#star mail

[starpirateee]

Hi!! Could you write one of the Curtwen prompts I made, yet didn’t cut it? I love your writing style!!

Honestly there was a bit of deliberation here because you put some really good ideas out there on the form, but I did say I'd write em myself, and by all means, I'll still do it! So, I decided to go for this prompt:

Would you take a modern au from me? Can I do that?

I mean, I'm going to anyway, because I have a dire need to call Curt and Owen husbands (and also for wider Starkid lore), but i just thought I'd warn you beforehand!

"Agent Carvour, have you found anything yet?"

Owen leaned back away from his research. He'd been looking at the same page now for a while, trying to make some sense of it. Redacted government files were hard to get hold of, but even harder to make ends of. His system had been trying to translate it, but not even he had the software for that.

"Quite possibly, sir. I have a few sources, at least."

"What have you got?"

With an air of something that was almost excitement and almost elation, Owen pulled up a series of documents and started the walk through them. "Well, sir, the easiest source was from a few years ago. There's a company in Michigan that's been trying to conduct various temporal experiments under their parent company— some kind of analyst company, I think. They're surprisingly ordinary. Anyway, apparently the experiments just… Stopped. They never drew a conclusion on whether or not their research was connected to what was on the other side."

This had all started when Chimera had dug up a series of centuries old reports about people claiming to have looked into the eyes of old gods. None of the people had known each other, but all of the reports showed some form of consistency, and all told of great, unknowable power.

So, they had decided to look into it, to see if there had been anyone else who'd dared to brave the process of trying to find an answer. Owen was one of those lucky enough to find himself with the resources to start a thorough investigation.

"They didn't finish?"

"No, I don't know what happened, but the reports just stopped one day."

"Is there anything else?"

"An american government report, but it's as hard as you can imagine to decipher. Most of it is redacted…"

"Anything worth noting?"

Owen nodded, carefully turning back and switching the tabs. This felt a little like he was giving a presentation that he hadn't prepared for, and he hadn't felt like this in quite some time. He took a breath, trying to slow down the rampage that was going on in his head. "They started in the early noughts. 2005, to be precide. That's the earliest I'd gotten without looking at those old reports from the pioneers. A branch of the military tried to build a gateway to the other side, to investigate what existed outside of our plane. I don't know names, only one. The name of the man who performed the experiment."

"They got this gateway open?"

"Yes, sir. And they sent someone through. I think there's a good reason why his is the only name they disclosed."

"Why?"

"Because he was declared dead, sir."

His screen still displayed the document, and the man's name sat among the black markouts, clear enough to see. Cross, W.D. Apparently, he'd ventured into the portal, and nobody heard from him or saw him after the date of the experiment. They gave up the search after a month, and after that, Colonel Cross was indeed declared dead.

"So, another dead end?"

"Maybe not. I'll do what I can to uncover this with what I've got available, but it was scanned, so…. It might take some time." Owen was normally confident in his abilities, and uncovering government documents was a difficult yet necessary part of the job. There was something almost genuinely enthralling about scraping off the parts that the world's governments wanted to keep secret. It felt like giving people a small yet surprisingly effective slice of justice every time.

"Keep looking, Carvour. We need to know if this is viable, or even worth our time…"

If Owen had any kind of normal life— if he and his husband didn't both do the dirty work for secret operation services— he would have a blast trying to decide how to describe the intricacies of what he'd been researching lately. The throws of domestic life confounded him to no end, which was why it was so funny when he and Curt tried to imitate that.

The otherwise simple question of "how was your day" turned into a battle of who could craft the most believable lie that better concealed what they'd actually done. Neither wanted to jeopardise their jobs, and Curt had always been brilliant at crafting stories, so it was never dull.

He started to think about what today's excuse would be. Something about pioneers, or the Oregon trail, or perhaps he could bring up that old, dead colonel somehow, that would be interesting to add to the pile.

--

"You know what I'm gonna ask already…"

By the time he got home, Curt was already waiting for him, and the mid-spring sun was starting to set. For anyone else, it was a day at the office, but the trails he had begun to uncover had really put all other days at the office to shame.

He laughed softly, having prepared this answer a number of hours before, and took up a position on the couch. "No, love, you first. I insist."

"Fine, okay," Curt answered with a chuckle. "It was nothing really, just your standard… But, the bear returned, and in about a month, I'm gonna get really rich and run off to central Europe, with a really pretty lady and a dollar store box of magic tricks."

"The same bear from last month?"

"Yeah. Bastard won't leave me alone."

"Sounds wild. Are you coming back after your plans to run off with this really pretty lady?"

"Plan is to cut myself off after three weeks, but at this rate, I might not make it two."

"Not good enough?"

"Owen, I'm a bit too gay for that." To sell his point, he flashed his wedding band, and Owen laughed harder. "Besides," he added, covering his own bout of laughter. "Who needs a fake wife when I've got my own right here?"

Owen shot him a faux-offended glance. "How dare you!"

"You might fool the guys at work, O, but you couldn't pretend you don't think about it…"

Or that he hadn't been experimenting in that part of himself in little segments since he was seventeen. Turns out he suited long hair better, and he wouldn't hesitate to admit that he both looked and felt rather good with the occasional flourish.

"You know me well..."

"I should hope so! Anyway, what're you keeping from me? How was your day?"

"Office, just like you. I've had a conversation with a pioneer, and tried to erase marker pen over the body of a dead soldier. Oh, and I tried to teach myself statistical analysis."

"Jeez, that was— that was a whole rollercoaster there, huh?"

"Mhm, I've been busy."

"You can say that again, god… So, a pioneer? Like those guys that travelled to Oregon?"

"Yeah. Quite interesting people, if a little paranoid." Something other than their oxen might be watching them would've been a perfect addition to the statement, but Owen felt that was a little too close to the line to pass, so he decided not to add it.

The important part was, apart from the knowledge that Curt was on an assignment in a month's time, both of them were none the wiser. Curt didn't need to know that he had started the deep dive into a pack of eldritch gods and was even slightly nervous about the outcome.

He didn't sleep well that night. He knew that he had right to believe that this was all one great hoax, that there was something in the water that made the pioneers mass hallucinate this supposed watcher. They all travelled on the same trail, it was entirely plausible that all of them found the same hallucinogenic and envisioned a thousand eyes watching them and their familes. It was less of a coincidence when two subsidaries of larger companies started describing details of experiments that led them to discovering other beings beyond just the watcher, of course, but he still wasn't sure whether he was privy to believing any of it.

There was something about redacted government files, though, that were meant to be believed. There was a reason they hid information from the public, and that was often because they had found something worth disclosing in the first place. That meant huge news, large press cover ups… The whole works… And that was the last thing any self-respecting government with something to hide would want. Owen imagined the size of the initial press conferences for dealings like Roswell, how many people must've shown up to that conference, under the impression that they were going to get answers, only for the press to redact the next day and claim that it was no more than a weather balloon.

He felt like he was dealing with a weather balloon of his own right now. This was something that this branch of the military clearly didn't want people knowing. The only reason they'd had to disclose any information at all was because one of their own had died looking for this information, and they had to provide the closure for whatever family he had left. Part of him wondered what they'd said, how they'd tried to cover up this man's imminent demise at the hands of another dimension. What did his family know? Was he ever given a sendoff?

When Owen tried to sleep that night, plagued with the thoughts of how much his research was worth, and what really happened on the other side, he couldn't get his head in the right place to take a suitable rest for long enough. Flashes of colour— brighter than anything he'd ever seen— danced behind his eyelids, chasing each other in sequence. Blue. Purple. Yellow. Pink. Green. White. Blue…. He didn't have much of the capacity to think, not when those colours started consuming his subconscious thought, but he spared a moment to the hope that he may get answers of his own if he stuck around long enough.

"He thinks he's brave… He thinks we don't know about him…"

Whatever dream he had been having was taken over by blurred edges and violent pangs of pain that he was sure he could feel outside of this existence. Everything faded out, leving only ruin in it's wake. Broken pieces, scrambled signals… Owen didn't even try and make sense of it, he already understood the futility of trying. There was nothing left in his mind but those colours and those voices— for he was sure there was more than one. A sickening chorus, holding perfect time with each other.

"He's foolish, if he thinks he can go further without us finding out."

"Owennnn…"

"We know what you're doing, Owen…. It's not going to last."

He'd thought about meeting his maker before. He'd thought about the possibility of death, the idea that he may not live to see another day eventually. It was hard to deliberate something so serious in his early thirties, but his line of work called for it. He knew that he had a dangerous job, and that there were few who would be able to save him if something happened.

But, he'd never considered the possibility of his own demise to this extent before. In the formless remains of his dream, where he was forced into hearing these voices talk about his death and how soon it would be to coming, he had pause for deliberation. And it wasn't good.

He had to strain to take control of his own voice, in this space that was once his own. Once so sacred, now scarce and left entirely to the whim of whatever was taking residence in his mind. This was a bad idea. All of this research was a bad idea, and he was suddenly more aware of that than he was anything else. Never before had he had such a violent urge to overturn everything he'd worked on for the sake of something this seemingly trivial.

"There's nothing you can do. It's already started. This is bigger than me…"

"We know that. You're not the only one we have heard trying to work your way into what is ours… Choose your next step carefully, Owen. I'm sure we would delight in taking you in the same direction as the others…"

Before he could really ask what that meant, he was left entirely alone. The ruin of his dream still stood strong, which was strange enough given that the voices had left him alone, but he had the strangest feeling that there was more to this landscape than just what he was being shown. He started to wander, to look around in an attempt to find the real end to all of this. His mind was a wasteland, taken over by the lack of colour and the apparently deafening absence of those voices that had only appeared a moment before. He felt empty without them, although he knew nothing more than the sequence of colours that paraded through his vision.

Blue… Purple…. Yellow…

The pattern was familiar, like he'd seen it before somewhere. And while he wasn't resting easy, he couldn't force himself to wake up, either. No matter how hard he tried, he was just left stuck, wandering the expanse until he found what he was apparently looking for.

Pink…. Green…. White… Blue…

The expanses of his mind stretched out into a road, occupied by nothing but empty space. He supposed that was mostly his own fault; he had known for years that his imagination was never one to be put on par with anything else. He couldn't so vividly picture that which others could, and he'd never really had much of a capacity to dream, either.

So, this warning was strange. Seeing such vivid, bright colours in the back of his mind, knowing that he couldn't have conjured them himself…

He started to walk the road, curious enough to want to know where it went.

"Owen?"

That voice wasn't like the ones who had left moments before. That voice had a personality, and a person to go with. It was warm, though scared. Human all the same. And Owen knew the shape of it.

"Owen?"

Owen let his instinct lead him down the road, through it's many curves and winds. Eventually, the road gave way to what could only possibly be a stage. There was a set of stairs to one side, that he let himself climb before he could think to wonder where they led, and then the familiar voice gave way to a man in the wings, staring at him with desperate, fear-lined eyes. Of course he knew the voice, and of course he had never tried to doubt himself on the matter.

He tried to advance towards Curt, but he took a hasty step back, shaking his head.

"Curt?"

"Prove you're Owen."

"I'm sorry?"

Curt hesitated, and then slowly emerged from the wings. Even though he stood on the light of the stage, it still looked like he was carefully enveloped in shadow, like the darkness was a comfort to him. Owen looked around, wondering what had made him so cautious, and whether it was still around. Had Curt seen what he'd seen? What had those things whispered to him?

"I'm not falling for it again. Tell me you're actually Owen…"

Owen frowned, not wanting to dwell too much on why Curt was so afraid to reach out to him and realise that all of this was as real as they could get it. "Curt, love, I don't know what you want me to say…" There was a certain desperation about him too. Improvisation had never been his strong suit, but he wass confident that, given the right prompt, he would be able to convince his husband that he was who he said he was, to quell any discrepancy that it may have been otherwise.

"Don't. Show me… What happened on your 25th birthday."

The pieces fit into place, and Owen nodded dutifully. He had been out in the field that day, a strikingly hot day in the middle of June. The two of them had barely ended up with three hours together by the end of it, and they'd gone out drinking to celebrate what little time was left of his birthday. He'd never been particularly big on celebrating, but Curt had insisted. They were newly married then, and getting used to the idea of sharing a life with someone else. That was one of the first nights following their wedding when Owen truly came to realise that he'd made entirely the right decision, and that there was nobody he'd rather share his life with than Curt Mega.

"My 25th… That was a home ground mission. I was in the state."

"What happened to you?"

Owen smiled, somewhere between fondness and a need to hide the melancholic air that hung about that question. He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, and huffed a weary breath of laughter. "I was trying to make my exit, but the suit jacket caught on a fence. Here…" With his sleeve rolled to just the right length, Owen held out his arm and pointed out a pale flash just below his elbow— a jagged scratch that had never quite healed right. "That's what happened after the fabric tore. Is that enough?"

Curt had known about the scar. He'd also known about the story. He was pretty sure that nobody else knew, though, so in his head, that had always been his fallback option in the event that he was ever sure Owen needed to prove himself. Those stories lined up perfectly, and while Owen had missed out on some of the details, in the grander scheme of things, he'd gotten it exactly right. He shifted, letting a knowing smile cross his face through the fear that still gripped him.

"It's really you…"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Curt's approach was still careful, premeditated. Even though he knew the truth now, there was still something about him that screamed a lack of trust directly into his ear, and it made actually reaching out for Owen so much harder. "You… You were trying to kill me."

"What now?"

"I know what I saw…"

"I don't doubt you, but I would never… I swear it on my life."

"I know, that's why it was strange… I— What the hell's happening?" This stage was the only thing connecting the two of them to reality. There was nothing beyond it but the end of the road that Owen had travelled down, and nothing behind it but black, empty space.

Owen let his instinct take over. If the two of them were going to face the unknown, whatever and wherever this was, then they were going to do it together. They always had, and they always would. That was the way things worked, especially for the two of them, because their lives were built so heavily on the idea of distrust that any semblance of the opposite they could get, they would cling to. Normally that was exclusively each other, and so the world wasn't usually much larger than the two of them.

Their hands connected in the middle of the emptiness. Owen pulled Curt Closer to him, and the two of them stood side, performers to an unknown audience, marionettes for something larger than themselves. They exchanged a glance, and Owen registered the warm, homely spark residing in Curt's eyes.

"I think we're trapped in a nightmare, crazy as it sounds," he tried to respond, but he wasn't entirely sure where this was going to go. "I can't wake up, but I remember falling asleep last night."

"Me too. I fell asleep before you did, you were still reading."

"Right, and now there's this. Whatever this is. did you, by chance, see those colours too?"

Curt nodded. "They came before you did, before the- other you. Blue, and purple, and yellow…"

"…Pink, and green, and white..?"

"And then blue again."

Owen heaved a sigh. "Curt, there's something I have to confess. It's safe to do so now, there's little that could get in the way of what I have to admit, but this is one of those things I wouldn't be able to tell you awake, you understand?"

There was a moment's pause, in which Curt tried to work around Owen's phrasing. Both of them felt the incredibly revealing sense that they were being watched, so Curt understood that Owen had gone into the professional mindset— switching off his senses for the sake of making as much sense of something as possible. It was always how he rationalised his way through situations, and it hadn't failed him yet.

Eventually, Curt nodded again, as the words started to sink in and he started to get a sense of what was being said. "This about what you told me this evening?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid there's a little more to it than what I told you, but I suppose that was rather obvious."

A nervous breath of laughter left Curt, only partially voluntary. "I thought there'd be a bit more to it than erasing marker pen over the body of a dead soldier…. What the hell kinda explanation was that, anyway?"

"One I spent a good hour crafting, thank you very much. I thought it was clever."

"Better than a pretty lady and a box of tricks?"

"And a bear, yes."

"… And the bear. Right. Well, what's that mean? erasing marker pen over the body of a dead soldier, what're you saying there?"

"I've…" This is not going to get you done for. Those documents were already top secret before you saw them. And if it gets you out of this nightmare prison, then surely it has to be worth it. "I've been uncovering sealed military case files that might explain what's happening to us right now."

Curt's eyes went wide. "Fucking what?!"

"It's all part of the job. I can't… I can't elaborate. Know only what everyone else knows: that the only reason any part of this is disclosed at all is because someone died during one of the experiments."

"What's that got to do with what's happening here?"

"That's what they were researching."

That seemed to click to some degree. At least, Curt seemed to understand a few of the larger pieces, perhaps the more obvious ones. "The colours?" In his head, there was an experiment, someone tried to make sense of whatever that was in their shared mindscape. Someone— a soldier, presumably, had died in the middle of these experiments, and now Owen had gotten tangled in this mess through his agency, and the two of them had been dropped into the same nightmare.

Owen nodded. "The colours."

At the moment he said that, a loud rumble disrupted their moment and forced their attention out into the expanse of nothing. Laughter— multiple sources with varying shrieks and gasps that couldn't be placed to a single source— burst from behind the wings, and from in front of them, and from the endless expanse of black that surrounded them. A loud crack followed, and Curt swore as the stage splintered beneath his feet. For a split second, his grip loosensed, and the next time the ground rumbled, they were torn apart by the growing crack in the stage. He staggered back, and the two of them ended on opposite sides of the stage, the crack between them growing and delving deeper into the unknown.

"Owen!" He called, trying to regain his footing but falling back.

"Curt! Hold on!" Owen yelled through the growing laughter, scrambling back to reach out for the pulley system backstage. He needed a foothold on something, a way to sturdy himself so he could regroup and think. It was too loud, he couldn't think in this kind of heat, with this kind of mess, and Curt, and-

Another crack. The stage was starting to fall away from itself, split not quite perfectly in two. Owen's breath ran short. In the swirls of colour and mayhem and possibilities, he saw a way out. One chance to get this right, and to make sure that they both survived the fall while they were still stuck here. He gripped the rope tight, levering himself further towards the crack, and looked to Curt. "You're gonna have to jump it!" He called, desperation winning over any attempts to stay sane. "Don't worry! You know I'll never let you down!"

"Are you crazy?!" Curt managed, staring into the gap. "I can't jump that, it's too far!"

"Curt, before the whole place splits in half, you have to get over here!"

"What if I don't make it?"

"Trust me! Please!"

Curt backed off a few paces. Owen stood ready, one hand gripping the rope wrapped around his wrist, and the other reaching out as far as he could, waiting for a move to be made. After a singular preparatory breath, he sprinted for the gap, and pushed off from the splintered wood at the edge.

He reached out.

Owen reached out.

Their fingertips connected briefly in the space, and then Curt slipped away beneath his grasp.

Owen threw himself forward, feeling the rope worming itself free and burning his wrist in the process. He'd promised. He wasn't going to let Curt fall. And he was nothing if not a man of his word.

Curt's eyes squeezed shut, preparing for an endless fall through the ineviatble. Something laced around his wrist and he felt himself stop moving. Exerting all the caution he knew to exert, he looked up, and caught a familiar whiskey brown staring back at him.

"I've got you!" Owen breathed, and Curt fought to angle himself so that he could get a better chance to grab the broken stage floor. When Owen started hauling backwards, Curt managed to get a hold of the edge of the stage, and made it a joint effort to haul him to his feet. "You're alright… You're okay…"

Curt essentially fell into Owen's arms. Owen held on tight, like he could lose his partner at any second to the swirls and the crevice. He stared out into the emptiness, ignoring the very real pain that he could feel at his wrist but cherishing the very reel feeling of Curt's shirt underneath his hands. The very air seemed to shift. Owen wasn't previously aware that colours could get angry, but this green that flooded the space behind his eyes was pissed. He could feel it.

So was he. Pissed, and way more desperate than a man ought to be.

"Alright," he muttered once, and Curt drew back ever so slightly. He noticed Owen was staring off into the greater expanse, and hoped for all it was worth that he couldn't see something out there.

"Alright!" His voice got louder, and he tried to mask his utter despair in an authorative tone. "I get it. You hear me? I get it!"

Everything fell eerily silent. The only sound that remained was the pounding of Owen's heart in his ears. He took a breath, strangely certain of himself. Glanced at Curt. Spared his attention on the void again.

"That soldier… Wilbur Cross? That was your fault, wasn't it? There's a good reason nobody can get very far into digs like these, and it's because you strive to kill them before they do. Nobody ought to know what's on the other side, and that's why nobody does…"

"Owen, what're you doing?" Curt whispered, but to no response and little avail. Owen was lost in whatever he was about to say.

"… But, I've heard talk of bargains being made here, so how about it?"

"Your desperation speaks for itself."

Owen had to pretend that that— the voice from the middle of nowhere or what it had said to him— didn't bother him in the slightest. He steeled himself, not sure where to direct his attention but knowing he'd probably have it right no matter what he chose. "What do you say, am I allowed to make a deal?"

The air shifted. Owen didn't receive a direct answer, but he knew that he'd been allowed to continue. "If I don't continue— if I go back, and tell my people that it's an impossibility, that it can't be done— would you let him go?" Another quick glance at Curt, as if the green something needed clarification, or as if he knew what he was signing himself up for.

Curt was frozen in place, his eyes wide. He'd heard every word as it echoed in the void, and he hated what it was implying. His gaze was fixed on Owen, fear blazing through his face. "No, Owen—" his voice came out weak. As far as literal interpretations go, that was not a good one. He didn't understand what was happening, but it terrified him to know that Owen was being so calm about this, while he could be selling his life away with nothing more than a few choice words.

Owen frowned, and muttered an apology he was sure only Curt would catch. The green grew angrier, setting a violent fire behind his eyes and forcing him onto his knees as the pain flooded his body.

"You better not be fucking with me."

"No! I— I wouldn't! I'm serious! I'll call it off, I swear on my life, just… He has nothing to do with any of this. It's not his fault."

The thing considered, holding Owen firmly in place while he deliberated. Curt couldn't move— he didn't dare, lest something happen to Owen that put him in more danger than he was already in. All he could do was force himself into keeping his breath steady, and not thinking about what a single wrong move could do to either of them. His eyes landed on the friction burn winding neatly around Owen's wrist, and he decided to focus on that for a while; the only other colour in a void of blackness and green.

"Very well."

That was the last thing Owen heard. Some part of his mind just shut down, and he collapsed to the floor of the stage. He didn't hear the way Curt screamed his name, or the return of the chorus of laughter. His eyes closed, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up with a start, underneath the sheets of his own bed, gasping for breath. He sturdied himself out, and once he was sure that he was real, and definitely in a familiar space, he looked over to Curt, and found him still asleep.

"Curt?" His voice was soft, but his mind was a knife point of tension. If that had gone wrong, then why was he the one to live through it ant not Curt? He tried again, biting his lip. "Curt..?"

Curt groaned. His eyes opened slowly. The relief that Owen felt hit him like a tidal wave.

For some reason, Curt was entirely surprised to see that Owen had made it through to the other side. He managed a weary smile, and tried to get his vision into focus. That was one of those decisions that he immediately came to regret. As soon as he brought himself a little more into the real worls, he noticed that the brown in Owen's eyes was stained with something else, and it made him feel sick to his stomach. Dripping down his irises was a flash of toxic, unsettlingly bright green.

[trek-tracks]

I’m not sure when Canada Post obtained a Borg Cube, but I feel that can’t be good.

[puppyeared]

littlest furth shop

@laikascomet

[papanowo]

missing them

[hirayaea]

xavier is just casually saying things like this in the office

tara for sure is squealing somewhere in the background

meanwhile, someone nero mutters, “some of us are single, you know…”

/

xavier doesn’t deny allegations when asked if you’re together

in fact, this man is so sly he fans the flames on purpose, but when you ask him about it he just goes: “hmmm? I told them we’re partners”

/

the next day, a “no flirting” sign is posted in the office

xavier is clueless, “who was flirting?” he asks, as he brings you a cup of iced coffee and mixes the gum syrup in front of you, drinking a bit of it himself before handing it to you

“we should share one coffee cup so there’s less trash”, he says, oblivious that tara is still giggling and the other men in the office want to shake him

/

somehow a sign also ends up at jeremiah’s flower shop

xavier asks where are the signs coming from???

jeremiah shrugs, “I don’t know about the one in your office, but I‘ve had that one for years”

/

source: memoria - fluffy trap

[nvuy]

May I also propose gap moe boothill where everyone thinks you and him fuck nasty but he’s actually rlly sappy in bed and he pins ur hands down by intertwining your fingers and he looks at u like you’re a treasure and he fucks u not just for the sake of pleasure but bc he really needs to get his feelings across

mdni. you may.

he’s one of those dudes where he beats up people all day, and after a hard day’s work, he’s so excited to go home and kiss his spouse. it’s like a reward. even if he’s done nothing notable all day, and ESPECIALLY if a mission is a bust.

he’ll come home skipping pretty much. be prepared to be picked up and spun around like he hasn’t seen you in three months.

the dynamic is basically jessica and roger rabbit.

call him your wife. he’ll start giggling.

there’s no place like in your arms. even if his hands are cold hard metal, he’s all over you. he’s genuinely like a lump sometimes. he’ll just lay over your lap and he will trap you against the couch like a cat if he feels like it.

same in bed, except more cuteness aggression. it’s like a virus. like something possesses him and the demons win over and he WILL start nuzzling into you and leaving all these marks on your neck. every time he sees an inch of skin, all his systems say “bite.”

he’s got his tongue buried inside you, but at the same time he’s gripping onto your thighs like a lifeline because WOW you are so soft and warm. he feels like the luckiest man alive.

he thinks you’re the prettiest thing in the universe. genuinely nobody can compare.

that pretty girl on the magazine cover? eh.

the supposed “most handsome man in penacony?” who’s lying… that weirdo can’t even come close to you.

god forbid you get insecure, or you have trouble exposing yourself to him. he’s ALL over you like sticky rice. he makes you feel like an aeon.

tldr; this is him

[ominouspuff]

Son of Dathomir

——

My sister, looking upon the first Maul of my career, quoth “he look lika chicken”

[kazoohaa]

haii can i request blade, jingyuan and/or danheng with a s/o who runs into everything 😭😭 like they could go to a different room for a few seconds and hear an “ow”

𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐒𝐘! honkai star rail

— notes. thats so me tbh /j

— details. blade, jing yuan, dan heng x gn!reader (separate). fluff.

blade

he honestly didnt notice it for a while

it began with that time he saw you stub your toe and kind of double over in pain but then you went to another room to fetch something and he still heard you say “ow—”

blade still didn’t do or say anything about it but he’s suddenly becoming more aware of how often you manage to bump into things everywhere 😭

how does this keep happening to you??

but he just. still doesn’t say anything about it

until it became kind of noticeable how he stands in your general vicinity a bit more, making sure makes sure that you remain within an arm’s reach so that he can pull you away from bumping into yet another item just a second before it happens

you brought it up at some point, and he dismisses it by saying something about how he’s just annoyed at how you always run into things as if you don’t look where you’re going, so he’s just stopping that from happening more, that’s all

jing yuan

you could just be minding your own business and trying to stay alert of your surroundings but still manage to bump into something — it puzzles him a little to see how this seems to happen so often, but it’s also mildly amusing. just a tiny bit.

since this happens to you quite frequently, you probably get lots of accidental bruises or cuts from the hips down, so he makes it a habit to always have some band-aids in his pocket for you

would probably try to minimise the risks for you and get furniture that has less sharp corners or edges to make it less painful if — actually, scratch that, when — you bump into them

also uses this as an excuse to have his arm around your waist more often LMAO (under the excuse of helping you stop bumping into things if you’re this close by to him)

dan heng

your innate talent of running into things was probably the first thing he noticed about you LMAOO

like. how do you manage to do that?? all the time?? and it still happens whether or not he tries to keep an eye on you or accompanies you where you go

dan heng probably briefly considered looking through the archives to see if this was something that happened to other people as well

because who knows what kind of things happen on other planets. people from punklorde perceive reality as a game, and people from xianzhou get mara-struck, so it’s probably possible that such regular clumsiness could be something that just Happens™ to people from a certain planet??

in the end he’s sort of resigned himself to accepting that it’s just something interesting about you — kind of like how march can somehow understand diting?? except it’s you bumping into things

he also tries to minimise the risks, and at some point asked himeko or welt if it was possible to modify the furniture in the express a little bit so that the edges aren’t as sharp

while it helps a little, there seems to be no way to fully [name]-proof any place 😞 (he will work towards it!!! or try to, at the least)

[milksnake-tea]

Hi hi hii!

May I have 2, 4, and 7 with Aventurine for the ask game? Have a nice day!

This man has a strong chokehold on me-

- 🪽

nah bro i totally get you that damn blonde im telling you .... him and his little >:3 are permanently etched into my brain .... THANKS FOR THE ASK !!! <3

2. What do you think their love language is?

My first thought was initially words of affirmation or acts of service, but now that I'm thinking about it, I think Aventurine would be a sucker for physical touch. The thing is, I personally believe that Aventurine is heavily touched starved, and a huge part of it is self-inflicted. There have been many times where he wanted to hold your hand, or lean onto your shoulder, or just have his hair played with, but he holds himself back because 1.) it's unprofessional and 2.) does he really want to deal with the implications of his actions? Even with friends (or the closest things he has to friends), he wants to be physically close to them, but he doesn't let himself be. The first time you held his hand, he stiffened like a block of wood. When you hugged him, and held him in his arms, he didn't know how to react - but it wasn't long until he closed his eyes and let himself slump against you.

4. What's an unpopular opinion you have?

i cant believe i have to say this BUT HE IS NOT A WHORE !!!!! Can he be clingy? Yes !! Can he be intentionally irritating and annoying? Yes !!! Can he come across as flirty? ABSOLUTELY. But what he isn't is someone who gives himself away at the drop of a hat. Intimacy and companionship, whether platonic or romantic, is something he desires, absolutely. But that doesn't mean he'll give it to just anyone. He has to respect you, he has to like you, he has to know you inside and out to ensure that you won't take advantage of his vulnerability.

I acknowledge that Aventurine often invites people to stab him in the back, but he does it with the prior knowledge that they'd likely do it, so he isn't surprised about it. But when it comes to true companions, not the "friends" he collects like chips, he needs to be able to trust you in all of your entirety. Yes, he has a very low view of himself, but it's not to the degree where he'd willingly use his body in that way to get what he wants.

7. What kind of person do you think Aventurine wants in a relationship?

The real question is whether or not he'll allow himself the liberty of getting into a relationship in the first place. But if I'm going to be honest, I see Aventurine as someone who values honesty and self-reliance, and admires those who are true to themselves and their ideals despite it all (example: Topaz and Dr. Ratio, both of whom he respects and admires as colleagues). So when it comes to being in a relationship, he doesn't want to stress himself out with the mind games; banter, sure, but he doesn't need another person to tip toe around.

Aventurine would want someone who isn't afraid to ask for what they want, or tell him off when he needs to be, yet is genuine, kind and earnest. He also would want someone who could at least take care of themself - as harsh as it sounds, he can't always be there to protect you, and he needs to know that you'll be okay even if he isn't there (also because he finds strength, both intellectual and physical, to be pretty attractive).

It's kind of sad, though. The kind of people Aventurine finds himself attracted to are often the type who end up disliking him.

2k follower event if you want to participate !!!

[littledeadling]

Little happy family

[starpirateee]

Hey! Inspired by that previous request could I suggest Curt having a panic attack and Owen helping him through it? Bonus points if it's because he thinks his mom knows you-know-what.

Oooooo, of course you can! I am nothing if not a nervous gay wreck, and I will take some of that projection!

Rule number 1 was never talk to Curt Mega about past missions. Owen was familiar with the rule. It was the one thing he'd kept reminding himself of over and over. Not everything was in the bad books, but there were enough things that Curt could recall in surprisingly vivid detail that sent him into nervous spirals, and they didn't seem to have a pattern to them, so Owen had just learned to avoid the subject unless he was certain it was a good bet.

Presently, he could hear near enough everything outside of the door to his hotel room. Groups of people walking the corridors, going about their lives... The occasional housekeeping call from the staff... Even down to someone's frantic footsteps seemingly running down the hall, followed by an almost drastic intake of breath, and then a knock.

On his door.

Two short, three long.

Owen was at the door before the call could finish. That code belonged to one man, who was currently residing two floors up and had presumably run all that way.

"Curt?"

He stepped aside immediately, before his partner could even give an explanation, and Curt hesitated for a fraction of a second before he took himself up on the offer and brought himself inside. Owen scoped the corridor briefly to make sure that the problem wasn't that he was being pursued, and then turned towards Curt as he closed the door. "What's going on, Curt?"

It wasn't easy to ignore the wild, manic something that had gripped Curt's nervous system, forcing his eyes to go wide and his breath to run short. There was little in the way of explanation, but he could tell what was happening without needing it.

Owen offered Curt the chair, and chose to lean against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. "Is this okay?"

Long ago, the two of them had devised something of an elaborate code to get close to each other in the wake of a dangerous or public-facing circumstance. It was their way of signalling when there was a problem, and how urgently they needed to do something about it.

When Curt had admitted that he was prone to panicking, that had been added to the code as a means to decipher, simply because finding the right words wasn't always the easiest of tasks.

Curt shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable, and then nodded stiffly. Owen inclined his head and hummed, waiting on elaboration before he could try and figure anything out. Eventually, Curt took a breath, kneading one hand repeatedly over the fabric of his trousers. "There's... There's a problem," he muttered. "Hadta find you." His gaze was fixed on a point on the ground, and even from his slight distance, Owen could see him shaking.

"What kind of problem?" He wasn't exactly known for having the patience of a saint, but he could make a lot of exceptions for Curt, and extending his virtue to account for as much patience as he could physically muster was one of them.

"... Cold case."

As Curt drew a folder from his pocket, Owen's face fell. A cold case— not necessarily something pulled from an archive, but something that had been pulled directly from their past. Something that had come back to haunt him. Maybe something mentioned in the file, or a name involved with one of the cases they weren't supposed to talk about...

"How cold?" Owen asked cautiously, wandering over and taking a seat on the ground to look it over. Curt's hand dropped from his trousers and he reached out, half expectant. Owen absently took his awaiting hand in his own, and started running gentle circles into the back with his thumb.

"Five months."

Of course he knew. There was probably an approximation of something more specific in his head— perhaps down to the exact date— but Owen wasn't expecting to hear that in any capacity. With his free hand, he flipped open the file and read the first page. He was looking for something that rang as familiar to him, but he couldn't find anything worth noticing, or anything he recognised.

Curt was sincerely hoping that Owen was able to work it out, because he strictly wasn't allowed to say a lot on the matter. It was just about ready to haunt him, and he knew this mission wouldn't be easy if he had to deal with it on his own. His thoughts were currently incapable of presenting themselves in any way other than the scrambled mess that had occured as soon as he'd registered the weight of the debrief.

Again and again, Owen's eyes passed over the document, and his brow furrowed with each failed attempt to make something of it. Then, something made him stop in his tracks. There was a name listed in among the other words, plain as day now that he'd noticed it, and quite difficult to ignore. That was something not only familiar to Curt, but to him as well.

"Oh, God."

Curt watched Owen's expression change, grow the slight of recognition that was all too familiar to him. The fact that he was concerned about it too meant that he remembered. And that was about all the comfort he could've asked for in the moment.

"January...."

Curt just nodded in response to that, as Owen seemed to bring himself back to his senses for long enough to close the file. January. The last time Curt had gotten caught. It wasn't a pleasant experience for either of them, but least of all for Curt, who afterwards elected to not shave for six weeks, to hide the deep scar that ran down from his chin until it looked vaguely less horrific.

The constant, repeating feeling of Owen's thumb against his hand was bringing him back into some semblance of reality, but he knew that they were both aware of how bad a situation this was.

"I... See why I'm here now." Owen managed. This case was one assigned to both of them, and initially it hadn't made sense, but now— seeing that name and knowing the face of the bastard it belonged to— the pieces were starting to fit into place. And the picture didn't look good.

He looked up, his free hand moving up towards Curt's cheek until Curt leaned in and met him halfway. Their eyes met. The base of Owen's palm was resting up against the scar. It made it feel strangely tight, but for some reason, Curt found it better that way; it was better if he could try and attribute it to something else, anyway.

Owen seemed to notice his positioning and attempted to shift his hand a little, but Curt took his wrist in his free hand and shook its head. "... 'S fine."

"You sure?"

A nod. Owen sighed, relaxing his hand again. "Listen, Curt... You don't have to go in there alone, okay? You're not alone, and you never have been. I'll have your back, right?"

Another nod. He was quite sure that Owen could be trusted to have his back, especially when his head was this much of a mess. He never had been very good at the past... "I tr- I trust you."

Owen managed a slight smile. "Good. Then trust me that that bastard Michael Jenner won't be able to lay so much as a fucking finger on you while I'm around. Did you know this case was going to be like this?"

"No..."

"Frankly, you're doing more than you accounted for just by being here, then... Give yourself some credit, Curt, you've gotten this far..."

"What if I- I can't face him?"

"Then you don't have to. This mission is split for a reason, I'm more than obliged to pick up on your lead, should you be willing to do mine."

"Right... Right, yeah..." He gave Owen's wrist an awkwardly angled squeeze, just to really cement that this was happening right now, that he'd actually made it to his hotel room, and they were actually talking about this now. "Thanks, Owen." I love you. I don't deserve you.

"Don't mention it, Curt. It'd be my pleasure to knock some sense into that tosser." I love you too. Don't you dare forget it.

[wishluc]

Can I request a yandre blade and kafka silently in a tug of war for the readers attention (btw the reader is a stellaron hunter being chill like silver wolf)

I adore them Ahhhhh Blade's characterisation is based purely off my impression of him :O

With Kafka seated so close to you, you were surprised that nobody had contacted the authorities yet. The three of you were treated like any other customer in the quaint restaurant, despite your companions having their faces plastered all over Starskiff Haven, and you had yet to be approached by furious soldiers or, if your luck had finally run out, the General himself.

Though you think that if anyone were to attempt to apprehend Kafka, it would make for quite the spectacle. You can already picture the unconcerned expression she'd have, her lips still smiling, her gaze piercing, and her form completely relaxed, and the words she would say to the poor fool—laced with just a hint of mock surprise—before making her way out of the building. At least they'd be alive; if Blade were to get involved...well, you were just glad that his unsettling presence was enough to ward off any justice-driven warrior.

Starwatcher Avenue was gorgeous, without a doubt. In the short time you had been there, you had fallen in love with the bustling streets and the lovely cuisine, though most of your days so far were spent hidden away and waiting for Blade. Despite this, you were really looking forward to leave the Flagship, the anxiety that followed you with being associated with two wanted criminals too much to bear. At least back on your ship, you could easily evade the authorities sent after the Stellaron Hunters.

Kafka, however, was clearly in no rush. She lounged around most of the time, sometimes taking you out for a meal or to go shopping, and appeared to have no worries regarding her status. Even though Blade had regrouped with you, she was still insistent on staying, attempting to placate your troubled heart with sweet, whispered promises and firm assurances. Today's trip was also her way of proving to you that you were in no danger, and you almost believed her.

But you recently realized that living in constant fear of being arrested was nothing compared to the troubles awaiting you. It could be much worse. It could be staying with Blade.

You could...manage, with Kafka. She was unpredictable, at times, but you could rest assured that she'd never put you in harm's way. She never told you what she was planning, forcing you to rely on her cunning words, but you were familiar enough with her by now to know what she expected, and how to appease her. You could play into her desires, smile at her clever quips and lean into her possessive hold, and she would find delight in it all, even though she was aware of your intentions. She liked your little schemes, though it was no use plotting against her—Kafka was always a step ahead, always prepared to pull you back to her side and remind you of just who she was.

Blade, however, was a complete enigma to you.

You weren't very familiar with the other Hunter, having spent most of your time being lugged around by Kafka, but even the little time you spent with him had already convinced you that there was something frightening about him. You think it might be his dark eyes, seemingly seeing through your every action, which, coupled with his habit of staring at you, never failed to unnerve you. Your first encounter with him, too, left you shaking—you'd never forget the sensation of cool metal pressing against your skin, his sharp gaze locked on you with the slightest curl of his lips. You could never tell what he wanted from you.

He had smiled at you when you were tasked with wrapping new bandages around his hand shortly after his escape, and asked if you came all the way to the Xianzhou Luofu just to see him (You remember the sound of his laughter when you turned to look at Kafka in response, and you remember how something inside you stirred at the mesmerising sight). But he had yet to pull you into his arms, or smother you with affectionate words and thinly veiled threats, and you weren't quite sure what to make of him. You could only hope that his interest in you was short lived—it was tiring enough to keep Kafka placated.

"Open up, darling," Kafka's smooth voice breaks you out of your trance.

She holds a silver spoon out, a small piece of the pudding she ordered balancing carefully on it. You quickly obey, letting her feed you despite the shame that lingered when you notice Blade's curious gaze directed at you.

"Why aren't you that well behaved for me?" You freeze at Blade's remark, the dessert in your mouth suddenly tasting like sand.

Kafka chuckles, putting down the spoon in favor for placing her hand on your cheek. She gently directs you to face Blade, the man regarding you with blatant fascination.

"Why, Bladie?" Kafka's gloved fingers trace your bottom lip, "Are you jealous?"

"You're always so stiff around me," he muses, "but here you are, acting as the perfect pet for her."

"That's because we are well acquainted," you catch a wicked glint In Kafka's eyes, "It's not an act," she taps at your cheek, "is it?"

You shake your head silently, and Kafka's smile widens. Blade's displeasure is obvious in the slight frown on his face and the glare focused at where Kafka's touching you, and you start to regret picking sides.

"How cruel."

You lean back into your seat, suddenly feeling suffocated by the tense air that enveloped the table. For a moment, you swear you catch the slightest twitch of Blade's lips, but you're immediately distracted by Kafka's displeased frown.

You clear your throat in an attempt to dissipate the tension, "When will we be returning?"

"We still have matters to conclude here," Blade informs you.

Your heart sinks, but you try your hardest to hide your disappointment, "I thought we were only here for..." You glance at him, "for Blade?"

Kafka's hand had found its way to your thigh while your attention was elsewhere, her fingers splayed over your clothes, "We need to wait for the Express crew, my dear. You can be patient a little while longer, no?"

You nod, and watch as she takes a bite of the pudding for herself, the spoon in her mouth for a moment too long before she placed it down again. You turn to look outside the window instead, not wanting to meet her gaze after that display, and instead catch sight of a familiar tall figure. Around him are multiple guards in uniform, and you can already see passersby begin to whisper amongst themselves while surveying the scene. You're reminded of the posters drawn in red ink, and the fate awaiting you if you get caught. They'd want to interrogate you, wouldn't they? To your side, Kafka stands up, carefully placing her coat over her shoulders before glancing down at you with her hand outstretched. A part of you wishes you could be as composed as her by everything, but her lack of concern came from a place of confidence, in her own ability and Elios' plan. You have neither—all you can trust in is your companions. You take her hand and get up, forcing yourself to hide your growing fear. Kafka strolls out of the exit, and you follow suit, making your way out of the building and back into the streets of Starwatcher Avenue. You don't look back to see where Blade is, assuming he had disappeared into the crowd already.

As the usual protocol in situations like this, you separate from Kafka (She has insisted, before, that you never leave her side regardless of the circumstances, but you know better than to comply), and start to find your own way back to your hideout, but as you make your way down the large staircase, a hand brushes against the small of your back and a figure appears beside you. If he noticed the way you stiffened up at his touch, Blade didn't comment on it, simply falling into step with you, as though he was always there.

"This way," he instructs, moving you towards an inconspicuous alleyway between some stalls. You don't want to follow him, but with the looming threat behind you, you can't afford to attract any more attention to yourself, so you let his hand rest on you and follow his lead.

"Don't be afraid," he whispers, lips brushing against your ear, "nobody uses this path. This way, we'll have plenty of time to get...acquainted"

all works © wishluc. do not copy, steal or repost my works on other platforms. (including translations)

[buwheal]

Without color

Trying to warm up because ive been slacking on the askbox!!! Yay!!!

[sqirtle]

i NEED to know nille's reaction to the whole. yknow. looping in time thing. shakes you /lh

(after a few hours) "the dying bit was kinda punk rock though how many times did you die?"

[gummi-ships]

Kingdom Hearts Dream Drop Distance - Traverse Town

[nvuy]

Boothill is a “your pleasure is my pleasure” kind of guy do u agree 🎤

mdni. im snatching the mic. i got carried away ty anon for giving me an excuse to ramble about this loser.

he takes pleasing you very seriously. this is serious business. it’s like his day job.

he’s half-convinced he was given a second life just to cross paths with you, so once he’s got you, he’s not letting you go. not for a while, at least. he’s stuck to your hip like glue. wherever you go, he’s most likely right next to you.

he’s always making sure you’re catered to first.

it’s the same in bed.

he’s extremely touch starved, so while he’s got his hand between your legs, he’s also busied himself nuzzling his cheek to yours to feel you helplessly panting against his skin. or, his ear is resting against your heart. whatever works for him in the moment.

he’s absolutely smitten with how warm you get. he’s always, always, pressing himself against you one way or another. just touch all over his face, please and thank you.

he’s all for kisses too. sometimes, when he’s having a bit too much fun, he’ll get all mushy and gross. not that he already isn’t, but it somehow gets worse.

he’ll bite too. not enough to make you bleed, but enough to leave an angry mark for the next few days.

actually, he just nips you all the time. it’s a weird thing he does. don’t point fingers in his face. he’ll try eating them. he’s very strange in that way. sometimes you can be gesturing at nothing while you talk, and if your fingers get too close to his face, he’s trying to nip at them like a teething puppy. you got used to it.

great tongue too. bonus points because it’s actually real. he works his magic with it, but only after you beg enough. you gotta work to get your hands on the merchandise. his mechanics are expensive, so play nice.

if we’re getting into unserious business, the robocock is great fun. it’s got smooth ridges and it’s cold. probably customisable, too. it’s definitely possible, but whether he’s gonna wander up to some poor mechanic and ask them to add some special features… well.

either way, your pleasure is always his priority. his hobbies consist of biting every single exposed expanse of your skin and exploring new ways to make you squirm.

it’s bad enough you having to deal with this lump of steel and scrap—frankly, he doesn’t even understand what’s so appealing about it—but if you enjoy bouncing on his lap, go ahead. do it all night for all he cares. as long as you have that pretty dizzy smile on your face by the end of it all. it makes him melt into a puddle of liquid metal knowing how good he makes you feel.

he’s also VERY susceptible to puppy eyes. they’re your greatest asset, and his biggest weakness.

you figured that out after you pleaded with him to put on these clothes you bought him (and, yep. these clothes have just as many cut outs as his usual attire). you can also use them if you want to do his hair. please convince him to wear it in a high ponytail more. he has such a nice face, and it also stops his neck from overheating. those poor fans need a vacation.

it takes some convincing, especially when you show him the hair tie is actually a red sparkly ribbon. you’re going to ruin his tough guy persona. but he’ll drop anything for you, so he’ll comply. on the condition that you give him smooches afterwards. it’s also an excuse for him to indulge in how your fingers feel against his scalp.

puppy eyes, crying, begging, whatever, usually get people he’s apprehended nowhere. he doesn’t care for theatrics. not at all. a criminal is a criminal at the end of the day.

but you? aww, how can he say no to your angel eyes? wanna fuck his face? you didn’t even have to ask! just watch the teeth. and feel free to pull his hair. wanna ride him until he short circuits? sure! if you can keep up. he’s all yours.

and when you’re done, his aftercare consists of coddling and pinching your cheeks. he’ll prattle on about nothing. the subject will change to gushing over how pretty you look in his bed, to the weather tomorrow, to how he misses the taste of spaghetti. he’ll even kiss all over the marks he’s left on you. probably kicks his feet too.

he’s still so energetic it’s mind-baffling. he’s so casual about it too, acting as if he didn’t beg for you to cum on his face just ten minutes ago.

but that’s robot stamina for you. or maybe it’s just a boothill thing. who knows?

after a while he’ll calm down. i still haven't decided if he can sleep, but once you’ve fallen asleep, he’ll lay next to you and draw patterns on the nape of your neck with his fingers.