really, they can't leave each other alone because they can't stop seeing their failures reflected back at them. the other is a defective version of themselves that they need to correct because they can't stand constantly acknowledging who they used to be, so they try to bend the other to be more like their own image—an "i can fix him (by dragging him down to my level)".

⠀

jounouchi and kaiba’s parallels run down to their origins, both set up against abysmal family situations they have no choice but to make the best of. seto and mokuba are orphaned at a young age until seto gets them adopted, while katsuya is separated from his sister and stuck with a deadbeat father who can't carry his own weight. trapped in an environment where nobody expects anything worthwhile from him, katsuya joins a gang and lives out a self-admittedly miserable existence before befriending yugi, while seto is in a battlefield of his own, faced with protecting mokuba while enduring against the nightmare that is gozaburo kaiba’s parenting.

what they do to survive those conditions determines the outlooks they carry for the rest of their lives: jounouchi learns that losing is inescapable and the best you can do is learn how to cope with it, whereas kaiba learns that losing is something you must protect yourself from because there's only so much you can afford to lose.

jounouchi is positioned as the underdog, fighting tooth-and-nail for every victory he can manage, while kaiba has power in excess and holds to the belief that it’s all he really needs. one would argue that they have the perspective the other lacks—they argue that they have the perspective the other lacks. but in my opinion? it doesn't actually matter. what interests me is how they treat each other as a result.

⠀

side: seto kaiba

kaiba degrades jounouchi a lot. like, to an uncomfortable extent. you know that one post that’s like “why does bullying exist? why are you mad that i’m ugly?” why is kaiba so mad over the fact that jounouchi loses so much?

it’s projection. he’s just holding jounouchi to the same standard he holds himself to. you need to be powerful if you want to play the same games as kaiba, and seeing jounouchi so openly lean on his friends, ask for help, and have the audacity to lose sets kaiba off because he’s not playing the way he’s supposed to. kaiba rubs jounouchi's losses in his face because he believes that's what loss is supposed to look like, and that it’s jounouchi’s fault for not understanding that yet. kaiba is trying to teach him. to kaiba, this degradation might as well be an act of generosity.

while kaiba stayed true to his own ambitions, seizing kaibacorp from gozaburo and turning it into a children's entertainment company, he beat gozaburo at his own game not by inventing new rules but by playing it better than his adoptive father ever could. and as impressive as that is, it’s not sustainable. gozaburo kills himself when faced with his own defeat, and kaiba internalizes this lesson: that all losses are final, and it’s better to die than adapt to the consequences of a defeat. gozaburo’s death was a suicide, but in the context of their game, kaiba might as well have killed him regardless.

he mirrors this when he threatens to kill himself in duelist kingdom, his heightened emotions catastrophizing losing the duel to immediately equal failing mokuba and coming to the conclusion that if he loses mokuba he’d rather be dead. being someone so fervently self-reliant, any alternate solution, a possibility that he can lose here and still find a different way to rescue mokuba never crosses his mind. and, look, this isn’t his fault. this is the only way of living he’s ever been taught. he’s never learned how to cope in the event of failure because he’s never had the luxury to fail to begin with.

he's burned and rebuilt himself over and over again to survive in the world he operates in, and that’s why jounouchi pisses kaiba off so personally. jounouchi loses so much and so messily, and kaiba tries to show him that if he doesn’t start reinventing himself from the broken pieces of his defeats until all that’s left of him are jagged edges the same way he has, he’s never going to win. but jounouchi…does win. and keeps winning. and even when he does lose, it’s as if he creates new victories for himself, like there’s still value to playing a game with someone when you don’t win it—power of friendship bullshit and whatever. jounouchi is still here, a competitor that kaiba can no longer write off as much as he desperately wants to. (and, yeah, it is pretty ironic how jounouchi will jump through a million hoops to get kaiba to look at him, but he doesn't realize that he doesn't need to do anything to keep kaiba’s attention, only continue being himself.)

jounouchi refuses to compromise who he is and still manages to get far when in kaiba’s mind, that shouldn’t be possible; he’s supposed to be punished the way kaiba was. jounouchi is proof that you can take a devastating blow and move on from it, that even when you do fuck up spectacularly, there’s still something worthwhile in starting again tomorrow.

so kaiba constantly needs to prove that he’s better than jounouchi, that jounouchi isn’t even worth his time in order to justify his worldview. because if kaiba isn’t right, then he'll have no choice but to confront the fact that the war is over. that his circumstances aren’t instant life or death anymore and that even though he’s freed himself from gozaburo’s influence, there’s still further growth as a person he could stand to undergo, now divorced from the harsh conditions of his upbringing. jounouchi is a testament to how it’s possible to make peace and move on from the past without constantly bleeding for closure, that maybe, kaiba’s headlong quest to get the last word on his rivalry with yami yugi may not actually be as fulfilling as he thinks.

but admitting that you might need to change the way you live feels like a defeat in and of itself—it’s infuriating to hear that after everything you’ve had to learn, the way you live now isn’t good enough. that surviving insurmountable trauma doesn’t inherently make you better or more worthy than other people—it just traumatizes you, and is something you must heal from. so, instead of reflecting on these revelations, it’s so much easier for kaiba to tell himself that jounouchi is only ever graceful when he’s dead.

⠀

side: katsuya jounouchi

jounouchi is very stuck on this idea that he needs to be useful. his dad is an alcoholic with a gambling addiction and he believes it's not only his duty to pay his father's debts, but to be the household's sole source of income. his sister needs eye surgery and he believes it's his responsibility as an older brother not only to pay for it, but to act as her primary emotional support to get the surgery and throughout her recovery process. haga throws yugi's exodia into the ocean and jounouchi blames himself for not stopping it. jounouchi gets mind-controlled by malik and blames himself for causing his friends anguish from it. mai literally gets jounounchi’s soul stolen and he apologizes to her for messing up and making her sad. it's habitual, jounouchi doesn't know how to stop taking on the burdens of other people.

if you live with the mentality that you’re inevitably going to fail for long enough, you’ll come away with the belief that caring about your own wellbeing isn’t worth the effort. it depends on how pessimistic you want to read it, if it’s just his love language or jounouchi compensating for the damning act of being himself, but jounouchi quantifies his worth by how much he provides for other people. he’s always jumping in the line of fire for the sake of others because if you constantly undervalue your own wellbeing, you always have less to lose. as the underdog, he may not be as overtly powerful as kaiba or yugi, but he can still give himself away, and he’s convinced himself that it’s what he’s supposed to do. jounouchi is still new to this whole friendship thing. after a lifetime of supporting himself by himself, he doesn't know when he's allowed to ask for help yet—he’s supposed to be the help, dammit.

a key distinction between jounouchi and kaiba’s upbringings is that while kaiba’s biological parents died in an accident, jounouchi’s parents are still alive and they choose not to be responsible for him. jounouchi is conditioned to fend for himself by himself because having a parental figure actually present in his life isn’t a luxury he gets to have. to jounouchi, there has to be a reason why his mother only takes shizuka and never goes back for him in the six years he’s left with his father, and he rationalizes this with his notions of masculinity: he’s a strong man who can handle it. jounouchi is not delicate, he can endure it. men are responsible for their own circumstances. kaiba is hyperindependent out of a mixture of spite, paranoia, and self-defense. jounouchi is hyperindependent because he believes he deserves it. it’s the reason why he believes he’ll finally have a good relationship with his father if he just wins enough money to pay off his gambling debts—jounouchi can fix everything if only he were man enough to, and he can get people to stay if he demonstrates himself useful enough.

so death doesn’t carry nearly as much weight to jounouchi as it does to kaiba. in kaiba’s eyes, death is the punishment for failure, but to jounouchi, death is just the natural consequence for the kind of life he leads. he can't stop himself from fighting for the people he loves until he’s spent everything and forced to stop (read: dies), so during the several times jounouchi is confronted with his own death, he meets it with a solemn acceptance. like, yeah, it sucks, but he doesn’t regret the actions he took to end up here—he’d do it all over again, frankly. it’s better to die than not give everything he can, and at least he was able to give his life in service to someone else. it’s not necessarily good to die, but it doesn’t matter as much if he does.

so where kaiba is afraid of losing, jounouchi is afraid of outliving his usefulness (and being abandoned as a result), and kaiba disrupts jounouchi’s worldview specifically because he puts his ideology on the defensive. to jounouchi, kaiba’s presence never demands a question of “what can you do for me?” (nothing, kaiba doesn’t want jounouchi to do anything for him, and frankly, he’d be insulted if jounouchi even tried) but “what makes you worthy of standing on the same level as me?”, and jounouchi can’t sacrificial lamb get set on fire die a billion times into getting kaiba into seeing it his way (rather, that would only prove him right: kaiba would love nothing more than for jounouchi to lose the ability to fight and finally align with his preconceived notions of how the world works), and he can’t argue that his value is in how much he provides for others because that’s a non-answer. kaiba doesn’t care.

kaiba’s presence forces jounouchi into a position of self-reflection: jounouchi works so hard to preserve the friendships he’s created, but who is he—what does he value about himself in the absence of it? jounouchi needs to acknowledge something inherently valuable about himself if he wants to counter kaiba in any meaningful way, and it’s not like he doesn’t have valuable qualities either: he’s tenacious, he’s resourceful, he’s a quick learner—it takes intelligence to rank as high as he does in tournaments, but he undervalues all of it. these traits are all to be expected, they don’t actually count as extraordinary when it’s him. they’re only remarkable when they’re being applied to something greater. jounouchi believes he has the potential to become strong (and valuable by extension), only with the stipulation that he’s never actually there yet. he focuses too much on his inadequacies, constantly pontificating on how he needs to become a “true duelist”, but by the way he speaks about the title, the only way to be a true duelist is be named yugi muto, i guess.

so it’s very jounouchi-esque for him to miss this point with near deliberate precision and try to make himself useful to kaiba anyway. while kaiba is bent on seeing jounouchi fail to prove that his cynicism is superior to jounouchi’s altruism, the inverse is that jounouchi sees his old self in kaiba and he’s dying to teach kaiba a lesson. during battle for bronze, jounouchi states that they used to be the same, people who only relied on themselves and thought they’d be fine living like that. the argument jounouchi makes is that living that way is fucking miserable. he calls kaiba out: you’re supposed to be having fun. why are you playing duel monsters if you’re not having fun? he’s trying to show kaiba that he can be useful and teach kaiba things if kaiba would just let him, but for reasons mentioned in both of their sections, kaiba isn’t interested in being taught anything.

while less malicious in display, it's important to note that jounouchi’s method of trying to teach kaiba doesn't make him the better person here. jounouchi isn’t coming from a place of understanding when he lectures kaiba, he’s coming from a place of misdirected self-flagellation. and from kaiba's perspective, jounouchi is just dispensing unwarranted advice for the sake of his own ego. the most egregious example is when jounouchi picks a fight with kaiba in duelist kingdom, demanding they duel when kaiba is clearly not in the mood, busy with more pressing matters like, i don’t know, trying to rescue his abducted brother? so, okay, maybe a little bit inconsiderate on jounouchi’s part.

they're two ideological extremes: kaiba lashes out at the world while jounouchi gives himself to it, and jounouchi will keep barging in on kaiba with his life lessons because it’s the only way he wants to engage with kaiba’s arguments otherwise. jounouchi interprets kaiba’s rejection of his ideals as the equivalent of the stubbornness jounouchi had before befriending yugi, and he uses it as a reason to keep pushing, not understanding that while he may have found the most honorable path for himself, you can imagine how constantly burning yourself for others isn’t very…appealing. or sustainable. and that maybe it’s something you need to work on, actually.

⠀

conclusion: how i WIN

what’s fun about jounouchi and kaiba is how wrong they are. they genuinely can't live the way the other demands them to, their respective environments won’t allow it. if jounouchi chased victory with the same cutthroat relentlessness as kaiba, he probably never would have left his gang. or, at least, he’d lose the selfless devotion and consideration he has for others, traits that helped him build his support system, and he never would have found the friendships he values in his life—his willingness to change and start again was how he was able to befriend yugi to begin with. (and if you wanted to get really extreme with hypotheticals, his self-destructive tendencies could have grown so severe in the absence of a support system that he probably would wind up getting himself killed somewhere. lol.) inversely, if kaiba granted himself the freedom to worry less about the outcome as long as he enjoyed himself, he’d put mokuba’s safety at constant risk. kaiba’s guarded nature isn’t without reason, there are powerful corporate executives who would love to see him fail, and there are very real consequences if kaiba slips up for even a second and gives his opposition any leeway. the way they live works for them because it’s theirs. it’s not so much that either of their lifestyles are in dire need of correction, but that the other represents the possibility that they could be living better.

and this is fantastic because it means that, despite what they think, neither of them are in the “wrong” and must learn to change their idiot ways or that the solution is to strong-arm each other into some kind of compromise. it’s a battle of perceived weakness. they need to, naturally and individually, accept that the traits they’ve always deemed immature and beneath them can be just as vital for survival, even when it’s not necessarily their own.

jounouchi and kaiba are essentially the most extreme example of two people who want what’s best for each other (gone wrong!) and puppyshipping is appealing because them getting together requires that they stop punishing themselves for who they used to be. they expect too much out of themselves and then inflict those demands onto each other, but if they’re not wrong for the ways they’ve overcome the circumstances they were left in, then it’s equally true that the ideals they abandoned to survive weren’t inherently naïve just because they weren’t given the space to utilize them. sometimes life will push you to your limits in the hope that you fail, and there’s no deeper meaning to it. it’s not life’s way of teaching you a necessary lesson to make you stronger or a test to see if you deserve to live, or that it’s your fault when it breaks you. sometimes there’s no great meaning to suffering. things happen, and you will adjust to it in order to live. when kaiba and jounouchi believe they know each other as much as they know themselves, pairing them is the hope that they’ll respect themselves enough to respect each other, that they’ll one day be able to embrace the parts of themselves they’re the most ashamed of.

(or, you know, for the alternative crowd, they most definitely can make each other worse.)

for two men who claim to be so self-assured in their own lifestyles, jounouchi and kaiba are fascinating because there’s so many layers of denial at play: the denial that they see anything in each other, denial that there may be aspects of the other that they’ve come to envy, denial that they even care, and it's so tempting to imagine if all of it was forced open. jounouchi and kaiba choose to maintain this delicate equilibrium where they never actually confront anything because the idea of admitting vulnerability viscerally disgusts them, and it begs what would happen if the balance irrevocably tipped for once. watching them is like watching a pencil teetering on the edge of a desk, always this close to some kind of breakthrough. i won’t even lie to you puppyshipping pisses me off half the time because i just want to shake them around until something metaphorically breaks.

kaiba and jounouchi never let each other become complacent in their pasts: whenever their personal tragedies and childhoods are brought up in the context of one another, it’s never because they are being vindicated for continuing to dwell in them, but because they are being contested on how much the mindsets they’ve carried over from their pasts should be allowed to determine their futures.

returning to canon, kaijou operates through the language of competition. jounouchi tries to prove himself as a competitor so remarkable that kaiba can no longer deny him, while kaiba already knows he’s remarkable, and that is precisely why acknowledging it pisses him off so much. so they’ll play their game: jounouchi will provoke kaiba into fighting him because he enjoys going up against challenging opponents in the hopes of becoming stronger, whereas kaiba keeps trying to set up situations where jounouchi will lose to the point of letting him die because he wants so badly to believe that losing does equal death and jounouchi’s existence is the most inconvenient counterargument of all. and obviously, jounouchi keeps not dying. and it's endlessly infuriating—almost slapstick at this point, that much to kaiba's frustration, no matter what he does, he can never make jounouchi submit for very long.

jounouchi and kaiba spur each other on to a ridiculous extent: kaiba enjoys pushing jounouchi past the breaking point, whereas jounouchi enjoys getting pushed to his limits to test his own capabilities. whether that’s necessarily a good thing though is…well…hmm. anyways. 

their dynamic is the type of messiness only two prideful high schoolers can get up to. maybe it’s just kaiba's repression and jounouchi's recklessness, but there is a fascination with each other that they’re incapable of leaving alone. there’s intimacy in knowing someone so well and fearing that fact, but kaiba and jounouchi never respond to this fear by avoiding it—they’re engaging with it time and time again. they infuriate each other with a passion that never sits still. kaiba and jounouchi seek a validation from their counterpart while simultaneously denying each other from it, and it’s mean, but invigoratingly so.

at some point, it’s not even about wanting validation anymore, but point-blank wanting its keeper by any capacity: wanting a visible reaction to their effort as proof of reciprocation, proof that says “i’ve finally affected you just as much as you affect me.” because kaiba and jounouchi want to leave a mark on each other, they want their counterpart to fully understand how much they’ve affected them, and they want to witness that reaction themselves. it’s no longer this big, nebulous ideological debate with a reflection: the pull between them is made both physical and personal. so, like, not to go the trite route of arguing that two men who can’t stand each other were ~secretly attracted to each other this whole time~, but how else are you supposed to word this?

in some hypothetical universe where they do come together, even the ways they love manage to compliment each other in its own clumsy way. seto kaiba never does anything in moderation: if he hates something he will destroy it, if he loves something he will possess it, and if he is obsessed with something, he will single-mindedly pursue it at the expense of everything else. his repression manifests itself in a passion so pressurized it’s all-consuming against everything it comes to contact with. inversely, katsuya jounouchi loves freely and transparently: showing affection comes as naturally as breathing to him. he embodies the belief that love is not only about the grand gestures, but the day-to-day acts of warmth and casual acknowledgments that it's there. a man who wants to be wanted by someone so badly it aches paired with someone who makes no reservations as to what he's committed to, capable of a love so overwhelmingly insatiable that it is neither fickle nor delicate, and a man who finds the act of trusting others with his affection so unthinkably humiliating that he’s convinced himself it’s something beneath him paired with someone who makes it look infuriatingly easy. they are going to invent a new language to love each other with. i believe in them. i would not write two separate essays titled “here’s how puppyshipping can still win” if i did not believe in them. 

ultimately, it feels cheap to build kaiba and jounouchi’s relationship off what life lessons they could "teach" each other reformation-style when they already have a legitimate dynamic in play. they can be good for each other, or they can tear into each other in ways they’d never expect to be capable of. there’s something exhilarating in knowing there’s someone who has that kind of power and wanting to keep them within your reach, a buzzing excitement in knowing someone who can not only withstand you at your worst, but fight back at you with twice as much vigor. sure, there’s potential for growth here, but that’s because there’s potential for literally anything.

kaiba and jounouchi inspire reinvention and self-determination from each other at the best of times and enable each other’s most self-destructive tendencies at their worst. so i think. puppyshipping is the most fun. when you ship them the same way you leave a fork in the microwave to watch it explode. the end.

TL;DR: me x the guy who keeps breaking my worldview and forces me to reevaluate myself every time i see him which i hate so much that i just want him to DIE

[zombiequeenblog]

Cardinal and Mouse — 9: A kiss in public.

However that looks for them... ❤️

Here's a little bit of Cardinal and Mouse (and Terzo) running errands down in the village on a gloomy day:

ao3 link here or continue reading below...

The wind played about our ankles as we walked together, the Cardinal in his black robes, me looking rather like a catholic school student, as usual. My clothes muted; black alice band in my hair. I tried to match his grim but sharp silhouette when we were out in town like this. A rare but necessary occurrence at times; there were errands to run, and though we didn’t go preaching on street corners, we were also not an order of anchorites. Sister Imperator wanted the abbey’s residents to be seen about from time to time, so we weren’t completely forgotten way back in the woods. I wanted to remain respectable but demure so as not to attract unwanted attention.

Our shoes clipped along the sidewalk, damp with remnants of an earlier rain, and I quietly reached out to hold his gloved hand for security. I wasn’t ashamed to be with him, but our satanic faith was rare, and though many came from far and wide to join the abbey, the local village could be unwelcoming, still, as the grey clouds above were. We shouldn’t have left our coats in the car.

Copia squeezed my hand as I skipped around a puddle. “Why don’t you sit in the back with me on our return, dolce?”

Smoothing my skirt down, I thought I heard the ghost of a complaint in his tone, and I smiled slyly to myself as I answered him. “Oh, I couldn’t, Your Eminence,” I said, casually, “Papa would never allow it.” Insisting on me riding shotgun, Terzo had driven the three of us into town earlier; I think he liked to show off his driving skills, to my amusement and the Cardinal’s irritation.

“Wouldn’t allow… Quell’idiota! I forbid you from listening to anything that deficiente says!” Copia yanked me closer by the hand as we walked, his grip like a vice.

I only stifled a giggle, saying nothing. I could spot Terzo up ahead, exiting the local Christian bookstore as he slicked his hair back with a flourish and a frown. He looked jarring to me without his full face paint on, and he certainly didn’t blend in here, wearing his fancy and rather old-fashioned suit and gloves. He strode towards us, and we met by the steps of a little café. “Sorellina! Cardinal.”

“Did you find what you needed, Papa?” I teased. I knew perfectly well that Terzo liked to browse the religious shelves, attracting the shy attentions of the pretty shop girl in there. Perhaps attracting a future convert.

Perhaps not. “I need a coffee,” Papa pouted, and he went up the steps into the charming building, holding the door open for us as we followed, tiny bell chiming above our heads.

The little café was quaint and cute inside, warm, and thankfully not too crowded. Still though, I noticed the idle chatter around us quieting as we made our way over to the counter. Papa ordered three cappuccinos in a courteous tone, which were made quicker when I pulled out the impressively matte abbey credit card to pay.

“Thank you,” I told the woman behind the counter when she put our drinks up. She looked at me with concern, and flicked her eyes in suspicion at my companions, resting her narrowing gaze on Copia’s shiny grucifix for a second. He slipped his hand around my waist as we left the counter, looking both amused and annoyed. Terzo picked an empty table in a shadowed corner.

The Cardinal pulled out a chair for me and I sat, removing the lid from my cup with cold fingertips to let the steaming foam cool. “It’s nice to have something fancy now and then,” I remarked, looking down at my drink, the top mottled with cinnamon.

“We should get one of those espresso machines,” said Copia, dourly, as he sat down beside me, removing his biretta.

“I’ll ask Sister,” I said, leaning forward to blow lightly on the foam.

Terzo gave me a withering look from across the table. “If this sludge in a paper cup is fancy to you, piccolina, I don’t even know where to begin pitying your previous life.” He looked around at the dimly lit furnishings. “Father in hell, how long did you suffer wilting in this village? I should have baptized you earlier.”

I grinned contentedly as I took my first sip, not bothering to answer.

Copia and Terzo tried their drinks as well, and they were both oddly silent for a while, warming their gloves on their own cups. In spite of our cozy surroundings and the soft music playing, the air in here was beginning to feel further unsettled, just as it had when we had entered. Strange eyes glancing over at us, conversations halted. I almost expected an inevitable signing of the cross.

The three of us shared a sombre mood, and I sighed a little; though we were sheltered in here, this was nothing like our beloved abbey. Wrapping my hands around my cappuccino, I slid it closer, shivering slightly.

Copia moved my hair aside to put his hand on the back of my neck. “Are you cold, dolcezza?”

“No, I’m fine, Your Eminence,” I reassured him. I shuffled closer to rest my head on his shoulder for a minute.

Terzo was idly sipping his coffee. “Lucifero, I am bored…”

“We’re almost done here,” I sighed, sitting back and digging the list out of my little bag, “Let me see…” Copia’s fingertips idly stroked along my shoulders as he sipped his own cappuccino beside me.

“Oh si, the list… We must consult the list,” teased Terzo, rolling his eyes a little before he took another sip.

Copia glared at him and I grinned softly. “We just need to pick up her parcel at the post, and then…” I scanned the little folded note in my hand. “Something sweet and fresh, Sister said, from the bakery… and then Papa Nihil’s prescription... That’s all.”

“Tedioso,” said Terzo, odd eyes glazing, “Never did I think I would rise such in my satanic station to be out in the sleepiest of hamlets running errands like a peasant…”

“I’m sorry I’m not better company,” I pouted, and Terzo startled, looking a bit guilty.

“Sorellina! I didn’t mean—”

“Why don’t you just shut up,” Copia told him, and I smiled down into my cup. “Gasbag,” I heard the Cardinal mutter into his own drink. We all drank deeply for a moment, and I felt a little merrier.

“Mmm, that is nice,” I murmured, “but not as nice as a real Italian coffee, I’m guessing?”

Both Copia and Terzo perked up a little bit, telling me in impatient turns how nothing here could compare to the caffé of their youth, the richness, the quality. The strict attention to detail. Dreamily, I listened, warmed by my own coffee and their impassioned tones. Though Copia feigned to be less caught in the trappings of luxury that Terzo delighted in, I knew he was nevertheless attracted to excellence. His wine, literature, and the fabrics of life that he surrounded himself in reflected that. Sometimes I still wondered what he found worthy in me; I came from nothing.

“One day I will bring you to the Riviera ligure, dolce, and you can see for yourself how you are deprived here,” said the Cardinal, low into my ear. I thought of sunny coastlines, and tangled sheets, and smiled, my gloom lifting a bit.

Terzo drained his cup and relaxed back in his chair for a moment. “I need to go christen this place,” he stated, pulling his gloves off and standing up to go and head towards the washroom, “another unholy errand…”

“Sacred duties call,” said the Cardinal, and I grinned as I finished my own coffee. He took a final sip of his own, and I reached up to swipe some foam away from his moustache with my thumb. Copia leaned into my hand, and our faces came close.

I could feel hostile eyes upon us, like a sprinkling of holy water. Leaning back over the table, I looked down at the remnants of foam in my cup, shy and quiet. Copia sighed a little beside me, and when I glanced back up at him he moved to catch my chin gently. Lifting my eyes up to his pooling ones, I barely shook my head, and he watched me bite my lip. He looked weary, but slightly amused. If he had kissed me anyway, I would have melted into his warmth, but instead, he brushed his thumb underneath my pout, sighed again, and let me go, tilting his head to watch me squirm.

“I can’t wait to go home,” I whispered to him, out of the corner of my mouth.

“Straight upstairs, I am thinking…” he whispered back with a sly smile, “or downstairs, perhaps. My paperwork can wait.”

I thought of the sweet torture that awaited me, after the agony of deprivation I was currently surrounded in, and blushed. My knee nudged the Cardinal’s underneath the table, and I couldn’t even look at him. I felt my heartbeat rising.

Finally Terzo came back to the table, and we left, feeling like the café had spit us out onto the pavement. Blinking in the light out here, I looked about us to see where we should head to next.

“Let’s split up,” yawned Terzo, “I’ll take the bakery, you two do the post.”

“Si, si, vai ad attaccati al tuo cazzo,” said Copia, impatient. Grabbing me by the hand again, he began to march us away from Papa down the sidewalk.

Terzo turned away as well, but I heard him call over his shoulder, “Oh, and by Satan’s asshole, I am NOT picking up the old fart’s meds! Not again.”

I just laughed out loud so Papa knew I heard him, struggling to keep up with the Cardinal’s stride. “Oh, oh, Copia… wait for me!”

Slowing down, he let me catch my breath, wrapping his arm around me for a moment. Grateful for his warmth, and for the comforting whiff of his cologne, I snaked my own arm around the back of his waist, and leant my head against him again. I could see we were approaching the local Catholic chapel up ahead.

As sleepy as this village was, there was yet some bustling going on here. Parishioners milled about the grounds as they exited the little church; it must have been the end of the daily mass or the weekly adoration, I couldn’t tell.

Copia watched me looking over. “Do you miss it, dolce?”

I shook my head a little. “The only things I would have missed would have been the ceremony of it all. The ritual; the devotion.” I stopped walking and turned to run my fingertips along his cape. “And I’m not deprived of any of that, Your Eminence.” Just thinking about my situation spread a shy but sincere smile across my face. “I am utterly devoted to you, Copia.” He brought one hand up to caress my cheek lovingly, to brush my windswept hair away.

It would have been sweeter if we were alone, but we weren’t, and I couldn’t help but notice some people staring. We were standing close, in a very romantic fashion beside the church lot, and I’m sure some were wondering at the apparent Father holding a member of his congregation so intimately.

Some seemed taken aback, until they recognized the Cardinal’s satanic persuasion, in which case they either turned away or continued to look upon us in distaste. Past caring now, I raised my face up to Copia’s in a little defiance.

We were just as free as they were in our chosen devotion, and Copia was tired of holding back in his revelling of it. Pulling me in even closer to him, he bent his dark head and kissed me full on the mouth, and I freely kissed him back, sighing in pleasure against his lips as I heard some faint gasps of disapproval beyond.

Our tongues had only begun to meet when the Cardinal broke away, heated and breathless. “Let’s go to the car.”

“Absolutely not,” I told him, pulling out my skewed hairband. Our surroundings might be forgotten to me, but not our purpose. “The list, Your Eminence.”

“Si, si, the cursed list…” He rolled his eyes at me now, in frustration and amusement, and, turning to walk me away very close on his arm, we continued in our now less leisurely strolling, to I knew not exactly where.

Some tasks were more urgent than others.

[starrynightarchive]

summary:

She nods at the waiter as he places their drinks in front of them, "I know exactly how this night is going to end and I think something strong will help us both get through it."

"And how's that?"

Chuuya circles her finger over the glass's rim before flicking at its edge, "With your lipstick smudged up and staining your skin with kiss tracks from when it stuck to my lips. With your hands in my hair and my name in your mouth. With us being way too close than we should be and liking it way too much to stop." She raises her glass up, tilting her head forward in a mocking bow, "And you're always louder when you're drunk, just the way I like it."

why you should read it:

listen. it's fem!skk. they make out. there's blood. it's kinda hot. do i really need to say more. just have this excerpt

yeah.

[propertyofkylar]

If you're still looking for Whitney prompts what about him being soft and caring for a fem!Pc who's on their period. If you're ok with writing something like that of course.

noooo i love this!!! any soft whitney is…hngh…

cw: menstruation

The entire day at school, all you could think about was going back to the orphanage, taking a hot bath and then lying in bed the rest of the day. Your period was especially nasty today but the nurse wouldn’t hand over the strong painkillers, so you were going it alone.

You were hoping to sneak out with ease, but luck could never be on your side, so naturally Whitney was right there outside the school.

You groaned, your arms wrapped around yourself, and before Whitney could get a word out, you told him “I’m on my period, don’t even bother.”

“I’m not scared of a bit of blood,” Whitney said, but his eyes widened a little as he examined your form. “Damn, slut. You really look like shit.”

You forced a smile. “Thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

But you didn’t get far as Whitney had taken a hold of your wrist. You felt anxiety course through your body. What was he going to do?

"Whitney..." you began hesitantly, but he shook his head.

"You really think that shithole you call a home is going to be any good? No. Come on, slut. Let's go," he began walking away with you, and since you knew better than to protest, you went along with it.

He walked you back to his home and swiftly took you up to his room. "Lay down," he commanded, so you kicked off your shoes and settled in his bed. He peered over you with a slight frown on his face. You got the distinct feeling he was studying you. "Okay. Wait here, slut."

He turned on his heel and hesitated a moment before snatching one of his plushies and marching out of the room.

You had not stopped feeling confused by Whitney since he declared himself your boyfriend one day, and those feelings honestly had only grown stronger since. So, you laid in his bed (way softer than the orphanage) and tried to get comfortable.

You were started to doze off when the door opened again and you sat up slightly. Whitney was standing there clutching a plush in one hand and a mug in the other. He placed the toy on your stomach and you were surprised to feel heat radiating off it.

"It has a microwavable heating pad inside," Whitney explained, handing you the warm mug. You breathed in deeply. Peppermint tea. You took a small sip and the taste made you smile.

"Thank you," you said softly, looking up at Whitney. His face flushed and he suddenly seemed unable to look you in the eye.

"Whatever," he mumbled. "Just didn't want to hear you bitching about cramps or whatever."

You chose not to point out that you had actually been trying to avoid him, taking another sip of the tea instead.

He sighed and climbed next to you in his bed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pressing a kiss to your forehead. Now you were the one blushing.

"Slut in my bed and not even for fucking," Whitney groaned. "What's gotten into me?"

You giggled, poking him in the side. "Maybe you've gone soft."

"Whatever," he said again, wrapping his other arm around your front so he was pressing the heated plush against your abdomen. "Enjoy it while it lasts. I'm going to sit here and think of all the ways you can repay me once you're off the rag."

You closed your eyes and smiled.

[quinloki]

Birthday Request Event

"It's my birthday and I'll write what I want to \o/"

Gift Details ♥ Reader: afab!reader Character: Eustass Kid Kink: #15 Bratty Reader Prompt: #20. "Kiss me like you missed me." Gift Giver: @swampstew

Summary: Eustass up and vanished for a whole day, and gave orders to keep you on the ship no matter what. Then he had the audacity to expect a warm welcome.

Content Notes: oral sex (reader receiving), of course he calls them mouse, vaginal sex, inappropriate use of a devil fruit >.>, cream pie, swearing, short but mighty - fluffy end

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

Kid’s golden amber eyes were on you like a predator watching its prey. His head was between your thighs, and after a few teasing kisses against them, he was now buried in your cunt, eating you like a man starved.

It felt good.

It felt really good.

But you’d be damned if you were going to let him know how good it felt, or how much you missed him.

He’d been gone before you woke up, and came back so late you were truly dead to the world by the time he came to bed. The day had dragged without him around and no one on the ship seemed to know what had kept him. Only that Hip and Hop had explicit orders to keep you aboard. No exceptions.

When you’d woken up, wrapped in his arms, you’d wriggled yourself free with the intent of just being somewhere else when he woke up. Your movements, careful as they were, had been enough to wake him. After you’d refused to kiss him, and he’d refused to tell you what he was up to, you ended up here.

Kid was certain he could fix your bad attitude and had spent the last ten minutes kissing your body and stripping away your pajamas. You didn’t deny him, didn’t tell him to stop, but you refused to kiss him back until he told you what he was up to.

Damn him and his skills.

The first soft moan escapes you, and you can feel the grin on his face with his lips pressed against your pussy like they were. There was no winning for you now, and even if you didn’t want to give in, your body was done trying to protest.

Your legs trembled as he gripped your hips and twirled his pierced tongue against your clit. Your hands grabbed the sheets so roughly your knuckles were white, and a much louder moan was ripped from your throat as he sucked harshly on the bundle of nerves.

You could feel the familiar hum that followed his devil fruit power, and nearly swore as a smooth, round, long, and cold metal object began to rub your slit, just below his lips. It was a gift you had given him some time ago, a perfectly smooth glob of metal that you had happened upon after a particularly fierce battle.

It reminded you of a wish stone, aside from the fact that it wasn’t a stone, but for Eustass Kid it was a perfect one. You told him about wish stones, gave it to him and just left it at that. It had been a few months before either of you had admitted your feelings.

You were delighted to know he kept it on him all that time, but you couldn’t believe what he was getting ready to do with it.

“Is… is that my g-gift?” You didn’t want to talk, you didn’t want to give an inch, but you were too surprised by the revelation.

Eustass only looks at you, spreading your legs wide as he teases your clit with his teeth. Your body freezes, if you buck you could hurt yourself, but the hard, almost sharp sensation of his teeth against your throbbing clit was sending lightning through you.

The brute could be terrifyingly precise when he wanted, and you’re nearly whimpering as the metal wish stone pushes into your cunt. You can’t move, you can’t twitch, all you can do is accept every single drop of pleasure. The stone’s nothing compared to Kid, but it’s vibrating as it slides back and forth inside you while he pays careful attention to your clit.

The pleasure’s building, your toes are flexing, and you’re worried you’re going to leave holes in the sheets as you try not to move.

“Kid – Kid, please. Please. I ca-can’t take it!” You cry as the pleasure seems ready to overwhelm you. You need to move, you can’t stay perfectly still when you cum, you know you can’t, and you want to squirm and scream and cry for him on top of it.

Everything stops, except for a few heavy, lazy licks from Eustass against your shivering clit.

“You miss me, mouse?” He questions evenly, bright eyes regarding you from beneath hooded lids.

You almost cry, nodding. “Yeah.”

“Gonna show me how much you missed me?” He prompts, the wish stone slipping out of you and into Kid’s hand as he changes positions, caging himself over you.

You nod as thick arms hook your legs and push them open, Eustass Kid leaning down closer to you as his heavy cock presses against your clit. You reach out as he leans down closer, letting your hands disappear into his fiery red hair, pulling yourself up to meet him and kissing him.

The press of your lips together included the push of his throbbing cock into your pussy. Your fingers gripped his hair tightly as you gasped from the pleasure, Kid leaning into you and diving into the kiss as he thrusts deep inside you. He took you, devouring your cries and moans with relentless and aggressive kisses as his hips slapped into your thighs.

He was so precise. So exacting. Even at his most bruising, Kid took you to the limit he intended. Limits you weren’t even originally certain you could reach. Not just behind closed doors either.

“K-Kid!” You cry, your voice muffled by the continued kisses. His lipstick is a mess on his face, it’s a mess on yours, you’re sure. How late did he get back, that he didn’t even clean it off?

“Yeah, sweetheart?” The question falls from him in a grunt as he continues to pound into you.

“F-fuck, fill me up, please!” You beg, feeling yourself melt at the glint in his eyes as the devious grin slips along his face.

“Missed you too, mouse.” He grins before leaning down and kissing you again. His tongue pushing past your lips as he commands control of both of your mouths.

Your body tenses, shivering against the immovable will that his Eustass-goddamned-Kid as the pleasure within you crests. Your cry of pleasure breaks the kiss as you’re squirming uselessly under him. His lips find your neck instead, teeth and tongue leaving their mark and urging more desperate growls of pleasure from you as you orgasm against him.

A few heavy thrusts, a satisfied grunt that sinks into your neck, you can feel his pleasure already leaking down your body. He slumps against you, head resting against your chest, as you both just enjoy the quiet afterglow for a moment.

You wonder idly if he got any sleep at all last night, and what could he possibly have been up to? What the hell happened yesterday that would leave Kid docile and spent after a single round?

It would be some hours before you would know. The velvet wrapped custom wooden box was still perfectly wrapped in Kid’s coat. From the box to its contents, he had made everything, in a single day, at someone else’s workshop, because he didn’t want you to see anything.

Not until he was ready.

Check out the event - requests are accepted until 7/31/2023 EST

[teddylacroix]

Been thinking a lot about my lad lately.

[daisynik7]

will people boo me if I post my very first choso smut (and first fic after a pretty decent hiatus) next week? 😬

[danifesting]

Happy birthday to my dearest @fourmula1. I am so grateful for our friendship and the joy you bring me. I hope you like this little birthday gift I wrote for you.

There’s a bouquet of roses, big fat red ones, sitting on Daniel’s counter next to a bottle of champagne with a card hanging from it written in Max’s messy scrawl but Max isn’t here right now, Daniel doesn’t think. The lights in his apartment are off except the one he keeps on above the kitchen island that is currently illuminating his little surprise. He rips open the card. 

Daniel,

Congratulations. I always believed in you.

Love,

Max

Simple, sweet, and to the point, just like the man in question. Daniel chuckles and buries his face into the roses, inhaling their scent and feeling the velvety petals rub against his face. He’s tired. It’s been a crazy week but he hasn’t seen Max since Sunday, and all he wants right now is to bury his face in Max’s chest and let the tears of relief and joy fall because he hasn’t yet, except for a brief moment on the phone with his mum to tell her the news before it broke. It’s been a whirlwind, from tire testing, to more sim work, to the factory for his seat fitting and promotional materials. It’s a lot and he’s tired. He texts Max.

Daniel: i’m home in case you want to come by

Max: i’ll be there in five

Daniel smiles down at his phone. They don’t live in the same building anymore but Max knew when he was getting home, must have waited in the cafe around the corner for Daniel to arrive. He smells the roses one more time and puts the bottle of champagne in the fridge, for later, or maybe for another day perhaps. There’s a knock at the door just as he shuts the refrigerator door. He crosses the room and opens the door. Max is standing there slightly out of breath and red in the face. 

“Did you run here?” Daniel asks with a laugh. 

“Yes,” Max says, looking a little sheepish. “I wanted to see you.” He toes off his shoes inside the door and pulls Daniel into a hug, “I’m so proud of you baby.” 

“Yeah, Maxy. Me too,” Daniel says as he buries his face into Max’s hair. It smells the same, like the old spice he’s been using since he was a teenager who broke down all of Daniel’s carefully placed defenses all those years ago. He’s glad he let those walls be knocked down for moments like this, someone to share it all with, someone who loves him when he’s so far from home. He kisses Max’s hair. “Come on, let’s get inside.” 

They walk still pressed together to Daniel’s couch and sit. 

“How are you feeling?” Max asks. 

“Honestly? A little overwhelmed,” Daniel says. He leans further into Max’s space. “A lot tired.” 

“Come, let’s lay down,” Max says and lies down on the couch and pulls Daniel on top of him. Daniel rests his head on Max’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, calming and soothing after such a whirlwind of a week. Max strokes his fingers through Daniel’s hair and Daniel relaxes into it, lets himself really feel. 

The first sniffles come quickly, tears pooling into Daniel’s eyes, a little shudder. He presses his face into Max’s chest and lets go. He lets the tears fall from his eyes quietly at first and then a little louder. 

“Are you okay?” Max asks softly, fingers still gently running through Daniel’s hair. 

“Yeah,” Daniel replies, he leans up and looks at Max. “It’s just, for a little while, I was afraid I’d never come back, and now…” 

“You’re back where you belong,” Max says firmly. 

“Not quite,” Daniel says. He still hopes for more, to be in a Red Bull and not an Alpha Tauri. 

“Next year,” Max says. 

The certainty, Max’s unwavering faith in Daniel, the faith he’s had in him through all of this, even on the darkest of days is contagious. 

“Next year,” Daniel says. He leans down and kisses Max, tasting the salt from his own tears and the promise of more. For him, for them. No matter what happens, Daniel knows it will be okay, because they will be together.

[dailyhowl]

only the lonely

It's the last time because it has to be.

1963. A married John hires Paul for one more night.

[pfhwrittes]

psst. i've got a snippet of the roughest draft of the prologue for the still unnamed fic that @391780 inspired in me under the cut.

[vegaseatsass]

Originally I posted this anonymously because I’m SO BAD at interacting with anyone else’s fic rn and it drives me to want to fully hide my own engagement with the fic side of fandom, but then I decided fuck it, I want to have conversations. You are all cordially invited to discuss Teenon with me!!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dead Friend Forever - DFF (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Underage Relationships: Tee Pariphat Wanit & Non Thanakorn Prathipsit, White Watcharin Siriphan/Tee Pariphat Wanit Characters: Tee Pariphat Wanit, Non Thanakorn Prathipsit, White Watcharin Siriphan Additional Tags: canon-typical child sexual abuse, Bullying, canon-typical mental health crises, Victim Blaming, Slut Shaming Summary:

Non had been haunting Tee long before he disappeared.

Tee-on-Non headcanon disguised as a fic.

[ivelovedhimthroughworse]

Hip hip hooray! It's @bookish-bogwitch's birthday today!!

Sometimes the best way to celebrate a person who's so smart and beautiful and fathomlessly wise is to gift them their very own tentacle porn.

Happy birthday Em! Thank you for the gift of your friendship and all the ways that you make me smile. You always give a helping hand when I'm having a tough time. My life is boundlessly better with you in it. You deserve all the best, including a dozen tentacles.

Rating: Extra Spicy

Word Count: 9K

Summary:

Baz Pitch receives a gift from Fiona in the Seventh Year of Watford. But instead of a cursed tape recorder, it’s the chance to get the shag of his life. He only has to ditch a class trip in London and confront a sex cephalopod.  But what will happen if Simon follows, expecting a nefarious plot, and instead finds Baz getting shagged by a dozen tentacles?

Read on AO3

[grillbyz]

still thinking about the. asgore's winter alarm clock dialogue like. If they ever finish this (please) imagine waking up one day to asgore divorced-reemurr saying "he was... my rudolph" ab some guy he used to know like

"I was... his Santa. He was... my Rudolph." With those sprites. like. Oh he was yours and you were his, huh. Sir. Sir--

hello, sir, what was that about the mistletoe--

Oh so. he uses the same nickname your ex-wife used for you. Is that so. The very same huh---

Oh so you wanted to show him the sun huh. You wanted to hold his hand and bring him to the surface and show him the beauty of the sun didn't you