#a lot of it’s in the ink and shading but imagine some scratchy

[myuheru-archive]

mochijuns intense scenes would hit so much harder if she messed up the lines a little like fucked it up you know

#a lot of it’s in the ink and shading but imagine some scratchy #i pressed enter to early. imagine scratchy frenzied lines i think it’d look really good #txt

[merryfortune]

Aiball Week Day 5

February 12h: Hugs // Cyberse

Word Count: 983

Tags: Canon Compliant, Post Canon, Fluff

    Yusaku had been sitting at his desk pretty intently for a while now, Ai observed from afar. It wasn’t entirely like him. Yusaku was trying damn hard to reintegrate into his school, better than the first time around. Mostly because Ai had insisted that Yusaku make amends for the past few months in which he had spent tracking him and piecing him back together again. So, he was taking his homework and study more seriously than he had before; he had reconnected with the likes of Kusanagi and Takeru and even Naoki.

  But this, Ai observed, was different.

  Yusaku rarely enjoyed homework. He struggled through anything which involved the finer things in life, poetry, art, literature, but he didn’t get downright excited, like he was now, over the things which he did understand such as mathematics or most strains of science. It was a shame that Ai was trapped in his little glass prison, as some things never change, and that Yusaku’s back was in the way of whatever little project had captured his passion.

  Ai waited a little bit longer and soon enough his thin patience was rewarded. Yusaku set down his pencils and straightened up. He leaned back in his wooden chair and twisted around and said, “I’m letting you out now. I’m done.”

  Ai grinned an eyeball grin upon hearing that. He watched as Yusaku got up and came to set him free. Yusaku latched his Duel Disc onto his wrist despite Ai pestering him. His Ignis body hanging about and he was begging to know what Yusaku had been doing.

  Yusaku was secretly pleased to have Ai grovel over him. He knew it just meant that Ai was bored and under stimulated, but it strangely meant a lot to Yusaku. He didn’t mind having his wrists assailed by Ai’s tiny hands and his ears assaulted by all the begging which followed.

  Yusaku smiled fondly, as fondly as he could, down at Ai. “I made you something.”

  “You did?” Ai’s yellow eyes bulged hugely at that. “Something? For me? It’s not even my birthday.”

  “You don’t have a birthday.” Yusaku flatly replied.

  “Still, Yusaku, you shouldn’t have buuuuuut as you have, I simply must have it.”

  “Good.” Yusaku’s lips twitched with something of a smile.

  Yusaku sat back down at his desk and he coyly placed his hand over something. Ai was intrigued by the action, but it gave him more grounds on what to expect. It was small, and as Ai scanned the rest of Yusaku’s desk, cut up paper and pencil shavings and other stationary haphazardly skirting where he liked to work, Ai could ascertain that this was an arts and craft project type gift. How adorable.

  “I was thinking about your deck.” Yusaku said, sounding a teensy bit nervous, unsurprising as gift giving, especially creative gift giving was not his forte. “And I was thinking about how your normal summon monsters are all based on your friends. During our duel, I was terrified that you might debut some card based on me.”

  “That’s awfully egotistic of you to have thought.” Ai teased, crossing his arms.

  Yusaku grimaced, unsure how to react to that. So, he didn’t. He moved on.

  “Since I don’t know how long it’ll take to retrieve, let alone revive, the other Ignis so I guess your @Ignister monsters are all we have of them, for now anyway so I made you another card for your deck.” Yusaku explained.

  He lifted his hand off his desk and took a little bit of paper. He held it up and showed it to Ai. Ai gasped and melted.

  “I love it, Yusaku.” Ai said, hands reaching out and Yusaku let him take it with such grabby hands.

  The piece of paper was drawn to resemble a Duel Monsters card. It was rather cute in how scratchy the drawing was. Though, Yusaku had taken care to draw all his rounded lines and coming up with a fair effect, level, attack and defence.

  “Ai-Yu-Yu.” Ai read aloud.

  “The name’s kind of a work in progress.” Yusaku sheepishly admitted.

  “But Ai love it so very much.” Ai said.

  Yusaku’s heart skipped a beat. It meant more to him to hear that than he realised. A scant blush flushed through his sharp cheeks.

  “I’ll turn it into a card right away.” Ai said. “My way, not using Kusanagi’s dinky little device and certainly not with any of those big corporation card printers either. You should be honoured, Yusaku, no human’s seen cards get made like this before.”

  Ai held the card, as flimsy as it was as it was drawn on printer paper, in his fingertips. It looked about as big as his head. Then something from his fingertips misted. The temperature of the room changed. A data storm was summoned. A very small and gentle data storm but a data storm, nonetheless.

  “Man, good thing I ain’t Windy, huh? If I can do this, in the real world, imagine what he can do.” Ai bantered.

  Yusaku then watched as the card that he had drawn Ai in earnest was transformed. The printer paper became sturdier. The pencil smoothened and became similar to ink. The mismatched shading that Yusaku had tried to avoid became solid and brilliant. All whilst Ai’s hand glowed in soft pinks, purples, and whites. It was strangely beautiful as the data cascaded around the card, entrenching it before shattering thus unveiling the brand new @Ignister Cyberse card. Yusaku’s eyes were dazzled.

  “I quite like the name, so I kept it.” Ai chirruped. “And I cannot wait to use this little baby.”

  “Then let’s have a Duel. My deck against yours; not in the VRAINS.” Yusaku suggested.

  Ai huffed. “It’ll take me forever to print out all my cards this way.” He complained and sighed. “But that sounds delightful Yusaku. Just gimme an hour or two to prepare.”

#writing tag #aiball week #aiballweek2020 #aiballshipping #yugioh vrains #vrains #yugioh #ai (vrains) #yusaku fujiki #fujiki yusaku #unless i am feeling very motivated tomorrow and the day after; this will be my last aiball week ficlet

[sergioharrington-blog]

✅ Crafts Hobbies & Residence & Loved Ones Article Category.

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[genkigratification]

Soulmate AU where when you meet your soulmate, everything bad people have said to you appear on your skin, but only you and your soulmate can see it.

shuake, 1.8k words, pre-established relationship

Akechi always wore things that covered as much skin as possible, even in the summertime.

“Aren’t you hot?” Akira asks once, feeling stifled himself at the sight of the other boy in long sleeves and a sweatervest. Akechi gestures meaninglessly in the air – something just to fill it where words can’t be found immediately, he’s realized by now – and smiles.

“No, not really. The humidity isn’t so bad today.”

They both know he overheats easily, though, and Akira buys him a popsicle on their walk around. It’s blue, stains his lips and tongue, and Akechi’s mouth tastes sweet when they kiss, tinged with a melting dessert. Akira’s hand slips between Akechi’s pants and shirt to untuck it, hands gliding up his side, and with a shudder Akechi kisses him harder.

But that’s all it ever gets to, the first sign of clothes riding up causing him to flinch away with some excuse.

Akira wonders if Akechi’s afraid of something. Of him.

There’s days where Akechi stares at him like there’s something on his face, like he’s studying every part of Akira with a keen eye, and Akira’s skin gives away the embarrassment he feels boiling beneath. Just a bit. He’d always been told he was lucky he didn’t blush as hard as most, and this is one of those times that he’s thankful for it.

He’s also thankful his voice is more coy than stuck in his throat. “See something you like?”

“No,” Akechi answers immediate and honestly, jarring them both; Akira’s surprise is more at Akechi’s surprise than the word itself, and Akechi’s eyes dart away as he licks his lips. “… Put a shirt on. Your skin’s blinding.”

His eyes flick down and he sees the ink sprawling across his own skin, the paleness being slowly overtaken by black with each passing day.

“I’m working on a tan.”

“You’ll burn.”

Akira’s nose scrunches as he laughs, catching Akechi’s gaze again and leaning on the counter. “Come upstairs and make me put one on.”

The other scoffs and declines, just like Akira thought he would, but wears the shade of red well on his cheeks.

It takes forever for Akira to learn why Akechi covers up, dragging the shirt up and spotting the first signs of ink, characters marring his otherwise clear skin. Akechi doesn’t look at him and Akira realizes that the other’s known for so, so much longer about their connection, that the reason he’d never been able to take his eyes off Akira’s body and want to look at him was the same.

Useless brat, he reads. Burden. Freak. Whore’s son.

They cover so, so much of Akechi’s body, fading out when they hit his collarbones and Akira rubs with a wet thumb until they become whole once more.

Asshole. Prick. Pretentious douchebag. Who’d ever wanna be friends with a know-it-all like that?

Akechi’s chest shudders beneath him, the breathe exhaled just the same, and Akira gets a washcloth to clean off the rest of the concealer, just to see what was beneath. Half of Akechi’s face is the powdered perfection people see, the other half…

I wish you were never born.

“I must look disgusting to you,” Akechi mumbles lightly, trying not to reveal the depth of his own disgust. It doesn’t work. “So blackened and ugly.”

No, Akira wants to say and finds the words caught in his throat. You’re not the ugly one.

Anger flares through every inch of him the more he reads, the more Akechi reveals, skin tattooed with every harsh word spoken in true hatred, petty annoyance, heat of the moment frustration. His own is marked with things too, sure, they’ve even multiplied since his conviction and entrance to Shujin, but it’s nothing like what Akechi’s got. What he imagines is imprinted on the rest of his friends.

This, more than anything in the world, proves that Akechi belongs with them.

“I wish it was the opposite,” he mumbles as he leans down to kiss Akechi, fingers tracing the characters across his skin and smiling when the other arches against his touch, craving it, “that all the good words were written instead. You’d still be covered head to toe.”

Akechi laughs hollowly against his lips, eyes mahogany in the light, and cards his hands through Akira’s curls tentatively. Still unsure about showing so much of himself. It’s a good thing, Akira tries to convey without words, curling over Akechi and caging his head with his arms. It’s good that he’s opening up. The words marring Akechi aren’t opinions he shares for the most part (he is a prick sometimes, a know it all for certain, jerk and asshole fit just as well) and he wishes he could erase them all with a rub of his thumb, with ghosting kisses and whispered compliments.

There’s scars here and there, evidence that Akechi had tried to scrape them off himself, and Akira doesn’t ignore them or the way Akechi flinches at the contact, though he does stop the other from trying to move away. They stare at one another, stubborn and hot, until Akechi shoves at him with a huff.

“Pretend like they’re not there. It’s not like they matter.”

Seeing it in a mirror day after day is exhausting, a constant reminder of failures and fuck ups, of shortcomings and other’s thoughts. Akira had gotten into the habit of facing the door when he brushed his teeth himself.

He lingers when he can in defiance of Akechi’s self-loathing. Tests his patience in moments, toes the line as dangerously as he dares, steadily getting him used to the gentle touches and slow caresses that aggravate him so, mouthing sweet words against the ones that’ve caused him such pain, forced such distance.

Akira might not be able to physically erase them (nothing can, save make up apparently) but he can at least make them truly meaningless when Akechi looks at himself.

Akechi’s skin turns red beneath the black, breath hitching and body shuddering, surrendering, and it’s hard not to just take all he can, devour it completely like it’s the last time he’ll have it. It’s harder still when Akechi breathes his name reverently, rolling the syllables like he’s asking for God, and Akira groans.

Fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing.

They pick up the pace, desperate to cover the words with scratches and bruising hickeys, and Akira’s thrilled that they have the same idea, that they meld so well together, that Akechi can forget for a little while that there’s anything there at all; Akira does too, everything blurring together and disappearing against the slap of skin, heat swelling, the scent of sweat and sex permeating the air.

Sensitive, he traces on Akechi’s thigh, the other making a noise of complaint that shudders with the rest of him. Beautiful drawn next, and beside that hot and clever. Smart, bold, flexible.

Akechi’s inquiry is exasperated and exhausted, “What are you doing, Akira?”

“Fixing a few things.” Fun to be with. Aggravating, in a good way. Lovely. “Hey, got a pen?”

“What? No.”

Great smile, great ass. “Too bad.” Worth the world. “Would’ve liked to mark these out for real.”

“– Akira,” with a shove that dislodges him from beside Akechi, the other looking some sort of combination of confused and irate. Tired, maybe? Something. “They’re there for a reason,” he continues softer, and his gaze flicks away as he sinks back into the bed, focusing on a string he rolls between his fingers. “One day, I won’t even remember what I looked like before all of these.”

Akira scoots back in beside him, curling his arm around Akechi’s waist and moving closer, watching the string too. Just because he can’t get rid of them doesn’t mean he has to add to them, he decides. Just because there’s a reason doesn’t mean it’s right. He wishes he could fix them for real, each character stretching across Akechi’s skin like it’s tattooed there, moving with muscle beneath it. “I think you’re beautiful,” he offers quietly, uncertain if that’s the right thing to say. It’s true, after all. It’s true and his mouth is cotton when the spinning stops. “You shouldn’t have so much on you. This kind of thing shouldn’t even happen. But you’re still alive, and… I think you’re strong.”

There’s no beauty in suffering. Nothing romantic in bearing a burden. But Akechi is strong, there’s no doubt about that, and Akira huffs laughter softly.

“I mean, most of this,” a gesture to his ink splattered form, nowhere close to Akechi but remarkable nonetheless, “is from this year, you know? A lot of it is just the same thing over and over. They get darker with repetition, I noticed.” He inhales sharply, Akechi’s eyes turning to him as he pushes the blanket past the crest of their hips, shivering at the chill above the covers. “I found people that made it bearable. Sure, they couldn’t see the things you and me do,” soulmates, something that would be exciting if it wasn’t born and bonded in this, companions who can see the other’s pain, “but they still knew, and they didn’t care what anyone said. What was written on me.”

Akechi didn’t seem like he had anyone. Despite being surrounded by so many people, despite being so loved, it just… seemed empty, somehow. Distanced.

Akira watches Akechi, how he sinks into the bed more and more, and plops a hand onto his head, carding through the chestnut locks gently. “They wouldn’t care about yours either.”

“Do you?” It’s a silly question and Akechi looks like he knows it is, but considering even that short question sounded like it took a lot to say Akira doesn’t blame him for not following it up.

“Nah. I don’t really care about what anyone says about you, Akechi.” With a gentle flick to his forehead. “You’re not that special.”

Akechi stares at him, swollen lips parted, and Akira’s smile quirks up again. “They’re in the past, you know. Those words. They don’t matter to me, because you’re not any… well, you’re not most of the things written.”

“My, aren’t you romantic.” Scratchy and soft, but a response. The sarcasm makes him grin.

“You’re an aggravating prick, Akechi. That’s just how it is.”

“And you’re an annoying mophead.”

Akira squints his eyes, not remembering that particular insult on his person, and Akechi’s playful smile tells him that it was never there to begin with; he shoves the other lightly, huffing.

… Still, fondly spoken as they are, they don’t appear. Akechi tentatively reaches out to lay his hand on Akira’s, warm and tense. He squeezes gently. “Thank you. You really do say interesting things, Akira.”

Things that make him think, intriguing and – if Akira could take this claim – things Akechi’s never heard before. He wants to find more of those things and pile them onto Akechi, suffocate him with words once rare, wipe that sad look off his face and surround him with people who wouldn’t care even if they could see all the words running across his skin. The world that’d printed such things onto Akechi didn’t deserve him; he was with Akira now, was with the rest of his friends group, and hell to those that wanted him back.

#persona 5 #akira kurusu #goro akechi #shuake #akeshu #it's a total au there's no metaverse in this #not that it matters much i don't know if i'll be writing more?? but i wanted to do something indulgent