#there's a part two already in the works

[autisticrosewilson]

Feel Better

Connected JayGrant pieces from an AU where Grant moves to Gotham after he runs away from home. Content warning for implied/mentioned death (Felipe Garzonas, Jason's, and Grant's), Needles, drug use??? It's Grant taking the super soldier serum but the parallels are there, Grant has some mildly sexual/possessive thoughts about Jason, nonsexual intimacy, angst because what else do I write, and very vague timelines. Mentioned JadeRoy/Jade is pregnant. Roy's addiction is also mentioned in passing. Underage drinking + Grant trying to initiate things while he's drunk but Jason doesn't let him. @perseus-jackass IT'S DONE I'M FINALLY DONE

"Thank you, Miss Montoya." Jason grins, the polite fake one he wears at parties that make all the old ladies coo and pinch his cheeks.

Grant tries to keep his focus on not putting too much of his weight on Jason, lest they both fall over.

Jason seems to have no such problem, dragging Grant along with an ease that he might have questioned if he were sober. As it stands, he thinks it's really hot.

"I'll make sure he gets home safe." Jason promises, still sweet talking even though they're off the hook, have been since Jason strided over with that pinched expression and started scolding him about being out so late.

It's amazing how much preconceived notions can affect your judgement, how quick the officer is to glance over all the signs that Jason had certainly been at that party too.

He doesn't blame her, Jason is a very good actor. Fuckin' nerd.

They're far enough away now that Jason has dropped the ploy, although he still seems a little annoyed. Grant wants to kiss the pout off his lips.

"What part of 'Scatter! The police are here!' didn't occur to you?" He complains.

"Was tired," Grant whines, "'sides, you saved me. It's all good baby." He grins, goofy and delighted.

Jason's cheeks flush the same way they always do when Grant calls him one of those "cliche" pet names he always complains about.

"Well, next time I might not be there to save you." He huffs, mostly giving up on scolding.

Grant hums, puts more of his weight on Jason that his boy just takes, rests his cheek against Jason's curls and tries not to make the fact that he's definitely smelling his hair obvious. Seems to fail by the sound of Jason's put upon sigh.

Grant wants to hear him make those noises for other reasons.

"Course you will," he lets his voice drop to a lower register, bites back a grin at the little shudder it earns him, "m not lettin' you go anywhere. You're stuck with me." He promises, leans down to press kisses to the parts of Jason's face he can reach. His forehead, the curve of his cheek bone, the corner of his lips.

He wonders if he could taste the rum and coke he'd managed to coax Jason into sipping, wonders if he could make Jason taste like fireball just by kissing him. Wants so bad to try but Jason cups his face gently, brushing a thumb over his jaw to stop him.

"You're drunk, Grant." Jason tries to convince him, firm but not unkind.

"And?" Grant says distractedly, wrapping his arms around Jason's waist to pull him in.

"You can't...make decisions right now." Jason tries again, squirming against him to try to escape the hold, doing the very opposite of making him want to let go.

Grant thinks that's a moot point. He always wants Jason, he thought he was pretty clear on that front. Maybe he needs to show him? He leans down to pull Jason into a kiss that tastes like cherry coke and bubble gum, chases it with his tongue to work cheap vodka into the mix, almost falls over when Jason detangles them.

"Time to get you home." Jason insists.

Oh right, Jason doesn't like when Grant tries to get them a public indecency charge. The press would explode if they caught Gotham's golden boy swapping spit with a nobody degenerate like him.

He huffs, let's Jason heft him along, doesn't realize he's scowling until Jason is pressing sweet little kisses to his jaw and nose and forehead. He melts, losing his previous train of thought immediately as he tries to chase after Jason's mouth. Jason swats him away with a laugh that Grant wants to taste. A cycle that repeats all six blocks back to Grant's apartment.

Jason gets in easily and Grant doesn't even wonder how he got a key.

"You comin' to bed, honey?" Grant teases sweetly, crowding Jason against the door the second it closes.

Jason fixed him with a fond, stern look, and ducks beneath his arm. "Go change, I'll bring you something to eat." He urges.

Grant strips to his briefs and goes starfish mode on the bed. Jason snorts when he walks in, water bottle in one hand and a bowl of fruit in the other.

Jason hand feeds him, at Grants insistence, he smacks Grant lightly whenever his tongue darts out to catch the juice on his fingers, looks a little more like he wants to smother Grant's unrepentantly salacious grin with every passing second.

Grant could definitely make an innuendo out of all this, but Jason might actually leave.

Instead he catches Jason's hand gently and presses a kiss to his palm, bringing it down to splay on his chest so Jason can feel his heartbeat. Watches how Jason softens and gives to the pull, climbing up beside him to replace his hand with his head, arm thrown around his waist.

"Don't suppose you'd be willing to strip too?" He murmurs.

"Maybe tomorrow if you ask real nicely." Jason snorts.

"I ain't good with manners." He doesn't care to keep the southern drawl out of his voice, mentally notes the way it makes Jason's breath hitch.

There is a silence where Jason's lips are pursed so tight Grant knows he's keeping back a remarks that wouldn't befit Jason Wayne.

"I'll be here when you wake up, if you need to be taught." Is what he says eventually.

Grant grins tangling his fingers in Jason's curls, resists the urge to pull just to hear the sounds he'll make.

"Love you too, Jace." He mutters and can't help the laugh at the way it makes Jason bury his face in Grant's ribs to hide the flush that's creeping up to his ears.

He's not gentle, but he could be.

Grant thinks he is, and Jason hopes he never figures out the truth.

So he smiles placidly when Grant offers him the cigarette, "I don't smoke." The anymore goes unheard, because Jason Wayne would never smoke, or draw blood with his teeth or try to steal the tires from the Batmobile.

Grant doesn't know about Jason Todd, not entrenched long enough in the socialite circles of their peers to know anything about Jason's before. This is a mercy, rare as those are. There is nothing to obstruct the sweet, dull thing that he has made of himself.

"Course you don't," Grant grins, crooked and mischievous and nowhere near as sharp as he pretends it is, "the world might stop turning if Gotham's golden boy was caught doing something so uncouth." It's more self-deprecating than mocking, convinced that he's the worst thing Jason has ever done. It's cute, but mostly sad.

Jason stays quiet, let's Grant believe that he's the bad boy between the two of them. Hides his sharp teeth behind a soft smile, keeps all the molten anger that coils in his gut at bay, where it can't hurt anyone.

He's not soft, or sweet, or good. But he wants to be, and he's done a good job playing the part so far.

Grant blinks awake to the sound of his window sliding open, immediately on high alert. The person enters gracefully, if panicked, and the first thing his sleep blurred vision makes out is the bright yellow cape falling over their shoulders, the second are the blank white lenses of a domino mask.

Robin, undoubtedly. Although Grant can't fathom why he'd be here.

He's never actually seen the hero up close before, although he swings past Grant's window every night and he's on the news often enough.

He'd always looked small next to Batman but on his own- well he's still pretty small, surprisingly scrawny too, with dark hair that curls.... distinctively.

"Grant..." Robin trails off and he knows that voice, although he's never heard it sound so small.

"Jay?" He scrambles out of bed, sheets tangled around his legs as he struggles to get across the room. Jason doesn't look hurt but that doesn't mean anything. He could be- Grant doesn't even know. Jason is Robin, he faces Gothams worst every fucking night.

First things first, getting Jason out of the rain soaked Robin uniform. He must be freezing, it's amazing he hasn't caught a cold yet in those tiny shorts of his.

He could have internal bleeding or broken bones or he could be dosed with something or, fuck, what if there's magic involved? Grant doesn't know how to handle that. But Jason came to him and he'll be damned if he doesn't try.

(Grant will shove all the feelings that come with thinking about them down very far for as long as he possibly can.)

"Are you hurt?" Seems as good a place as any to start.

Jason shakes his head despondently. Grant vaguely knows that look, the same one Joey had when he woke up in the ER, dissociation the doctor had said.

"...Is someone trying to hurt you?" Grant keeps his breathing even, tries to keep the anger that sparks at the very notion out of his expression.

(Jason can probably see it anyway though because he's fucking Robin, holy shit.)

Another shake of his head that has the tension reluctantly bleeding from Grant's shoulders. That will need to be good enough for now.

"Okay- fuck, alright. Uh, let's, let's get you a bath and then into some dry clothes." He breathes, tries to keep all of the many, many questions at bay. Guides Jason to the bathroom with a gentle grip on his hand.

First he peels the wet gloves off, they're not as rubbery as Grant thought they'd be and the pads are rough, probably for better grip. Then he unlatches the ridiculously bright cape and lets it pool on the floor, soon joined by the red tunic and the surprisingly heavy utility belt, until Jason is just in those little green shorts that Grant is still definitely not thinking about. They quickly join the pile and it's easier than he thought to avoid looking at anything below the waste because-

Jason has so many scars. Maybe more than Grant himself. He probably should have suspected that, but the idea of anything getting close enough to hurt Jason, to dig into his soft skin and leave a mark, still sends a wave of revulsion rolling through him that steals his breath away. His breath catches and he practically picks Jason up to settle him gently into the tub, still only a quarter full of water. He makes the executive decision to squeeze half the bottle of vanilla honey bubble solution into the water, watching the foam build and spread.

Jason brings his knees to his chest, resting his head atop them as he levels a blank look at the tile. Grant swallows thickly trying to blink away the image of a different boy, scrawny and despondent with tear rimmed eyes.

He makes a mental note to introduce Joey and Jason one day, can't help but think they'd like each other.

He cups his hands beneath the water, brings up a handful of suds that he lets cascade down Jason's back and shoulders, presses a kiss to the back of his neck at the visual shudder that wracks his body.

Even the rain water in Gotham is tainted with murky pollution that tints it slightly. Grant rakes a washcloth down Jason's arms and is reminded of those dish soap commercials with the baby birds after oil spills. Has to bite back the grin that threatens to quirk his lips at the thought because Jason might think he's laughing at him.

Grant hadn't even realized when he stopped making jokes at Jason's expense, when he stopped using jabs just a little too mean to be friendly to protect himself. When he'd stopped making jokes about him and started making jokes for him, because his smile drives the Gotham smog away in an instant and his laughter rings like birdsong and church bells.

The realization makes his hands shake but he doesn't stop the easy, repetitive motions. Gently coaxing Jason out of his ball so he can work away at the grime with gentle scrubbing.

"I killed someone." Is the first thing Jason says to him after going on 20 minutes of silence.

Grant's breath hitches, mind scrambling over the words, before he exhales. Thinks of how to comfort someone whose hands have just been soaked in blood for the first time. Metaphorically. He chances a glance back to the Robin uniform, still clean aside from the rainwater.

"I don't regret it." He adds absently, still staring at the wall. "He deserved it Grant." Jason finally looks him in the eye, fierce conviction and panic, but no guilt, no shame. "He- what he did- they just let him go! And she couldn't even- sh-she-" he breaks off into sniffles, eyes becoming glassy and cheeks flushing with distress.

Well, there goes that issue. Idly, Grant thinks that Jason is pretty when he cries. Feels a flare of jealousy that it's because of someone else, breathes past the possessive anger. Acknowledges the guilt all of this brings and then promptly shoves it all down.

He's not important right now, Jason is.

"I believe you." Is what Grant says out loud, steady and firm. Jason isn't who Grant thought he was, but he'd still like to think he knows him well enough to know that he wouldn't do something like this if he didn't think it was necessary.

Jason looks at him, analysing, searching, with the kind of intensity Grant used to brush off. (He wonders what Jason knows about him, how much he's seen because Grant didn't know how much he had to hide.)

He seems to find what he was looking for, he sniffles and then lets himself lean into Grant. It's a little awkward with the cold edge of the tub between them, wedged in their sides, but Grant doesn't mind.

...Does Jason need help hiding the body? Did someone see him? Is someone looking for him? Does he need somewhere to disappear-

"What do you need from me, Jay?" He murmurs, chin resting atop Jason's wet curls.

Jason shudders, stays silent for a moment. "He won't let me be Robin anymore." Jason whispers eventually. "He- B won't- he'll kick me out."

The root of the problem then. There's a lot of implications there that Grant can't hope to unpack right now. "Do you wanna stay with me?" He's already thinking of the logistics, would Batman try to put him in jail? Grant doesn't think so, that would put his identity in question. So he can probably keep going to school without worry but just in case Grant should probably work on a new identity for him, not that he thinks for a second Batman would be fooled. He's fucking Batman.

"...Just for the weekend?" Jason asks, as though he's worried Grant would turn the request down.

Honestly, he's more upset that Jason is planning on leaving than he would be if Jason told him he was moving in tonight.

"Whatever you want." Is what he voices instead, because Jason has never done well with being ordered around.

Jason relaxes with a bereft sigh, tension bleeding out as he trusts all his weight to Grant. He takes it, pays no mind to the water seeping through his clothes, continues his task of washing away the gunk that Gotham has left on his boy.

"My mom's alive." Jason repeats numbly.

Grant stares at him blankly, still clutching the bowl of cereal that's already starting to turn soggy. "...is that a good thing?" He squints at Jason like the action will let him read him better.

"I don't know." He admits. "She's not- not the woman who raised me. I don't know her name but it starts with an S. Found my dad's phone book. Apparently he...knew a lot of interesting people." He explains.

"Are you going to find her?" Grant guesses, he doesn't look particularly happy about it.

"Hopefully. There are three potential candidates but them being in my dad's phone book doesn't really mean anything." He shrugs. "It's the best lead I have though." He tries to sound a little more determined than he feels.

"and if you don't find her? If it's a dead end?" Grant urges, fingers curled tight enough around the bowl Jason worries for a moment it will break.

"Then I come back here." He swallows thickly. "If you'll let me." He can't bring himself to meet Grant's eyes.

The bowl gets set down on the table and Grant closes the distance between them. He intertwines their fingers, brings the back of Jason's hand to his mouth to press a kiss there that makes something hot and fluttery squirm in his chest, makes his face flush and his eyes dart up to Grant's.

"I'll leave the window unlocked." Grant grins, sweet and promising. A safe place to land.

"I'll be home soon." Jason promises.

Grant can't look at the picture of him and Jason together. Happy and together and alive. They'd gone to the arcade that day, Jason had ditched his uniform and was dressed down in baggy jeans and a metal band T-shirt Grant had been surprised he listened to. A surprisingly good imitation of street wear, Grant had thought.

He has to shove the picture face down. Jason doesn't need to see this.

Deep down, Grant knows Jason wouldn't want this. Might actually hate him for it. But he's not here, so Grant searches for the right vein and pushes the needle through, keeping still even as the cold liquid flows through his veins, leaving a faint burning. The injection spot will hurt for a few days, and when the ache stops he'll know to use the next dose.

He'd been hesitant to follow so close in his father's tracks, but Grant knows what he's doing. The Joker will pay, and inevitably so will Batman. He'll make sure of it.

There's a knock at his bedroom door. He lives in a new apartment now, somewhere in Jump far from the dregs of Gotham and Jason's tainted memory. Jade is leaning against the frame when he looks up, eyebrow raised and lips pursed in disapproval that reminds him too much of his mother.

Cheshire is an unconventional roommate, but a good ally, and occasionally a decent friend. Now is clearly not one of those instances.

"You're an idiot." She tells him conversationally, still somehow intimidating with cookie monster pajama pants and a baby bump.

"Right back at ya." He deadpans, packing away his little kit.

"That shits gonna kill you one day." She scolds. "Something tells me your boyfriend wouldn't be keen on you joining him so soon."

It's a low blow.

"Don't talk about him like you knew him." He grits. "You don't know what he'd want." It's a weak argument, even to him.

"I know that you loved him, and he probably loved you. And you don't want to see the people you love deteriorating on the other side of a needle." She vivisects him with her eyes, dark and brown and so similar to Jason's that he can hardly stand to meet them.

He knows she's speaking from experience, and not for the first time he wants to punch Roy Harper.

"it's not the same and you know it." He argues.

"Isn't it? You look like shit. You get worse every week. The last time you used your stupid fucking powers you passed out mid battle and I had to drag you out." She hisses.

"I know what I'm doing." He insists.

"I might not be there to save you next time." She rolls her eyes, sends him one last look he can't quite decipher, and leaves.

"I know what I'm doing." He repeats, quieter, reassuring himself or maybe Jason. He doesn't really know anymore.

Kentucky is dry and hot, but after spending so long in the desert it hardly bothers him anymore. He gets odd looks from the passerby, he can't blame them. He's a lot bigger than he used to be, broad and scarred and just a little uncanny to look at.

This is a small town, barely 200 people and mostly made of suburban neighborhoods as far as the eye can see.

He doesn't plan to be here long.

There's one cemetery in the town, it's been there about as long as the town itself and there are rumors that the groundskeeper might be immortal for how long the lady has been tending to it.

The grave he's looking for is on the far right, as far away from the graves of Slade's parents as possible.

The marker is slanted, paradiso granite with zinnias carved into the corners.

Grant Wilson

•Son• •Brother• •Friend•

It hurts to look at. Steals his breath away and makes something deep in his chest ache like a bruise that's been pressed too hard. He has to take a minute to breathe past the grief that's festering behind his ribs.

He crouches down in front of it when he's sure he won't lose his balance and curl up on the dirt. He has a death grip on the bouquet, mangling the poor stems.

"Grant you idiot," Jason sniffles, "you couldn't've waited just a few more months?" He huffs, it's wet and sounds as pathetic as he feels.

They could have put the clown down together, and Grant would've never been anywhere near that fucking cult.

He sets the colorful bundle down with shaking hands, pansies and hyacinths and Cyclamens that Jason had only just managed to pick out through his blurry vision.

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there when the presence makes itself known. Long enough for his knees to sink into the soft dirt and the sky to darken with incoming rain. He's been aware of the eyes on him but he hadn't really cared.

Slade doesn't say anything for a while, just stares at the grave.

"How did you come back?" He doesn't pull his punches, when he finally speaks.

"I don't know." He shrugs, the same answer he's given every league doctor and magician that interrogated him. "I crawled out of my grave catatonic six months after I was buried. Talia found me, tried to heal me naturally and when that didn't work..." He trails off thinking of the burning green that had stolen death from his clutches.

"The Pit." Slade finishes for him. "It didn't bring you back?" It's as desperate as Jason has ever heard Deathstroke sound, and he can't even bring himself to enjoy it.

"I'd already be digging if it could." Jason admits, focusing on the plaque and not the dirt under his nails.

It's not your grave, he reminds himself. It doesn't help.

(He almost wishes it was)

"You still planning to get revenge on the Bat?" Slade cuts to the chase. At Jason's suspicious look he shrugs. "Talia said you're looking for teachers."

Of course she did.

"Batman doesn't know what he's doing. Gotham needs someone who can do what needs to be done. I intend to be that person." He confirms.

"And that means you have to be better than the Bat." Slade follows the logic. "I can help make that happen." He mutters almost to himself. "Are you gonna kill him?" It's mocking, a subtle dare. It reminds him of Grant, and that's the only reason he hesitates.

"No," he says eventually ignoring the inelegant snort from Slade, "someone else would just take his place. Dick or one of the new kids. If I want them out of the way I'll have to make their alter egos inaccessible. I've got a plan though. It'll take some time, a shit ton of undercover work, but I think you'll enjoy the amount of explosions." He finally pushes himself up to stand, ignoring the ache in his knees.

Slade hums consideringly but seems to agree. He turns his back to Jason without another word, clearly expecting him to follow.

What Talia probably left out is his penchant for killing his teachers. It's times like these having friends to keep him in the loop might be helpful, but Slade is always so keen on pushing others away. It's a weakness Jason was banking on when he booked the flight to bumfuck nowhere Kentucky.

Something he'd never told Grant was that sometimes it's better to be underestimated. To let people think that you're soft and sweet and gentle. If you hang your head in deference no one thinks to look for your teeth.

"You got something you wanna call yourself?" Slade asks as he starts the car.

"Shrike." He grins, as the car starts and they leave the cemetery behind.

[krysmcscience]

Call this the Whoopsie AU (it's barely an AU)

I mean. Narinder never explicitly SAID the Lamb would stay dead... :3c He probably should have been more specific. >:3c

Part Two:

Well. The Lamb tried, but...sorry, Nari, the crown hates you now. Shouldn't have been so quick to lend it out, I guess. :D

Aaaand Part Three:

'Isn't he just adorable?' -The Lamb, probably, while their followers smile and nod and internally scream at the brand new hellcat they now have to share living space with...

Anyway, nothing says 'Dead To Me' like following a person around to loudly remind them of how dead they are to you. Right? Right. Narinder's got this all figured out. <:]

[kimtaegis]

jimin clips that provide me with so much serotonin and love that it literally makes me tear up (part 4)

cr. namuspromised, jung-koook, 0613data

[kathonyy]

Anthony’s outfits in BRIDGERTON 3x01 Out of the Shadows requested by anon

[kacievvbbbb]

I think it’s interesting how as time goes on Zoro kind of becomes more and more like mihawk in some ways whether that’s just because if you spend time with someone for 2 years you’re bound to pick up their habits or a deliberate attempt to emulate him is a conversation for another time. And Mihawk and Zoro where already pretty similar at the start so it’s a little hard to notice now.

But yeah whether unconsciously or consciously Zoro is becoming a bit more like Mihawk and it’s interesting to think that while this means maturing in some ways (he’s swordsmanship for one but he’s also just quieter much more assured of himself) it also means deaging in some others.

Despite their significant age gap and general dispositions, when it comes down to it Zoro is just a lot more emotionally mature and developed than Mihawk is. And a big part of why is because he found something larger than himself to devote his life too, hell Mihawk himself even kind of acknowledges this when he agrees to take Zoro on as a student when Zoro begs for the sake of his captain and crew. He acknowledges that putting aside his own ego and dreams for the sake of someone else isn’t something he can do and sees it as a fault in himself and a strength in Zoro.

Mihawk may be outwardly mature and his skills defiently did not stagnant but I’d wager that Mentally Mihawk is still stuck at the same age he was when he took over the title of world’s strongest swordsman. Honestly maybe even younger. And it isn’t until training Zoro, letting Perona stay with him, for probably the first time in his life taking charge of lives outside his own did he finally unarrest his development.

If Zoro is purposely trying to emulate Hawkeyes, which it wouldn’t be a surprise if he was that’s who he’s trying to be Afterall, then it would honestly set him back emotionally because fundamentally as he is now Mihawk’s attitude doesn’t work in a crew. It’s too singular, too abrasive. And while that abrasiveness can be useful in Zoro’s role as Luffy’s first mate sometimes it makes him a little too callous a little too apathetic, like with his disregard for Luffy’s sadness over vegapunk.

But Zoro has his crew to temper that, they are honestly just too ridiculous to ever stay serious around. And try as he might to hide it Zoro is also just a silly dude who likes to be horrifically petty with his opponents. And zoro still has so much fire in him, so much he has too prove and so much he wants to protect to ever really fall into Mihawk’s apathy. Zoro has Luffy who even after they reach their dreams will probably still continue to turn the world upside down forever keeping Zoro in some kind of trouble and his life interesting.

Zoro can’t be Mihawk because even Mihawk can’t be Mihawk anymore. Being with crossguild and crossing with the Red hair pirates and the strawhats is going to change him, it has too. if Mihawk is going to live after losing his title he’s probably gonna have to become a little bit more like Zoro.

[fisheito]

theyre touching tails and looking at ducks together now. tomorrow they'll braid each other's hair and decorate it with kelp ribbons

[sysig]

Simon Petrikov is a service top and you can fight me about it (Patreon)

[tadpoles-and-daydreams]

Spellwork with Loki (An old post that rotted in my drafts for weeks)

Me: "Loki, are you sure you want to be the main power source for this spell? I feel bad asking that of you. At least let me give SOME of my energy?"

Loki: "Dude it's fine, it takes like no effort for me. Stop being afraid to ask for shit and just let me do this. You're not even asking, you're accepting an offer. I am ACTIVELY EXCITED for this spell let me do it."

Me, a few hours after the spell, faceplanted on my bed: ".... Thank you for being the main power source for that spell bc I don't think I even gave much energy, just primarily conducted yours, and I'm so fucking tired."

Loki: "And you still have part two! This is fun!" :D :D :D

[gamebunny-advance]

"Let's Dance"

(Loop the video for the intended experience.)

Even though I actually forgot that the 1st was Mayday's birthday, I got the sudden urge to draw something like this. It's a little belated, but let's call this birthday art anyway~

As frustrating as it is, I booted up AnimeEffects for this one to get a little bounce on 'em. It's a little scuffed, but I'm kinda tired of banging my head against a wall trying to make it better~

[emily-mooon]

Nancy Wheeler the shoujo manga protagonist you are what with your love triangle and everything about you my pookie <3

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

Operation Campfire

Part I

"We need to leave."

Quiet and unobtrusive, Akai has slipped up to Rei through the sea of people around them. He really needs to stop doing that; the warm, low voice, barely a whisper in Rei's ear, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

It's not even been twenty minutes. This is going to be a long, long night.

He's lucky the attention of the guests is on the stage; otherwise, someone might notice the flush creeping up his cheeks at Akai's too-close proximity. It's nice, in a way, to know he'll come this close; gods know Akai's not particularly comfortable with most people, prefers to keep his distance. The fact he doesn't, with Rei, in a public space no less, is an admission of their mutual trust.

It's also highly inconvenient, right now, because it sends a shiver down Rei's spine.

He manages to supress the movement, barely, and focuses on the issue at hand. Leaning back against Akai would be very lovely and all, but this is hardly the time nor place for it. He already has a reputation of cozying up to the FBI too much - and that's with his colleagues barely knowing half the things he and Akai have been up to. He can't afford to give them more ammunition.

In fact, he's here tonight for precisely the opposite purpose. He has an image to improve.

It is a little annoying, though. Because it should be their night. Theoretically. The celebration of five long years of undercover work, coming to a successful conclusion. Food and drinks on the house, how lovely.

As it stands, however, being himself would probably be a disaster. He's going to be Amuro, tonight, and he's going to do a lot of networking and very little else.

(They've got their own celebration planned in a couple of days, anyways. Just Hiro, Akai, and himself, on vacation for the first time in years.)

Between an hour of speeches, another hour of rewards for key figures, food and drink and dance, Rei's not particularly looking forward to the night. But he's got superiors to bedazzle, and he's not going to let this opportunity slip through his fingers - especially not for an idiot that hasn't managed to apologize, properly, for trampling all over Rei's feelings.

Akai has certainly tried; has even had flowers delivered to him.

(At least Rei presumes it was him; there's very few people that know his new address, even fewer with reason to apologize, and then there's the fact his mysterious gift giver forgot to sign their name on the accompanying card. Even detective Mouri Kogoro - also present, tonight - could crack this case.

That reminds him- he should toss the dried-up hydrangea into the trash already.)

But at the end of the day, Rei doesn't care for flowers or chocolates or cards. What he really wants is for Akai to suck it up and say the words himself. He knows it's a tall order; after all, it's not like he's apologized for any of the privacy violations - and other assorted crimes - he committed while hunting for Akai.

That was different, though.

Akai setting him up with Hiro was entirely pointless, utterly avoidable. If Akai is worth Rei's time, he'll acknowledge that and apologize properly.

At least, Rei would like to pretend his affections hinge on Akai's words.

Unfortunately, that isn't quite the truth any longer, probably hasn't been in a good long while. Because Akai, stupid, reckless idiot that he is, has wormed his way into Rei's heart. Even if he desperately wishes it weren't so.

He's tried, of course, to exorcise Shuuichi from it, several times in fact. But Akai is burrowed in too deep, nestled into Rei's weak spot; unless he wants to rip himself apart in the process, there's no getting rid of him that easily. And that's if Rei could even bring himself to want to do that. Which he doesn't.

They've grown too close, entwined with one another. Relying on each other.

And were it a matter of life and death, he'd go with Akai in a heartbeat.

(Considering its rabbit-quick palpitations in the FBI agent's proximity, that would be rather fast, these days.)

Right now, however, Akai's still projecting calm.

Not that he ever shows many signs of distress, generally too in control of himself. A useful trait, in their line of work - but somewhat inconvenient if one cares about this idiot. It's for the best, then, that Rei has become quite adept at reading even the smallest cues Akai lets slip through the crack. He's not impossible to read, especially up close.

(Close enough that his concealed gun presses into Rei's flank. His breath hitches at the realization.)

He takes a moment to fiddle with the folds of his suit jacket, to make sure it hides his own shoulder holster adequately. A feeble attempt to calm himself.

Akai's presence demands too much of his attention.

He's barely moving at all, even his breathing tightly controlled. Rei's sure if he looked back, he'd see the muscles of Akai's lovely neck pulled taut, his eyes sharp and unyielding. But given that he's chosen to stand in a way that would make it hard for him to draw his weapon, there's nothing to worry about - not yet, at least.

Knowing Akai, it's very possible he just doesn't like how many people have gathered here, tonight.

(A sentiment Rei shares, after too much time spent in the shadows.)

In the end, however, it's just a party. And one with such a high percentage of law enforcement attendants that it would be utterly stupid to try any funny business tonight.

(Rei tries to ignore that this would also make it an appealing target for anyone with a grudge against the police.)

He's not about to let Akai (or a hypothetical terrorist) ruin his career opportunities.

His answer, thus, remains firm.

"No."

Still, he can't help wondering what has Akai so wired. If there's something to worry about, he probably needs to know.

"What's wrong?" Rei mouths, barely a sound passing from his lips. He stares ahead to the podium, pretending to listen to the speech Kuroda's giving at the moment.

"Several people have been staring at you and me - including your subordinate, for the last twenty minutes. And I'm not supposed to cause trouble, tonight", Akai mumbles, too soft and too close.

If he keeps speaking like that, it's going to be trouble, alright.

Rei grits his teeth. Resists the urge to draw him in close. Akai can damn well protect himself, if need be.

"At least half the people in this room have read your dossier. I would be more surprised if they didn't stare at you, Silver Bullet."

He tries for dismissive, but the nickname flows from his lips too easily, too affectionately. Rei can't help it. His feelings bleed out of him, whenever he's not careful enough - a circumstance with historical prevalence, in Akai's presence.

Still, he'll humour Akai and assess the situation. Looks around, pretending to look for a waiter, a guise to survey the room.

He doesn't get far.

His gaze gets caught on Shuuichi, for what must be seconds at most, though they feel like an eternity. On the smile, soft and private and barely noticeable, the warmth mirrored in the creases around his eyes. He should be doing something else, but it's hard to look away, when Rei knows he caused this look, that the fondness is meant for him.

(It's the look usually reserved for Akai's family. The thought makes Rei nauseous.)

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before he does something very, very stupid.

Because Akai doesn't look like his dossier's picture, tonight. He looks even better.

Akai must have slept more, recently, to reduce the bags under his eyes. Someone, presumably Kudo Yukiko - because Rei refuses to believe Akai's managed it himself - has dressed him up appropriately for the gala, too - he's wearing a navy-blue suit over a cream turtleneck sweater. His hair has been slicked back; his curls forced into a short ponytail by a silver ribbon. And if Rei's not mistaken, Akai's even wearing a bit of eyeliner that defines his already sharp eyes in even starker lines.

He's stunning, like this. Anyone with a pair of working eyes would be drawn to him.

Like hell Rei's going to tell him that, though.

Instead, he will use a different outlet for the emotions that are threatening to boil over within - Kazami.

He finds his associate in the crowd easily enough, staring intently at the pair of them, just as Akai had described. Rei's learned from the best; despite the brilliant smile, the glare he gives his subordinate is positively murderous.

Kazami flushes, coughs into his fist, and finally has the decency to look away. Rei will need to ask later why his subordinate thought it a good idea to leave his manners at home when attending such a prestigious gathering.

By his side, he can feel Akai relax a bit, a warm breath released past his ear. It's all the thanks Rei knows he'll get for the sniper to squeeze his arm, once, before he disappears back into the crowd.

(Where Akai touched him, the warmth lingers.)

Rei goes to find himself that waiter. He needs a drink, or maybe two.

.

While he's sipping his champagne - one of the few drinks left without that certain bad aftertaste - several people are called to the stage to receive their accolades.

It stings to know neither himself nor Akai will be called there tonight, despite their contributions.

It makes sense; what they did does not belong into the light. If their deeds were exposed, the public would see just how ugly and dirty and bloodstained public safety's hands really are. Better to keep it hidden.

Because even their peers, so many of which are here tonight, those that should understand, often don't. Rei has seen the looks people give him. Some of his superiors have been away from field duty for too long.

(Have forgotten when the ends justify the means.)

He's made sure to document every crime he committed, to send the reports to the higher-ups on a regular basis. And yet they left him to his own devices, offered no support or advice when he reported extortion and murder, torture and theft and arson.

(Before Kazami became his contact, communications had been so spotty he'd laid awake some nights, wondering whether they'd just leave him to die alone if he needed extraction. Wash their hands off him.)

Now, for the first time in years, he'd been face to face with his superiors during the post-takedown interviews - though they would be better described as interrogations, really, questioning his motives and loyalties.

In their quest to understand what happened, they'd pried apart every last reason, every justification he gave for his actions, the legitimacy of every injury he'd sustained. After lying for his survival for so long, he'd been afraid, for a moment, to be truthful with them - but there could never be absolution for his crimes, if he kept them locked up in his mind. So he'd laid it all out for them.

Had watched them pale as he described cutting off a young woman's fingers to send them to her husband. Had heard them swallow at the illegal pornographic materials he'd found on the laptop of a prestigious prosecutor, used for blackmail.

(Had seen the fear in their eyes, quite clearly. They must have thought he was a monster.

And some days, Rei's sure that they are onto something. He wouldn't change a thing, but still his deeds keep him up at night.)

In the end, they found nothing to fault him for. Pardoned his crimes, even if they weren't pleased about it. Awarded him with the honours he was due - the medal he's wearing pinned to his chest today a symbol of his service to the country he loves so much.

(Part of him wonders, can't help it, really, whether they'd ripped him apart just as much if he didn't look like he was a foreigner in his own country.

The rejection burns, bile rising in his throat.)

Maybe Akai was right. They should've just left right at the start. Then he wouldn't have to listen to those who fought and lived, nor the remnants of those who fought and lost.

Why is he doing this to himself? It's only dredging up bad memories he's trying to leave behind.

For a moment, he considers finding Akai and ditching the gala right there and then. But wherever he ran off to, Rei can't find him while his resolve wavers.

With a sigh, he resigns himself to the long night ahead.

He empties his glass in time for Hiro to be summoned to the stage.

.

It's not a surprise to hear his best friend's name be called, they knew ahead of time, but it still drives home just how different their lives turned out, in the end.

Hiro is a killer just the same, after all, but by being removed from active duty for a few years that somehow become palatable. They've made him out to be a survivor, a hero - the poster child for the kind of brave young officers the PSB needs to take on the difficult missions.

(Young and enthusiastic, because without their fervour, the work would break them.)

Even though Rei tries, he can't help but envy Hiro's moment in the spotlight.

(They should stand up there, together. Them, and three others that lost their lives in the line of duty already. It was always supposed to be the five of them.)

Rei hates himself for it.

It's not like Hiro's basking in the limelight. His smile is strained, his words curt, as he's thanked for his service. Somehow his attitude is understood as professional, instead of rude - the benefits of his cool smile, Rei supposes. But even if his best friend can fool the audience, Rei knows Scotch when he sees him.

(It's a small consolation to see that Hiro, too, has been changed by what they've been through. Rei clings to the connection, painful as it is.)

It's over fairly quickly, thankfully.

Hiro brushes past his proud older brother's congratulations, and instead finds Rei, wordlessly grabs the drink saved for him.

.

Time crawls and drags. More people go up, give a little speech of their own, step back down again. Their faces blur together.

"Zero."

Hiro bumps his shoulder, gently reminding him of the present, his presence.

The doom and gloom permeating the room is poisonous. Here Rei is, being envious of his best friend, when it's a miracle he's standing there at all. How stupid. Things could've gone bad so easily, but they made it through alive, and that's worth something.

He leans back against Hiro's shoulder, focuses on his best friend's breathing.

.

When the ceremony is finished, it's time to do what Rei's come for - socialize, improve his standing. He's doing what he can in the office, but to limited effect, since he still spends a lot of time on field investigations. His identity might no longer be a national secret, but he's missed afterwork beers a few times too many. His colleagues treat him as other, despite his best efforts.

He'll just need to show them that he's human, too.

(Even if he can't show his true self.)

Rei could probably go at it alone, but he's used to two-person jobs - briefly, he wonders which tropical island Vermouth is enjoying her pardon on, is glad she hasn't sent a postcard - and Hiro's agreed to be his back-up. Probably for the best, considering how the night went, thus far.

If he wasn't a decently capable sniper, Hiro would have made a good intelligence officer for the organisation as well.

The amount of intel they gathered because calm and collected Scotch didn't take sides, knew to listen and offer insightful advice, was a little insane. The organisation never expected his betrayal, until it was too late (and even then, Rei vividly recalls Chianti pissing off Gin when she insisted that surely Scotch wasn't a rat - one of the few sources of amusement, in those trying times). Charismatic enough to get even the ice-cold grim reaper to thaw - that's his best friend.

And some of the familiarity they're trying to reclaim is still there, because they slip into their masks effortlessly, side by side. Fall into their old patterns.

Between Scotch's dry wit, and Amuro's dazzling charm, very few people manage to avoid the conversational vortex that sucks them in, spits them out with an improved opinion of agents Furuya and Morofushi.

A compliment about an officer's subtle earrings here, 'heartfelt' congratulations for the graduation of a colleague's daughter from a prestigious university there - after years of depending on highly sensitive intel, it's laughable how easily these people can be won over with the information they volunteer on their social media profiles.

In the ebb and flow of conversations, Rei makes sure they don't stay past the small talk, lest they reach actually interesting or even controversial topics. Usually, this is fine - people are looking to celebrate, not form meaningful connections. But every single one of them wants to toast with him, and there's too many detectives around, so Rei actually takes a sip when they ask him to.

It's been a while since he drank that much, and he probably shouldn't have.

.

It starts out innocently enough. The young woman talking to their latest mark seems vaguely familiar, though Rei can't quite place her.

They chat, for a while, about nothing of importance, when finally, they reach the dreaded stage of meaningful conversation. They should dip, but her enthusiasm is helplessly charming, provide an easy in with their target. Rei can't help but want to indulge her, nudging Hiro to stay a little longer. It's nice when others do his job for them.

"It makes me so happy, to see the case that took my partner finally laid to rest. Were you part of the final operation?"

Of course, the question isn't unexpected. Rei's prepared a variety of different answers for why he's here, depending on who's asking. Unfortunately, he makes the mistake of really, truly, looking at the woman.

He freezes, his mind caught on all the things he can't ever tell her.

Because Rei's never seen her in person before, but he knows her. Showed shots of her picking up their kids to her husband, in a last-ditch effort to finally get him to break. The man hadn't.

Instead, he had quietly and resolutely told Rei he'd rather die, now, than drag his family into it.

Bourbon had given him what he'd asked for.

All he sees is the concrete cellar, monochrome but for the blood splattering on the floor and Bourbon's gloves, white fabric stained crimson. The smell of iron and gunpowder rises from the cold, hard, gun in his hand.

He blinks.

Thankfully, Hiro notices his stupor and steals the woman's attention away to cover for him, but they cut the conversation short after that, regardless.

Rei hurriedly removes his gloves, tosses them into the trash on their way out.

.

"What was that?" Hiro asks, when they're out of earshot of the woman, heading to one of the lesser-used employee bathrooms. His best friend is projecting calm, but the last syllable came out too sharp - he's clearly concerned.

"It's nothing to worry about."

Hiro, unfortunately, has never been particularly inclined to believe Rei when he lies straight to his face.

"You blanked out for half a minute and started shaking."

Okay, so, Rei doesn't remember that part, but he was a little preoccupied at the time.

"She caught me unaware. It won't happen again."

His best friend checks the bathroom stalls to make sure they're empty, puts a 'cleaning in progress' from the supply cabinet on the door. Pats the spot next to himself on the counter, and gives Rei a long look.

"Zero..."

Urgh.

Hiro's voice is soft and gentle, as if speaking to a spooked animal, and that really is the worst. Rei could resist anger and accusations, but genuine concern? Not a chance.

"Sometimes I get flashbacks. Short ones, but vivid. Started when you were gone. They haven't happened in a while, so I thought it was over."

It's an uncomfortable relief to finally tell someone, like removing a splinter from a wound - it still bleeds, but unless it's done, he can't ever heal. Rei would much rather not have divulged it, at least not right here and now, but his best friend is persistent - it's easier to just tell him what he wants to know, before he launches a full-on cross-examination. Besides, Rei's known for a while it needed to be addressed; he's lucky the episodes haven't happened in a situation that cost him dearly, thus far.

(And that Hiro was there to bail him out, tonight.)

"What kind of flashbacks?"

Rei winces and rubs his temple. Tries to shake off the memory.

"Usually harmless. Sometimes traumatic."

Hiro has entered the stage of damage assessment, and it's unlikely he'll stop before he's satisfied.

"Visual? Auditory?"

"All senses."

Hiro pinches the bridge of his nose.

"And this has been going on for years now?"

It's a rhetorical question, but at this point Rei might as well indulge him.

"Yes."

Hiro sighs.

Rei's just glad the dissection has stopped, momentarily.

"You should really talk about this with someone. A professional, preferably." That much is expected. Rei knows he should, hasn't done so for a very simple reason - it might get him disqualified from field duty. If he was ever constrained to a desk job, he would simply shrivel up and die.

He's sure the aversion is clearly visible on his face.

"I'll take that as a no. Have you tried talking to Akai?" That suggestion, at least, is novel, albeit utterly stupid.

"He has the emotional intelligence of a starfish, why should I bother?"

Rei knows that assessment is a little unfair, but even if Akai's not utterly hopeless, his inability to communicate what he actually means results in just about the same outcome.

(Not that Rei's any better, most days.)

Hiro smiles at him, too knowing. 'Because you like him, and there's a very short list of people that applies to', Rei can almost hear him say.

There would be no arguing with that, even if Rei sure as hell would try. Instead, Hiro finds a different way to casually knock the breath from his lungs.

"Give him a chance. He might understand."

.

They rest up for a couple minutes, grab a breath of fresh air, and then return into the fray.

It's probably no use to try and bedazzle more people; Rei's tired, woozy, and he's all but exhausted the list of officers that are likely to influence the office climate. Still, there's one last thing he should be doing tonight, to improve his image.

Not his favourite part of the night, and he really can't afford to jinx it by asking if things could go any worse.

As it is an international gathering, there's a section of the facility sectioned off with a live band, providing an improvised dance floor. Amuro, a 'proper gentleman', should let himself be seen on it. There's always a surplus of women who wish to dance on these occasions, and indulging a few is an easy way to earn good will.

Still, he'd really rather not.

.

His apprehension isn't for lack of competence.

Years ago, in an unlikely team-up, Rye and Vermouth taught him the basics of ballroom dancing for a mission (the fact the sniper knew how to do that really should've been an indication he wasn't as American as he had claimed). Their lessons had been more enjoyable than Rei had anticipated - mostly because he got to step on Rye's toes whenever he felt like it. It was quite satisfying to feel the sniper tense in his arms, trying not to flinch.

(And more pleasurable than he cared to admit, at the time, to get to hold Rye, pressed close, taut but compliant, moving only at Rei's behest. Their clothes soaked through with sweat-)

Rei slams the lid on that memory before it starts burning. They really like to cling to him today, huh.

In the end, Rei picked up dancing without much issue. Would even say he enjoys it, sometimes.

No, the problem is simply that it feels wrong to let someone into his personal space.

Rei's a very in-your-face kind of fighter, but he likes to controls the ebb and flow of the exchange through aggression. He doesn't stay close to give his opponent an opportunity to get back at him.

Years undercover have taught him that while more than an arm's length of distance doesn't guarantee his safety, at the very least it gives him time to react. To willingly allow someone to be close to him is utter insanity, and uncomfortably intimate in a way he shouldn't ever be, with strangers.

Furthermore, dancing will mean splitting up from Hiro (unless they want to cause a scandal, and that's not the kind of publicity they want to generate tonight). Rei's already slipped up once tonight, would rather like to avoid a repeat performance.

Even if he wanted to, though, Hiro wouldn't be available. Because Akai has noticed them approach the dancefloor.

Rei's caught only glimpses of him throughout the evening, hiding in the shadows and scaring people off with a glare so grim it justified the reaper nickname all on its own.

But that darkness falls from his face as he's making his way over to the pair of them, eyes bright in the dimly lit area. It's like seeing the sun rise from behind the clouds, and Rei's definitely not staring at him, ignoring whatever Hiro just said.

For a moment, Rei gives himself over to the delusion that Akai is coming over, looking all eager like that, to ask him for a dance. Rei would have to decline, of course, because of they aren't alone, but still. It would be nice to be asked, to be wanted, by Akai, for real this time.

(When Akai doesn't bother with any of the women that give him longing looks.)

The closer the FBI agents gets, though, the more Rei feels like an idiot.

Because Akai's grin means trouble, and it's not reassuring in the least that it's directed at Hiro.

(Rei tries to push down the stupid spike of jealousy; he's very much aware, after all, that Akai's not interested in his best friend. He's only partially successful, but Amuro's smile withstands his inner turmoil.)

"Agent Morofushi, would you care to join me for a glass of scotch?"

That can't be good. The bar doesn't serve hard liquor.

By his side, Hiro straightens, picking up the very same threat to public safety. His best friend addresses the arising problem the way he does best, with a smile. Whatever Akai is up to needs to be contained, or at least supervised, as they're both well aware.

"Of course, agent Akai. If you'll excuse me, Furuya, I'll be right back."

.

"Is now a bad time, agent Furuya?"

At this point, he'll take anyone other than the cadet that seems like she's barely more than half his age, fluttering her fake eyelashes coquettishly. Even if he was interested in women - and if there wasn't already someone holding his heart hostage - her high-pitched voice, needily whining for his attention, couldn't be further from his type.

"Pardon me, miss." He doesn't even remember the girl's name, couldn't care less, and turns to look at his saviour. Barely manages to keep his poker face in time to not falter under a steely stare. "I promised officer Satou a dance earlier."

When it rains, it pours.

Still, she extends a hand to him, so, as Rye taught him so graciously several years back, he accepts and leads her to the floor, in time for a slow waltz to begin. Officer Satou may appear brash, but when dancing, her confidence is an asset. She follows his movements without much issue.

"You're a difficult man to get a hold of, agent Furuya."

She just has to rub it in every time she sees him, to show that she had the right hunch all along. Annoying, but respectable. If she wasn't happily engaged to a detective of the homicide unit, he would have tried to recruit her already.

"I'm quite busy, as I'm sure you understand."

She nods, briskly, swaying through the sea of bodies around them. At least with the slow tempo of the dance, they're unlikely to waltz straight into someone - or, more likely, have someone waltz up to them.

"Aren't we always?"

Her rhetorical question doesn't need an answer, but he replies in kind, weaving around a couple to turn a corner.

"You still owe me that talk - don't think I've forgotten your promise."

Rei hasn't. He has, however been conveniently too occupied to think about trying to schedule it. Even if he can bring Hiro for back-up, it's sure to rip open old wounds. He's not looking forward to it.

(But Matsuda's and Date's friends deserve better, from him. He hasn't even asked Hiro, because that would make it official. He should. He will.)

He nods.

"Relax. I know now is neither the time nor the place to discuss it, so don't worry about it, for tonight."

They effortlessly avoid collision with a pair of drunken dancers, swaying out of tune and out of lane. Rei doesn't let go of a relieved breath, but it's a damn near thing.

"If you say so, then I shan't."

She smiles, past him.

"Good. Instead, you will give me your address, so I can send you a wedding invitation. Takagi and myself are getting married in autumn."

Rei stiffens, loses his rhythm. Why would they want him there? It makes no sense. He should decline.

Amuro smiles, because that's the appropriate reaction to such an event, right? "I appreciate the thought-"

She interrupts him, drags him out of the way of a tumbling dancer.

"Don't you dare think for even a second about rejecting this offer. You owe me, and we owe you. You come, and we'll call it even. Don't make me go through your superiors - I will, if I have to."

Her face hardens.

"Besides, the kids will be there. They've been asking about you."

Just because Rei knows she's guilt-tripping him, doesn't mean it's not working.

She doesn't have to specify which kids - there's only one group of elementary school students that runs into the pair of homicide detectives often enough to be invited to their wedding. Really, them being there should be an argument against agreeing to come - the kids only ever knew him as Amuro, and, statistically speaking, people don't tend to like Furuya Rei much when they've met one of his disguises first.

He's intimately familiar with how it feels to lose a friend, though. Elena's disappearance still hurts, some nights, and he wouldn't wish that pain upon anyone else.

And while they are certainly a lot to handle, and a little annoying at times, it was kind of nice to spend time with the detective boys. Unlike his regular life, their cases were mostly harmless and quick to solve, and hey, that one time he even got to punch an ass.

A welcome break.

Rei finds himself smiling without really meaning to. Is horrified and delighted at once to find it's genuine.

The waltz has ended, and officer Satou looks at him expectantly. It's not like she's given him much of a choice, but he still waits a moment, considers his options.

Does he want to anger Satou Miwako? There's probably smarter uses of his time.

Though he doesn't feel like he owes her, she's raised a good point. Maybe it would even be nice. Weddings are supposed to be joyous occasions, right? He needs more of those in life. Maybe he gets to be selfish for once, accept a good thing.

It breaks something within him, to accept without putting up much of a fight.

(But it's too nice, this feeling of being wanted somewhere.)

"I will let you know where to drop the letter off."

He might have surrendered to her, but he's not giving up his home adress. Doesn't want her to be able to just show up, unannounced.

She smiles at him, like the cat that caught the mouse, even though he's only agreed to receive the invitation, not to show up.

He'll try, though.

"Good. Feel free to bring a plus one."

.

Rei doesn't see Hiro and Akai for about an hour.

The longer they're gone, the more restless he gets - the last time he only heard Akai's grin, and then the guy showed up with a rocket launcher to shoot down a submarine. It's a show of confidence and bad ideas and he's way too tired to deal with the fallout at this hour.

Rei's on his fourth glass of champagne, his feet hurt from running around all evening and then dancing for an hour, he's sweaty, the air's too stale-

Sudden cold drenches him, gives him barely enough time to brace himself before Mouri Kogoro, who just spilled his wine all over his dress shirt, crashes into Rei.

Maybe he's had a few too many of his own; because his first instinct is to reach for his gun and get the guy to back off, then demand damages for Bourbon's ruined suit.

(Bourbon doesn't exist anymore, never existed in the first place.)

A hand wraps around his wrist, presses it down over his heart, stopping Rei from completing the draw just in time. He struggles against it for a moment, then shoots a dirty look over his shoulder. Of course it's Akai who's holding him down, steadfast as ever.

Rei still tries to resist, for the sake of it.

Once, twice.

Nothing.

Akai's not budging an inch.

(A cold shiver runs down Rei's spine, quickly followed by a hot flush of arousal. Damn Akai, and his everything.)

"Causing trouble without me?" Akai's infuriating smirk is way too close, and definitely not helping to calm down the situation.

At least it's distracting.

Rei can think of at least six different methods to wipe that stupid smile off Akai's face, including, but not limited to, breaking his nose. Doesn't need his hands for that - he could just headbutt him, no problem.

Getting his head close to Akai's also appears in some of the other ideas. Most concerningly of which: he would really like to kiss the smile away.

His heart beats quicker, trapped as he is by Akai, is trying to free itself from Rei's chest and reunite with the one who holds it in his grasp.

(Can Akai feel his pulse? Can he tell what it means?)

Shit. Definitely too much alcohol.

People are staring at them - too many officers keenly attuned to the bloodlust that filled the small space between the four of them for a moment. Hiro appears from wherever he was hiding to pry Mouri off Rei, hold him steady.

Akai tugs his wrist down, insistently. Lets go disappointingly quickly, once Rei relaxes the grip on his weapon.

(Instead of disappearing, Akai's warmth seeps into Rei's heart, burns him from within.)

He keeps his mouth shut. There's too many stupid things he could say right now that would ruin all his efforts of the night.

Instead of his gun, Rei draws a handkerchief, uses it to dab at the wine stain rather ineffectively. That shirt is thoroughly ruined. Well. Maybe their cleaner can salvage it.

"Detective Mouri, are you alright?"

The high-pitched voice promises an earlier onset of the headache Rei's sure to receive come tomorrow morning. Great. Who let officer Yamamura attend this gathering?

"I am perfectly fine, thank you very much", is what Rei can make out from Mouri's slurred speech (and even that only because Rei spent way more time than he would have liked around the miserable creature that is the detective).

"I think you've had quite enough, sir. Why don't you head home?" While he says it to Mouri, it's clear from the sharp look Hiro gives Rei that it's mostly addressed to him.

"We'll settle this tomorrow." Rei manages to tone his glare down to frigid instead of murderous, and turns on his heel.

He's not willing to deal with any more of this nonsense, tonight.

.

"Do you need a change of clothes?" Akai asks, keeping pace with Rei without issue. Long-legged bastard.

Rei, of course, has planned for this eventuality, but he really can't be bothered with dressing up again for an encore of that performance. No, it's time to go home and rest. He's earned it. Though...

"Yours?"

Akai looks at him, deadpan. "No. The ones I stole from Kuroda, obviously."

Rei gives him a dirty look. "You think you're so funny, huh?"

They make their way to the garage downstairs, on foot.

"Positively hilarious, I've been assured."

"Whoever told you that, you'll want to get your money back from them."

Akai laughs quietly while he rummages through the trunk of his obnoxious red mustang. It's a lot fuller than Rei remembers, brown boxes of some kind stacked in it that he doesn't remember seeing before.

He'll need to ask Akai about them later, but for now, he has other priorities.

The stain is cold and wet and irritating. He really wants to get out of the soiled clothes. Hm. The trunk lid should offer enough protection from the cameras...

Rei starts stripping.

And if he's taking his sweet time, putting on a little show, well. Akai's the one who ran around all evening looking like he wanted to be eaten alive. It's only fair Rei pay him back in kind.

It's not like they haven't seen each other half-naked a dozen times before.

It's the cold night air that causes goosebumps to form on his skin. Not Akai looking at him more hungrily than that one time they shared Rei's bento.

He expects to have his change of clothes handed to him by the time he's done, but since that's not the case, he extends a hand. As flattering as it is to catch Akai staring, green eyes burning bright in the night, Rei's still freezing.

"I'm cold, Akai."

Taking his cue, Akai hands his clothes over.

"And clearly inebriated."

Rei slips into the too-large tank top, doesn't bother with the shirt. Opts instead for the cozy sweater. Much better. He hugs the fabric to his chest.

"Tipsy, at most."

Akai gives him a long-suffering look. What's with people seeing through him, today?

"Rei. Do you mind if I drive you back?"

Akai's eyes burn with undisclosed emotions. At least Rei hopes he's not looking too deep into it, again. But Shuuichi seems painfully sincere, sombre, asking for permission - when really, it should be Rei asking for a ride, should thank him for offering.

The house of cards stacked against him all evening crumbles under the weight of Akai's look. God. Rei just wants to rest, nestled into the sniper's side, while he looks at Rei like that. Talks, as if he matters. Holds him tight.

Akai gets up, takes a step closer.

"You know the way, don't you?"

It should be casual, carelessly callous, but it comes out too soft, instead. An admission of familiarity. He's given Akai the keys to where he's most vulnerable, because he trusts Akai won't abuse that privilege.

"Yes."

The word is small and breathless between them. So simple, and yet.

Rei lets the shiver run its course through him, this time. It's too late to pretend he isn't affected. Even if he can't bring himself to say the words, maybe Akai will understand if Rei just stops suppressing what he feels.

Akai closes the gap between them, wraps his arms around him. Rubs his back, pressure gentle through the knit fabric. How does he still think Rei's cold, when he's been set on fire? Idiot.

He melts into the embrace, warmth seeping through the suit's thin fabric. Takes a deep breath of the smoke and sweat and sandalwood that make up Akai's scents, today. Holds him too tight, creasing the suit.

Neither of them cares.

"Take me home, Akai."

.

Rei drifts in and out of consciousness on the way back, Akai's steady driving lulling him to sleep. He doesn't bother trying to resist his body's demands.

.

A cool breeze stirs him awake, as Akai opens the window and slides his keycard for the underground parking lot across the scanner.

He parks in Rei's space, and is left waiting.

And waiting.

Cozy as he is, covered by Akai's suit jacket for further insulation, Rei's not particularly inclined to move. At the prospect of getting out of the car and climbing three flights of stairs, a groan escapes him.

Akai's observing him, critically.

"Will you be alright by yourself?"

If he's being honest, Rei's doesn't feel all that drunk. He should grab a snack before bed and a painkiller in the morning, then he'll be good.

"Most likely, yes."

And that's it, isn't it? Akai's fulfilled his duty, and now he'll be off to his own home. The thought leaves Rei cold.

"What about you?" he finds himself asking, doesn't want Akai to go just yet. Besides, he's genuinely concerned; Akai's been taut as a wire most of the evening.

The FBI agent sighs, deep and long-winded. Tension bleeds out of him with every breath.

"Too many people. But I'll be fine."

He doesn't look fine. Looking into his eyes from up close, Rei sees, surprise surprise, how tired Akai looks. It's been a long day, an even longer night, and it's probably only his stubbornness that keeps him from falling asleep in the car.

He shouldn't have driven Rei around, like this. Should've headed home, himself. This is Rei's fault, and he doesn't like owing self-sacrificial idiots anything.

There's a very simple way to pay Akai back for his kindness.

(A very selfish way.)

It's nothing unusual. They've done this a dozen times over, locked up together, so Rei might as well ask.

Rests his hand tentatively over Akai's, still on the gear stick, to test the waters. He counts it as a win when the agent doesn't flinch, only looks away.

"Akai. Would you like to stay the night?"

(Rei knows how bad Akai's insomnia gets on a good day. And if today's interactions have rattled him, he can hazard a guess as to how bad off Akai will be.)

It's only payback. Nothing more.

His heart beats quicker in objection.

Akai moves his hand under Rei's, and for a split second, he fears he's pushed the other too far.

Relief floods him, when the other agent simply turns his hand around, laces their fingers together. Akai's grip would be enough to break his bones, if he tried; but he's just holding him, firm and steady.

Akai sighs softly in the space between them. Finally, he looks at Rei again. There's fear in Akai's eyes, fear and hunger and restlessness and the emotions are switching up faster than Rei can read them.

They settle, eventually, on longing. Rei shivers under their intensity.

"Yes."

A smile blossoms on his face, but he's seen Akai's idiocy from up close one too many times to trust it just yet.

"Will you?"

Just because he wants something, doesn't mean Akai will permit himself to follow that impulse, self-sacrificial bastard that he is.

(It takes one to know one.)

"Are you requesting I stay?"

Rei doesn't even pretend to consider his options. This is an opening, and while it's unclear whether Akai feels exactly the same way, the comfort they feel in each other's presence is very real. It will have to be enough, for now.

His answer comes a little too quickly, too eagerly.

"If you promise to shower."

Akai squeezes his hand.

.

Before he shoos the agent into the bathroom ("You're my guest, you're showering first."), Rei tugs at the ribbon, releasing Akai's curls. He ruffles his stupidly gelled-back hair, just on this side of roughly. There. That's much better. He wasn't quite looking like himself, before.

"Don't forget to wash your hair, too."

.

[03:57] Morofushi Hiromitsu: He got you home safe?

[04:04] Furuya Rei: Yes.

[04:04] Morofushi Hiromitsu: Let me guess. He's still there?

[04:06] Furuya Rei: ...yes.

[04:06] Morofushi Hiromitsu: Good luck.

[04:06] Furuya Rei: It's not like that.

[04:07] Morofushi Hiromitsu: Sure.

[04:10] Furuya Rei: You get home safe, too.

[04:11] Morofushi Hiromitsu: Eh, I'm still catching up with Micchan.

[04:17] Morofushi Hiromitsu: This bar is kinda seedy though, if I disappear, start your search here.

[Morofushi Hiromitsu has shared his location.]

.

He could get used to seeing Akai's shoes, neatly set side by side with his own.

Akai's jacket, draped over the kitchen chair.

The smell of smoke, lingering in his flat.

Akai, undressing in his bathroom.

Akai, waiting in his bed.

Akai, freshly showered, flushed and slightly damp, still-

Shit.

.

By the time he emerges from the shower, the edge taken off a little, Rei has managed to put himself back together, somewhat.

The fresh clothing helps. At least he's physically presentable. Mentally...

They've done this before. There's no need to be nervous.

Except there's a shift that makes all the difference. Before, there was always plausible deniability. One of them half-asleep, injured, otherwise unwell. Fine, Rei's a little drunk, but Akai came here of his own, free will.

God. Rei hopes Akai wants this, too, isn't just going along with his selfish desires.

His stupid heart panics, beating a staccato rhythm. If this goes on, he'll need to see a physician. Or maybe that therapist Hiro suggested.

Damnit. He's an adult and in control of his impulses. He can share a bed with Akai. It will be fine. They'll lay side by side, like responsible adults. He didn't buy the double bed with Akai in mind, but there's enough space for the two of them. They won't even need to touch.

He wants to, though. Badly. Shuuichi's so warm, so lovely to hold. If only Rei had never touched him. He can't ever go back to not knowing the smoothness of Akai's skin, the softness of his hair.

Shit. He's getting too worked up.

Rei grabs two glasses of water from the kitchen, and heads over to the bedroom.

(There's too much space for just himself. It's nice that he's not alone, tonight.)

He pushes down the bedroom door handle with his elbow, balancing the glasses, tries to be quiet. It's unlikely, but he was gone for quite a while, and if by some miracle Akai's already asleep, he wouldn't want to wake him.

The bed is empty.

Panic spears through Rei, freezes him in the doorway. Did Akai hear him in the shower after all? He wasn't that loud, right-

With a creak, the balcony door opens, and Akai pads back in, the smell of smoke intensifying. Ah. He was being mindful of Rei's house rules.

So considerate it makes his heart hurt.

The poor thing is working overtime as it is. It's highly unfair that with dishevelled hair and wearing an oversized pyjama, Akai looks so overwhelmingly cute. Rei wants to drag him into bed and eat him alive.

Damnit.

"Couldn't sleep", is all Akai says, stifling a yawn.

Rei sets the glasses down on the bedside table.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Akai gives him a dark look, shakes his head.

"Not tonight."

Alright. It's not like Rei can't relate, so he drops the matter. For some of the things they've done, they can only ever distract themselves. Rei can help him relax, if he's willing to play.

He steps up to Akai, raising his hands as if to hug him -

"Off to bed with you."

- and shoves him roughly, sending the FBI agent tumbling.

Not one to go down without a fight, Akai grabs his arm as he falls. They land in a tangle of limbs on the bed, Akai managing to roll to the side and try to get on top of him.

Rei can't have that, so he struggles against him. pushes his arm between them, hoists his hip up, and reverses the pin, straddling Akai.

Shit.

Akai's so beautiful beneath him, hair fanning out, eyes bright, breathing elevated from the brief altercation. Wide awake and smiling.

Licking his lips, eager to continue.

Rei could-

He wants to-

Gods help him.

This is too fast. It was just supposed to be a distraction.

He can feel Akai stir against him.

Rei freezes. This isn't how it was supposed to go.

(At least he doesn't have to question anymore whether the attraction is mutual. Isn't that great.)

Akai takes the responsibility out of his hands.

Weaves a hand into Rei's hair, drags him down.

Looks for permission in his eyes.

And then, Akai kisses him.

.

Sweater Weather AU masterpost

[kyouka-supremacy]

(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

[shinycollarboneapologist]

style

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI... also never take driving lessons from matty. 

(an: this was supposed to be a short blurb with no smut, but i couldn't help myself. also this is my first time actually writing smut so be nice or i’ll cry myself to sleep.)

“well this isn’t conspicuous at all,” the breathless laugh that falls from your lips is enough to almost make matty lift his foot from the brake and send the rented, red convertible into your friend’s perfectly manicured garden, “at least you turned the headlights off.”

“at least i turned the headlights off,” he echoes into the darkness. there’s remnants of a sly smirk on his lips. you’re dizzy at the way his eyes are tracing over your body as it’s perched at the driver’s side; hands holding onto the cool metal of the car and you’re just barely leaning in. its enough that you can smell the aftershave and cigarettes; a combination that leaves your mouth watering. you would have been a fool to ignore his late night text, no matter how much your friends warned you to. he’s only in town for a few more days. and despite the way you’re acting now, you’ve done a pretty good job at pretending he doesn’t exist.

the luminesence from the moon and the warm street lights are painting you in the most beautiful light. he almost wants to look away from your blinding beauty. almost. he can’t. it had been awhile since he had seen you, mostly due to his own veteran slew of excuses, and he wants to take in every last drop of you. he knows that he’s dodged calls and sent one word replies to your texts, purposefully avoided places he knew you would be. but you hadn’t been an angel either. he vaguely remembers the documented nights out detailed in photographs of you leaving clubs with randoms, and the infamous “they’re busy” text he had recieved after pouring out his heart and soul to you in one-hundred and fourty characters the other day. it had felt like a direct dagger to his heart. but he deserves it. he’s not innocent and neither are you in this back and forth seesaw of a situationship you’ve both gotten yourself into. there are so many questions that are perched at the tip of your tongue. you don’t utter them though. 

he watches you carefully as you make your way to the passenger’s side. it feels like ages until you’re sat in the seat next to him. and now its his turn to feel dizzy. your perfume is wafting through his nose, the sorry excuse of a skirt is riding up your thigh. he feels drunk, all of his movements feel like liquid. his white t-shirt is feeling unbearably tight around his neck. his whole world seems like its on pause, and the only thing he can do is swallow thickly and stare you down.

and maybe thats the reason why you shoot him a laugh and a raised eyebrow, “need driving lessons?” you’re eager and he likes that. 

his own eyes narrow as they bore into yours, a pregnant pause before you have to tear your eyes away from the intensity of his stare. his eyes are dark and clouded with something you can’t quite put your finger on. its too much. in truth, you could get lost in his eyes and there’s been many a time that you have. now isn’t the time for that though as he’s speeding off to the spot the two of you have frequented so many times before. 

you’ve seen the pictures. you know about the other girls and the many escapades he’s had since the last time you’ve been together. the thought alone has sent you into a tizzy multiple times. you want to ask him about it, want to pick his brain. however, you don’t want to ruin the moment by opening a can of worms you can’t reseal. you know he knows about you’re own flings. and maybe that fact alone is why you have to keep telling yourself that this is wrong.

this is wrong, you keep trying to remind yourself. but your fleeting thoughts are so much as moot whilst his calloused fingers seek solace on the skin of your exposed thigh. it starts out quite innocent, tracing patterns on the skin. they climb higher, and higher, though and there’s no way that he means anything innocent by his actions. you know he doesn’t want to talk. a gasp tumbles from your already parted lips as his nimble fingers push past the hem of your skirt. 

his eyes meet yours, chocolate brown pleading for a moment, asking for your consent. its unspoken, but you nod, a bit too eagerly for your liking. eyes back to the road and matty’s pushing the flimsy material of your panties to the side, letting his fingers tease up and down your slit. your skin feels like its on fire, the wind whipping past you is the only thing that can attempt to cool you down at this point. you’re on fire and he’s doing nothing to satiate it. the rough pads of his fingers rub slow, tender circles at your clit, your breath catching in your throat. your eyes are boring into his side-profile now, soft whines falling from your lips. he’s still circling slow, and there’s no sight of relief in sight.

“matty,” you whimper out, “please.” 

you think he’s ignoring you at this point to fuel his own selfish desire of teasing you to the point of no return, but the way his unoccupied hand grips on the steering wheel sends a chill down your spine. this is dangerous. he knows it, you know it. there’s nothing covering up the filthy melody he’s playing between your legs as he’s zipping the rented convertible through the streets. he’s supposed to be focused on the road, but the way you’re whimpering and whining next to him has his jaw going slack. that’s when he gives in. he slips a finger in, languidly, in a way that has your head rolling back against the tan head rest. his thumb assumes its position on your clit and he’s working a sweet, sinful rhythm against you. his own lips are parted, puffy from all of the biting, and his fingers are moving in tandem with each other. 

“feeling good over there?” he breaks up the hushed sounds of your moans with his words. his voice is husky, laced with lust and need. “because the view from here is phenomenal. you’re taking it so well, baby.” 

the sound of his voice makes you mewl, hips bucking into the fluid motions of his fingers. “you’re.... you’re supposed to be watching the road, matty. fuck.” 

your attempt at scolding him wavers with a moan of his name. he’s slipped another finger into you, smugly of course, and watching as your lips curl around the syllables of his name. you’re practially chanting it as if its the only word you know at this point. the fire is burning deep within you. you’re thankful that its late and that this road is desolate, because had anyone seen the way you were thrashing and moaning and bucking into him, you know it would be on the front page of some tabloid and a trending topic on twitter come the morning. 

not that you would really care, anyway. because in reality, all you can think about is the delicious way his fingers are moving inside of you. he’s playing you like a song he’s written on his guitar, pulling moans from you as if they’re his very own carefully orchestrated and sinful melody. his fingers are pushing inside of you at a deafening pace, almost as if he knows just how close you are. just how bad you need it. 

“looking so pretty when you take my fingers like this. sound so sweet, too,” he’s moaning out to you as the car rolls to a stop at a red light. matty’s quick to lean over, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. you can’t help yourself from getting lost in the kiss, teeth and tongues clashing against each other, moans lost between the two of you. you practically whimper as he pulls away to set the car in motion again. you know what awaits you at the destination, but he’s sat next to you looking like that and touching you like this and its all too much. 

that’s when you feel it. the promise of sweet release rising in the pit of your stomach. his name falls in caution from your lips, warning him of the sapid end you’re about to reach. but you know he knows your body better than that. he was probably anticipating it. you hear a deep groan in the air between you two, over the low hum of some top fourty hit on the radio. 

“you wanna come, darling?” 

“please, i need it. i need it so bad,” you could cry. in fact, you might be crying. you’re not even sure anymore, all you can think about is the feeling of his fingers and the sweet release that’s on the cusp of the horizon. 

“go on. come. come for me. want you to come for me,” you can barely hear his voice over the roar of the engine, but you feel his eyes lock on you every second or so. the band breaks and you’re writhing in the seat next to him, moaning out his name in a sharp cry. he fucks you through it, fingers still working you until you’re basically pushing his hand away from the intensity of it all. you’re limp in the seat next to him, letting out a low moan as you watch matty brings one of his fingers to his lips. the sinful pop of his lips smacking against his finger drives you mad, alluding to the many of nights he’s spent with his head buried between your thighs.

he sucks his finger clean before he’s holding the other out to your own lips, tapping gently. you immediately invite the digit into your mouth, cleaning off the tangy taste of you from his skin. your cheeks hallow around his flesh and you’re moaning at the taste. your show is well received by the man sat next to you, as you hear his groans. you always knew how to put on a show for him. he’s watching you again, eyes wild with desire.

your chest is rising and falling at a rapid rate, vision a little hazy as you slowly come back down from the matty-induced high. he’s clicked the engine off and you realize the car is parked in the back of a parking lot. the both of you’s usual spot for nights like this. his eyes are on you, like a predator watching their prey, darkened and piercing into you. 

there’s a moment before he speaks, and you’re half wondering if he’s going to bring up your own not-so-innocent escapades. he didn’t bring you here to talk though. he never does.

“you’ve made a mess of the seat, so so dirty,” he tsks, unclipping his seatbelt and looming over you, “whatever am i going to do with you?”

and with a sly smirk, mirroring his own, you hum out, “i can think of a few ideas.” 

you’re pulled into the back of the car quicker than you can even catch your breath. his lips are on yours, on your neck, your jaw- any inch of skin that you bare to him. he’s nipping and sucking welts into your flesh, marks you know you’re going to have to conceal tomorrow.

“i’ve … i’ve heard things,” you whisper out, finally, as he begins his descent down your body, fingers pushing up on your shirt to expose more skin that he hasn’t yet claimed. its easier to talk about this when you can’t see his face.

“i know,” he murmurs against you, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your stomach. you shudder at his advances. “and they’re true, but i just… can’t stop thinking about you.”

he’s between your legs now, pushing up the flimsy skirt and pulling the thin material of your panties down. he makes quick work of stuffing them into the pocket of his jeans and he’s gazing up at you, big brown eyes pouring into yours. he’s ready to kneel at the altar that is your hips and beg for forgiveness the best way he knows how.

and how are you to deny him when you’ve been there too a few times?

[no-light-left-on]

Jessamine's design has always intrigued me. the stark, full black suit and tall collar are pretty obvious status symbols. black was for the longest time an incredibly expensive colour of fabric due to how difficult it was to achieve proper rich blackness during the dyeing process and the collar, while most likely just a trend in Dunwall fashion inspired by the 1890s high collars can be read as lace, especially in some concept art, which is hard to care for and needs to be starched to hell and back to keep nice and stiff for a collar like that

but what I find a lot more curious about this is that the clothes appear very much inspired by Spanish renaissance fashion

which, honestly, would make sense with the real world inspiration. 19th century was obsessed with the past, with the romanticized medieval and renaissance times, and it was quite common to see fashion inspired by times long past (I mean, just look at Worth. the man invented haute couture and there is so much influence of medieval and Elisabethan fashion in his designs). it was also a thing for rich families to just kinda... invest in recreations of historical pieces of clothing and LARP in them.

Jessamine's clothes, in particular, reminded me of Spanish court dresses. especially of the portraits of Anne of Austria and Elisabeth of Valois

obsessed with those slit sleeves. too bad Jessamine didn't go the extra mile to have the sleeves hang long and heavy around her arms but they were more form fitting

there is also something to be said about the tall white (possibly starched lace) collar and the style of clasps used on her clothes

the mini cape thing she has on top is more similar to the style of capes worn by men in renaissance, but yeah, of course she reminded me of a Spanish princess when this is one of the most given example portraits for this style

I wonder if this was an intentional choice on the designer's side or if they were just inspired by the revivalism present in 19th century fashion. what really makes me consider that though is that one of her earlier designs has those sleeves much, Much more pronounced and obvious

oh the things that could have been...

still, it makes me wonder: if this was intentional, what does this tell us about Jessamine, and the history of the Isles themselves?

[just-another-obsessed-fangirl]

mainly incoherent thoughts from watching that clip of angela in that true crime show that was going around but one thought that i can structure is. you're telling me that grace chasity is not the first role where angela giarratana played a horny 18 year old girl who convinced her peers to lure a guy out to get revenge on him, the end result being that guy is killed

[theneighborhoodwatch]

i love franklydear as much as the next guy, but i have to admit i’m always a little thrown off by how much fanwork portrays them as married from the get-go, because part of the appeal of franklydear for me is the prospect of someone having their gay awakening while also experiencing the muppets’ adaptation of silent hill.