#I struggled SO FUCKING MUCH with his colors and design

[embracedfire]

SCU Council designs pt 3!

The god of the Realms and Alchemy

A couple headcanons!

Holy symbols: lily of the valley, potions, brewing stands, ender eyes

An apothecary

Has literally seen the beginning of time itself due to his biology (feel free to ask me why ^-^)

Mostly Ender Dragon elements are incorporated, however he’ll have blaze rods circle during combat

He has brunch with Mumza on Sundays (they spill SO much tea to each other lol)

I’d love to answer any questions about my headcanons so don’t be afraid to give an ask :)

Feel free to look at my other designs so far for scu characters! The tag is #embraces scu designs

[arolesbianism]

Just remembered I actually got a decent amount of followers from isat art recently. Erm. Sorry for the nugget madness that still persists. It will continue to happen <3

[evesbookshop]

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 ⇩⇩⇩

“𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝, 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 😋 𝐩𝐥𝐬"

𝐁𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

𝐅𝐭: 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤, 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

Izuku calls you a lot. He calls you a lot when he’s in the country, he calls you while he does your laundry or while hes on patrol. He’s had you on the phone while arresting some low level thief after they’d robbed a convenience store, he got in trouble for that one. But he called a lot, so it was no surprise that he called just as much if not more while out of the country, if not more.

 So receiving calls from him was normal, receiving calls from him at one am on a wednesday while out of the country though, less normal. So while you were mostly just confused and half asleep, a part of you was worried as you pressed answer. 

“Izuku? You okay, it’s so late?” You asked groggily. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you leaned over to flick on your lamp, phone still pressed to your ear. “What’s goin on?”

“I’m okay honey, I’m sorry I didn't mean to worry you. Were you asleep?” Izuku knew full well that you were asleep. He was in India right now, a country three-ish hours behind japan. He'd done the math, he knew damn well it was one am and therefore passed you designated bedtime. But he’d been painfully hard for the last thirty minutes and his hand hadn’t gotten him anywhere, he needed you. Or at least your voice.

“No it’s okay, what's up?” You continued to question him, you really didn’t mind that’d he'd called it was just odd for him to do so this late.

“I- uh- I just missed your voice” Not a full lie. “Was just hoping to talk, hear about your day?” It was a lame excuse for a man calling at one am but he wasn’t willing to admit why he really called yet.

“Oh okay, sure.” You were a tad suspicious, but Izuku called, it was what he did. “Um probably wasn’t as exciting as yours but uh let's see. Went shopping, for groceries not myself. You’d be surprised how much cheaper it is when I’m not feeding a human vacuum.” You began rambling on about your day. Going through what you did, how you couldn't find certain items, how you couldn’t reach certain shelves without him 

Usually the sentiments would be nice, he’d laugh at your struggles or coo at how you needed him. Right now he was wrapping his hand around his base while imagining your voice saying other things. The way you sounded the last time he’d been inside you.

‘Right there Izuku’  “You feel so good”   “Harder Zu”   “Faster”   “Fuck Zu”  “Izuku, Izuku”

And paired with your voice in the background, even if you were currently talking about how you didn't know what color to paint your nails at the salon today, was all the more helpful. Ia Clearly.

“Nngh, fuck” A moan managed to escape his lips as his pace had gotten faster.

“Izuku?” You stopped mid sentence, having heard his slip up.A noise you were all too familiar with echoing through the speaker of your phone. “Are you..?”

“Yes, yeah. I’m sorry honey, I’m so sorry i just fuck-” Izuku was burning with embarrassment but honest none of that mattered right now.  “Just missed you so much and I couldn’t help myself. Tried to do it alone but I just couldn’t” He explained pathetically. Letting go of his throbbing cock and throwing his head back into his pillow with a huff.  

“Oh Zu..” You sighed slightly amused, “why didn't you say anything, I woulda helped you out.”

“I-I don’t know just please?” Izuku pleaded without remorse, he was aching for you and if you were offering he certainly wasn’t one to deny.You grinned lazily to yourself, despite his very clear distress it was flattering to know your boyfriend couldn’t come without you. 

“I got you , I got you.” You spoke softly into the the speaker, “Tell me what you were thinkin about before you called.” 

“The way you sounded.” He said simply, hand coming back to his dick, “ From before i left, how you were u-underneathe me.”

“Oh i remember,” it was an ongoing tradition to go at it like dogs in heat before he went on long missions. He’d had you in every position you could think of that night, on your back was where he finished though. He liked being able to watch your face. “Mmm that was so good. The way you had my leg on your shoulder, swear I could feel you in my stomach. Tats what you’re thinkin about, hmm?”

“Mm yeah” He moaned softly into the phone, “wasn’t enough though I couldn't”. You hummed in faux contemplation into the speaker 

“Well that just won't do, will it baby?” His sounds of affirmation rang through loud and clear, “That's right. So just listen to me then. I know you already started so just slow down for me.” Izuku groaned softly but did as told, sure to voice his complaint.

“Please don’t tease, honey.” Voice tight with arousal as his fist moved slowly up and down his length.

“I’m not, promise. You remember how I do it, don't you. I always start slow, do it how I would.” 

At that he sighs, imagining it’s your hand instead of his. Stroking at the tempo you would, thumb swiping over his tip gently the way your smaller one would. In a way that had him shuddering with a moan of your name.

“There we go, feels good when you imagine it’s me hm?”

“Yes, feels-feels so fucking good, Sweetheart.” Izuku’s voice took on a rasp it didn’t usually hold.

“I know, cause it’s what I do when I miss you.” His ears perked at that slight, you imagined him? Izuku moaned at the thought, at the metal image of you moaning his name as you touched yourself.

“You do?”

“Every single time, your hands are so much bigger than mine though, don’t feel as full.” He let out a loud groan and call of your name.

“Shitt baby, i need more.” Izuku begged lightly, aching to come.

“Speed up for me then, Zu. You know how I do it. Massage your balls with your other hand, the way we both know you like.”  He nodded dumbly like you could see him. Other hand reaching down to cup his manhood, fondling them as he rubbed is length at a rapid pace. Doing both the way you would the days he'd come home pent up but too tired to do anything. Groaning and moaning your name as he did so. Abs tightening as he could feel his orgasm beginning to approach. “You’re doing so good for me Izuku, being such a good boy.”

“Oh fuck” his eyes screwed shut as the grip he had on his member tightened, “ ‘M gonna come for you, Sweetheart. Please, let me- fuck!”

“Go ahead, baby. Make a mess for me, you deserve it. Did so good not come for me Zu.” And he did. Izuku balls clenched as he grit his teeth in an attempt to muffle the long moan he let out as he came. Cock twitching in his hands as he pumped it raw, finishing all over his stomach and chest. Riding his high out until it hurt to keep going. Letting his already softening dick lay against his pelvis.

“Oh thank you, honey. Thank you, thank you.” He mumbled dazed and out of breathe. 

“You're welcome, Izuku.” you smiled drowsy. Placing the phone on speaker and on your nightstand to charge. “Now go to bed. I’ll stay on the phone. “

“Okay,” He murmured. Grabbing a tissue to wipe himself clean half hazrdly before tucking himself back into his briefs and rolling ono his stomach. Placinghis phone on the pillow beside him. “Night Sweetheart. Love you”

“Night, Izuku. I love you too.”

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 ❤︎︎

𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐰 ❣︎

[sesbianlexicon]

YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING HURTS (1)

Pairing: Sevika x Alternate Universe!Reader Synopsis: After following a Piltover councillor, the leader of the Firelights, and a furry little man to Hextech's failsafe underground, Sevika finds herself suddenly transported into an alternate universe where Hextech… never existed. In this world, she does not have the burdens of Zaun on her shoulders. Instead, she has you.  Contains: Mature language, mentions of death and violence, moments of intense anxiety and panic, kind of ANGST? Kind of? Honestly it gets kind of comedic at one point I swear Word Count: 6173 Note: As much as I love a good smut fic of Sevika, I require angst because her existence is so unfortunate and beautiful and UGH I just want my wife to be HAPPY. I had this in my drafts for like 2 months and I finally finished it. It's kind of all over the place but IDGAF I had a vision and RAN with it. Enjoy my first Sevika fic!

The world cracks, and Sevika cracks with it. 

She feels her mind splinter, scattering like shards of glass in every direction. It’s followed by an odd, ineffable sensation that mimics pain, one that exists out of time. It’s as if she’s just been hit, is being hit, and has been enduring the same relentless blow for years, all at the same time.

Sevika stifles a groan and presses a hand to her temple, trying to focus on her vision that is flooded with bright, blinding light. Her attempts to open her eyes only make it worse— shapes and colors in front of her seem to flare and split, as the pain sharpens at the back of her head. And then, the tension snaps. The world slams into focus with a flash. As if nothing ever happened. 

Sevika gasps. 

Her body weakly rocks back and forth as she struggles to steady her ragged, uneven breaths. Reality slowly returns to her perception. The sounds of glasses clinking and the hum of human conversation rushes back to her ears, and potent, malty smells fill her nose. 

She realizes she is sitting down, her legs pressed against the edge of a circular table. She doesn’t remember sitting down. Where the fuck is she?

Sevika’s eyes flicker around her surroundings, taking in the lively atmosphere. 

She’s at a bar. No, she is at the bar. She’s at The Last Drop.

Except it’s not The Last Drop, because there’s no way it is. The layout is similar, with the multiple round tables and the stools surrounding it, the familiar red wooden walls, and the underlying scent of alcohol in the air— but that’s where the resemblance ends. The rest is completely different. The bar is alive with warmth and health, filled with people laughing and talking and not shooting shimmer down their veins. Everyone looks… Cheerful. Friendly. Happy. 

Sevika’s eyes travel to the ceiling above, made of sleek glass panels, framed by twisting steel designs in ornate patterns. Sunlight pours through the transparent roof, providing a warm, brilliant light for the bar. The sky is bright. The air is crisp. The people are breathing.

This cannot be The Last Drop. 

Sevika sweeps the room again, confusion overwhelming her. She can’t seem to get her thoughts straight— she searches the bar, grasping for something familiar. She doesn’t understand who these people are— until she lands on a figure standing behind the bar counter, mixing drinks and chatting with a customer. She freezes.

Vander. 

The sight of him is enough to knock the air out of her lungs. It’s him, unmistakably– broad-shouldered and wrinkled, filled with the gentle authority she gave up on years ago. She feels her body pulse as she blinks rapidly, wishing for the vision to disappear. But he’s still there, with his greying hair tied in a man-bun, laughing earnestly as he hands out two fizzing blue drinks to the customer. 

The sight of Vander, standing there, alive and whole, sends Sevika into a spiral— she can’t fucking focus. She can’t breathe, can’t think. 

Her body sinks, and she slams her hands on the table in front of her to ground her, hard enough to rattle the surface. The impact shakes through her, her palms burning with the force of it. 

And she feels it. She feels it. Both sides. Sevika looks down at her body. It’s still her own, she’s certain, and yet— 

Her left arm. 

Flesh. Veins. Fingers. Bones and all. 

For a long moment she just stares at the shape of her limb, her mind coming to a blank. She slowly flexes her fingers experimentally, watching them open and close with shaky precision. She clenches them and feels the crease of her flesh, the pressure on her joints, and her nails digging into the soft curve of her hand. She unfolds it, sunlight reflecting on a gold band circling her ring finger. 

Her heart stutters. 

She turns her hand over, palm to sky, and with her right hand she traces the unbroken, flawless skin where there should have been cold metal. Something catches in her throat. 

“What the fuck,” she chokes. 

What kind of sick joke is this? 

Panicking, she pushes herself up from her seat, the stool scraping loudly against the floor. The sound starts to repeat in her head, ringing loudly as her head spins. She closes her eyes to stabilize herself. 

This is not happening. No, this is not happening. This is—

“Sevika?” 

She snaps towards the voice. 

And she sees you— you’re the customer from the counter, the one that was talking to the very well and alive Vander. 

She looks at you up and down. You’re wearing a fitted, v-necked green vest over a cream blouse. High-waisted trousers tucked into your laced boots, with a belt that has trinkets and whatnots tied to a small metal loop. Brass accents glint at your cuffs, shining along with the two drinks in your hand. Sevika’s eyes linger on the golden band that glints in your ring finger.   

You're younger than her— late-twenties at most, with a soft face and lively eyes that glow in the sunlight. You’re shorter, too, almost comically so compared to her towering frame. You don’t have a fighter’s build, nor the hard edge of someone who’s been through hell. Usually, someone like you would carry at least a small shiv for protection in a place like this, but you lack in defence, staring up at Sevika with such a pretty smile. 

Who are you?

“Are… you okay?” You ask, stepping closer. 

For a long moment, she doesn’t respond. Her jaw tightens as she fights the instinct to start throwing things. She just stares at you—confusion and disbelief battling for a position in her expression. There’s no way she knows you. There’s no way you know her. There’s no way someone who is as pleasing to the eyes as you would beam at her in such a darling way, talking to her as if you’re… concerned. 

Who the fuck are you? 

“I got us two of Vander’s specials,” You say, as if to remind Sevika of your obvious errand. You shake the glasses, making the ice in the colorful liquid clink with each other. “Honestly, he could charge double for these and I’d still call it a bargain.” 

Sevika’s chest beats faster and faster, her breath coming and going in short rapid fires as her gaze flickers from you to Vander, still standing behind the bar. Her head starts to ring again, the pain returning, like aftershocks rattling through her head. She staggers back, holding her head. 

“Sevika?” Your voice echoes into her ears. “You’re scaring me.” 

Sevika shuts her eyes tightly and lets out a shaky sigh. Confusion and aches etch in her mind as she stumbles through her memories. Why is she here? Shouldn’t she be… what was she doing before this? She was… she was following the Piltie motherfuckers and that Firelight, wasn’t she? She remembers getting to the underground base where she saw the Hexcore, and then, and then— 

The last thing Sevika expects is warmth. 

She feels your hand against her shoulder. The drinks have been abandoned on the table, your thumb rubbing the fabric of her leather jacket. There’s softness in your eyes, looking at her with an expression she hasn’t seen in a while. She pauses at the unfamiliarity of the light touch. It’s gentle, almost too gentle, as if it is meant for someone fragile. 

Sevika is the furthest thing from fragile. 

And yet, here you are. 

She jerks away from your touch, and you flinch back at her sudden reaction. Your brows furrow as you retract your hand, studying Sevika’s disoriented, almost horrified expression. You haven’t seen her like this— well, ever. 

Although she doesn’t miss the way her pain has stopped, she feels uncomfortable at your contact, which seems to be a complete shock to you. She watches hurt ripple across your face, your fingers gripping each other, as if to hold yourself back. 

“Sev…” You start, but you keep your hands to yourself. 

Sevika steps back, not enjoying the tenderness in your voice. It’s cautious and slow, as if she’s some delicate thing that might rupture at the wrong word. She’s unsure of what to do, what to say— she’s always so sure. 

Sevika is not someone to walk away from her problems. She’s never been one to shy away from a fight. So she surprises herself by walking away from you. She practically stumbles as her body moves instinctively, carrying her towards the door. She knows exactly where it is and it only confirms the distorted truth— this really is The Last Drop. 

She shoves the door open and steps outside. She hears your voice call out to her, but the heavy panel slams behind her, pushing her onto the street— only to see her world turned upside down. 

And the thing is, Sevika has pictured this before. She’s seen this image through her closed eyes, in dreams that replay over and over at night. The scenery of Zaun’s streets bustling with people and kids— kids running and jumping around. The neon-colored chaos and violence she’s grown accustomed to are nowhere to be found— and in its place are plants, lush and spreading, and fountains bubbling with clear, unsoiled water. The once cracked sidewalks, the filth-stained ground, are now scrubbed and tiled— with flowers that bloom in the corners of the buildings. 

Sevika has lived her whole life for this world. 

She lingers by the door in a haze until a person comes up to ask her, politely, to step aside so others can enter the bar. She barely makes out what he says but moves anyway, slowly stepping forward into the sunlight. It stings against her smooth skin and she goes rigid. The warmth is foreign as she becomes aware of how she is breathing— in, out, in, out— without feeling like her lungs are being stuffed with fumes. 

She passes by dialogues of curiosity and affection— people chatting softly, people responding with laughter— followed by excited clicks of heels and footsteps on the pavement. It’s so lively yet so peaceful, that she can actually hear things through the air— birds chirping from the sky, winds rustling through the leaves, and faint, upbeat strumming of strings.

Sevika turns towards the song, finding the jolly voice somewhat familiar. She follows the sounds of the stringed instrument, finding her way to a small crowd. She peeks through the standing audience to see children seated around to listen to the rustic music, all their attention fixed on the performer. Standing in front of them, singing with unrestrained joy, is a furry little creature. 

And Sevika remembers. 

Without a second thought, she marches right up to him, ignoring the gasps and shouts of the audience. 

“You,” She barks, standing right in front of the startled Yordle. “Where am I?” 

The yellow creature stops playing with a startled jump and clutches his banjo. He lifts his fluffy head and looks up at the heckler in offended confusion. 

“You know what I’m talking about. You were there!” Sevika snatches the banjo from his hand. 

“Mercy me!” The furball shrieks, his green eyes darting between her and the instrument. “I haven’t an ounce of what you’re talking about, young lady!”

Sevika’s grip tightens. “With Hextech. The—” She falters. She doesn’t even know exactly what it was. “The underground. I was there.”

The Yordle’s face changes in an instant at the mention of Hextech. His well-groomed mustache twitches as his eyes widen in horror. A curious horror, though horror nonetheless. He shakes his head as if to make sense of her words. 

“Oh, dear,” He nervously mutters under his breath. “You mean to tell me that you have also crossed timelines?” 

Sevika blinks. “What?” 

The Yordle looks past Sevika, and she glances back with him, remembering that they still have an audience. Usually people scram at the smallest sight of violence— but the people and children have remained in their places, confusion etched on their faces. 

The furball clears his throat, his posture straightening before snatching the banjo back from Sevika with a swipe. “Well, folks, the show is over for today, but I will be back tomorrow with a better performance. Don’t worry!” 

His cheery demeanor seems to ease a couple members of the audience as they shuffle away, their chatter rising with some frowns towards Sevika. Once the last couple children wander off, the furry creature turns to Sevika, lowering his voice.

“You must follow me.” 

“I must say, your presence is rather unorthodox.”

Sevika scoffs, her boots echoing against the metal floor as she follows Heimerdinger through Jinx’s hideout. It’s odd to see the place so… clean. No more scattered blueprints or half-built bombs littering the ground. And the last time she saw it, there were glowing doodles everywhere thanks to Jinx’s newest recruit. 

Though it’s not completely organized— tools scattered across the table, books open and stacked in dangerous, tipping ways, and multiple candles left unattended, letting the wax drip on loose papers. Some things can’t be changed. 

Heimerdinger hops through the workshop towards a familiar figure hunched over a workbench, his concentration on carving something on a small stone-like item. His braided white hair is tied back into a ponytail, which sways as he leans closer to inspect his work. The scratch of the carving tool pauses when he hears Heimerdinger’s presence, turning towards him as he wipes the sweat off of his forehead.

“Professor, I—” The boy pauses, his eyes snapping to Sevika. His initial shock quickly morphs into anger, dropping his work on the table. “What is she doing here?” 

“Well, it turns out Miss Sevika here arrived with us at the Hextech’s failsafe underground.” 

Heimerdinger hops over to the blackboard, grabbing a piece of chalk and scrawling something on the surface. “The anomaly of Hextech has scattered us from our proverbial reality— and since you were in close proximity, you were caught in the ripple effect.”

Heimerdinger turns to see his pupil and Sevika glaring in silence. “...It seems the two of you are familiar with each other.” 

“Oh, we’ve met,” Ekko spits, getting up to stand his ground. “You followed us? Even after Silco’s death, you’re doing his dirty work.” 

“I followed you because if the Piltover council and the Firelights are mixed up in something, Zaun needs to know. You’re not the only one fighting for freedom.” 

“Freedom?” Ekko walks right up to Sevika, his gaze unwavering right in front of her face. “You think what Silco did was freedom? Peddling shimmer, rotting out the Undercity from the inside? Silco’s leadership was control, not liberation. And now that he’s gone, you’re walking around with your leash in your hand.”

“Watch your mouth, boy saviour.” Sevika’s hands clench by her sides. Ekko does not back down. Neither one of them has forgotten the lives they’ve taken from each other. 

Heimerdinger clears his throat. “This tension is… unexpected. But let’s focus on the matter at hand, shall we? I do not condone Miss Sevika’s covert actions, but the fact remains that she is here. She may yet provide insights or skills valuable to understanding the anomaly.”

“I doubt that,” Ekko sneers, heading back to his table. 

Sevika scans the workshop. Bits of inventions and gadgets fill up the space, and while she doesn’t completely understand all the scribbles and equations on the chalkboard, she understands their goal is to get back home. As her gaze drifts across the cluttered space, her eyes land on a shiny flat piece of metal left on the counter. 

She sees herself reflected on the surface and moves closer. Her face catches her off guard— it is undeniably her— although her hair is cut in a bob, shorter than she’s ever had it before. It frames her face which looks a bit younger than she is. Her body is less muscular than before, but it doesn’t seem like she completely skips working out either. Her clothes fit her in a comfortable way that’s far cleaner and more put together than she’s accustomed to. And her left arm. She can’t get used to that at all. 

She stares at the reflective surface, inhaling sharply, before moving on to a notebook spread open on the counter— sketches of the abnormal Hexcore cover the pages. Her mind flashes back to the memory of her mind exploding into bits and pieces. She swallows. 

“I’m afraid this is a timeline where Hextech was never invented.” Heimerdinger says, noticing Sevika’s darting eyes. “And without a creation so prodigious as the Hexgates… no anomaly.” 

“So you’re recreating it.” Sevika closes the notebook. “How long?” 

“A couple weeks, at least.” Ekko begrudgingly answers. 

“Weeks,” Sevika mutters under her breath. She does not have weeks to waste. She needs to go back— Zaun needs her. Jinx needs her. Isha needs her. What is happening to her original body if she is here? “What can I do to get this done faster?” 

“You?” Ekko scoffs. “Unless you know how to punch your way out of this universe, you can wait until we’re done with the machine.” 

There is an edge of sarcasm in his words, almost a playful jab, but Sevika can also sense the venom in his tone. He’s clearly dragged down by the weight of the situation, in contrast to the furball’s worry-free attitude. 

But he’s right— Sevika doesn’t know much about magic or technology. Most she can do is minor adjustments on her prosthetic arm. All the creating and inventing the machinery stuff, that’s… Jinx’s field. But there must be something she can do— she’s not the one to wait for problems to be solved. 

“You think I’m just going to stand here twiddling my thumbs?” Sevika crosses her arms. “I didn’t survive Zaun’s trenches by waiting for miracles.” 

“Well,” Ekko breathes, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t Zaun.” 

And fuck. Yeah. This isn’t Zaun. 

Sevika’s frustration presses heavy on her chest. The usual pulse of urgency thrumming her veins, one that is always telling her to get up, to fight, to survive— seems to fade for a moment, replaced by an unknown stillness. She can’t do anything here. She doesn’t have to. The mere thought of that drives her insane. 

Before she can respond, she hears the sound of the door, followed by hurried footsteps and sounds of metal items rattling. A short figure enters, holding two boxes that obscure their face. 

“Ekko, I found— woah.” She wobbles a bit as the boxes sways to the side, before she manages to drop the boxes on the floor with a thump. Her vibrant blue hair gives her away. 

Jinx. 

Sevika falters at the sight of her— healthier than Sevika remembers— her skin glowing, her cheeks plump, her frame no longer as scraggly as before. The annoyingly long braids are nowhere to be seen, replaced by rather cute space-buns with a streak of pink. There’s an innocence to her expression, the eagerness to prove herself completely gone. Instead she looks untethered—freed— from the usual chaos of her mind. 

She looks at Sevika with a tilt of her head. Sevika pictures a doe. Soft and curious.  

“Sevika?”

“Jinx.” 

The name doesn't even suit her anymore. Jinx looks confused, almost a bit hurt at the name and— oh. She smiles in gentle understanding. 

“Powder, actually.” She offers. “I guess you’re… different, too.” 

Sevika frowns. She turns to Ekko. “She knows?” 

“He wasn’t exactly being secretive about it,” Jinx— No, Powder— chuckles, pushing the boxes filled with metal trinkets and parts to a corner. “And I’m smart enough to figure it out. Plus, I just heard about you terrorizing our professor in front of The Last Drop. I knew something was wrong.” 

Sevila can’t even imagine a world where her fight with a Piltie by the bar could be considered ‘something wrong.’ And she is. In that world. 

“The news has spread already!” Heimerdinger nervously chortles. “I do hope you haven’t scared away my audience for tomorrow’s performance.” 

Sevika ignores him, her attention all on Powder. 

“So, you’re just helping him with all this?” She waves towards the machinery.

“Well, he’s not going to figure it out himself.” Powder grins at Ekko. He returns a small smile and a tender gaze— Sevika almost wants to laugh. The leader of the Firelights and the Jinx? Absurd. This whole situation is absurd. She needs to get back home. 

Ekko notices Sevika’s judgmental stare and his lips curl back to a frown.  

“Just stay out of the way. We’re close to cracking this, and the last thing I need is you throwing off my balance.” 

Sevika’s mouth opens for a sharp retort— but Heimderdinger quickly interjects, sensing the imminent fight. 

"Perhaps, Miss Sevika, it would be wise to allow Ekko to continue his work without further interference. I know this isn’t ideal for you, but for now, patience may be the best course of action."

Her gut twists in frustration. Easy for the Piltover motherfucker who’s lived for hundreds of years to preach about patience. She isn’t built for waiting— waiting never got her anywhere. 

“I’m not going to sit around for a machine that might not work.” 

“It’ll work,” Ekko bites. “And I don’t need your help here.”

Sevika’s eyes flick between the three of them— Ekko, defiant, Heimderinger, a bit skittish, and Powder, sympathetic. Sevika has nothing else to say. She exhales, loosening her fists, letting the tension slip away. 

“You could go home to your wife,” Powder suggests, nodding towards the ring on Sevika’s left hand. 

The tension comes back. The word ‘wife’ should mean nothing to her, and yet, the moment it hits the air she pictures you and your stupid little face, wide eyes and slightly parted lips, staring at Sevika with darling concern. As if the words you’ve wanted to say had been stolen from your throat. 

It sickens her. 

She runs her thumb over the ring on her finger. Its warmth is indistinguishable from her own skin. She remembers the matching ring on you. 

“She is not my wife.” 

Powder shrugs. “She was really worried about you. Especially after she heard you attacked the professor.” 

“I barely touched him,” Sevika huffs. Heimderinger’s mustache twitches. 

“If you don’t act normal, she might figure out what’s going on.” Powder grabs a pen and scribbles something on a piece of paper. 

Normal is the last word to describe this situation. Normal is the last word to describe your relationship with her. How would she ever act normal here, with you? 

“Here.” Powder tosses the paper to Sevika. “That’s your address.” 

Sevika crumples it in her hand.

“I am not going to my house.” 

Sevika finds herself in front of her house. 

She stares at the crumpled piece of paper with her address on it, hesitating by the door. Because it’s not really her house— she almost feels like she’s intruding. But it’s late, and she’s tired, jaded— but she doesn’t want to be at the workshop anymore. And she can’t stand being in the middle of the sanitary, warm version of Zaun. Faces of people she’s buried, people she’s left behind walk around with a smile on their face. It’s nauseating. 

Sevika has nowhere else to go. 

And she would be lying if she said she didn’t want to see you again. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t know why. She crushes the piece of paper and jams it into her jacket pocket.

She twists the handle and steps into the house. The sense of wrongness only deepens at the sight of the interior. The floors gleam, the furniture is neatly arranged, and the air smells of— food. Good food. Nothing like the usual scent of dust, blood, and grease of her typical home– she barely calls it a home. More of a hideout. She moves deeper into the living room, trying to place the strange layout. 

She would have moved to this proper place if she had never left Vander, never lost her arm, and never worked under Silco. It’s a house she feels misplaced in. The kind of house someone who had their shit together would own— who cleaned, who cooked, who cared. The kind of life Sevika doesn’t know how to live.

And then she sees you. Laying on the couch in the living room, reading a book in your nightgown by the candlelight. Although she was expecting it, she is startled at the sight of you, so comfortable, so safe in the middle of the house. She catches herself staring.

You look up from your book. "...Hi." 

Sevika blinks. She doesn't reply. 

“I thought maybe you were spending the night somewhere else,” You mumble, setting your book down by the side table. You weren’t expecting her to be home today— you thought she wanted to be left alone after whatever she had gone through at Vander’s bar. You push yourself up from the couch. 

“Um,” Sevika tries as you walk closer to her. “You’re… here.” 

“I mean, I wasn’t going to wait for you in the bar the whole day.” You retort, your tone sharp at first but it soon morphs into regret. You’re confused about her behaviour, and you’re sort of pissed at her for leaving you like that, sure, but you shouldn’t snap at your wife. “Are you… feeling better?” 

“I’m fine.” She says a little too quickly.

You don't look convinced, standing right in front of her with furrowed eyebrows. 

“Vika, you don’t look fine.” 

Sevika stares back at you at the nickname, her stoic expression faltering. She feels nauseous again. She’s unsure how to exist with you in her space— always filled with so much concern, sympathy. It’s… uncomfortable. She feels like a cornered animal, a pathetic prey when she is with you. 

“I said I’m fine.” 

Her voice comes out in her usual harsh way. Your face twists. And for the first time in her life, she regrets it. 

Back in Zaun— the real Zaun— the line between fear and respect had blurred. Everyone feared her, therefore respected her. It was how everyone treated her, how they always acknowledged her presence yet at the same time tried to stay out of her way. The satisfaction of knowing she could control everything that happened in a room was what she was used to. 

Somehow, she doesn’t want that kind of control over you. She doesn’t want to make you cower or fear her. The thought that she might be doing exactly that— making you feel small, making you regret being near her— it’s as if her body rejects it. She doesn’t want you to look at her like that.

But just as soon as your face shows that flicker of distress, it suddenly shifts into a look of disbelief. 

“Are you on drugs?” 

Sevika stares blankly. You have the utmost sincerity in your eyes. 

“What?” 

“If you’re on some kind of street drug, you can tell me. I won’t be mad.”

Sevika holds back her amusement. As if anger, from someone as small and harmless as you, could scare her into hiding something as common as drugs. As if you could intimidate someone like her. She almost wants to laugh at the height difference between the two of you right now. 

“I mean, I heard about the ruckus with Professor Heimerdinger and—” You ramble, your mind trying to justify your wife’s behaviour. “It’s one thing to pick fights after being drunk, maybe, but without a single drop of alcohol? The professor has done so much for Zaun and you respect him a lot. It’s just so unlike you.” 

‘You don’t know me,’ Sevika thinks, but she bites back her tongue. 

“You’re so… so rigid, and every time I look at you, you look like you’re worried I might uncover some sort of secret.” Your eyes narrow as you grasp at clues to come up with a theory. “And you flinch every time I touch you!” 

“I’m not on drugs.” She wishes she were. “I’m just tired.” 

You frown. She’s been tired before, and she’s been stressed before. But she’s never been like this. Avoidant. Blurry. 

But it doesn’t seem like she wants to talk about it— or she’s willing to confess anything. Maybe she really is just tired. She certainly looks like a completely different person. She looks… sad. 

You just sigh. “Do you want me to be worried?”

That is the last thing I want. “No.” 

“Okay…” You cross your arms. “Are you hungry?” 

Starving. “No.”

The two of you lock eyes, before you step back with a reluctant nod. 

“...Okay. Go wash up.” 

Sevika buffers at your command, watching you retreat back to your couch. You pick up your book again, although your focus is elsewhere. She knows you’re holding back your questions— and it almost pisses her off. Why are you so careful, so considerate towards her? 

It’s not like she’s ever earned that kind of care. Not from anyone. And definitely not from you. 

The silence stretches between you, and all she can hear is you flapping the pages as you pretend to read. Sevika would prefer your anger— she could handle anger. She understands anger. 

But this patience makes her skin crawl. 

Sevika turns sharply and strides towards the hallway. 

Your eyes remain fixated on the words of the book, but your ears listen to your wife’s footsteps, which pauses a couple of times before finding the bedroom. There’s the creak of the closet doors, the rustling of clothes, before she finds her way to the bathroom. The hesitancy in her steps are enough to embolden your suspicions— and while you don’t want to push her, your curiosity and concern remains.

As soon as you hear the water running, you spring up, tossing the book on the couch, before making your way toward the bedroom. 

Snooping is wrong, you know that— but your worry overwhelms your morality. You see her jacket, carelessly draped over the edge of the table in the room. Sevika never leaves her jacket lying around— she knows you’ll make her hang it up anyways. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides. With a glance toward the hallway, you step closer to the table.

Her jacket is heavy in your hands, the worn leather supple and wrinkled. You unfold and dig into the pockets, finding a few coins, a lighter, and—

A piece of paper. 

You frown at its state, crumpled, as if someone had been squeezing on it continuously. You unfold it, smooth it out, until you can make out the writing scribbled across the surface.

It’s your home address. Confused, you turn the paper around, but there’s nothing else— just the address of the house you and Sevika have lived in for three years— why would she need this? 

You squint at the uneven handwriting— It’s Powder’s. You’d recognize it anywhere. The hurried strokes, the exaggerated loops— you’ve seen her writing many times during the Innovator’s Competition in an index card set beside her wild invention, describing it in great detail. 

Did Sevika meet up with Powder after the meltdown at Vander’s bar? But it must have been after all the fuss with Professor Heimerdinger, and someone told you that the two of them left together. So, Sevika and Professor Heimderdinger went to see Powder, who gave her the address to her own home?

You shove the paper back into her jacket, returning it to its original place on the table. You’re missing a huge part of this weird equation— and your confusion remains. Perhaps you’re even more confused than before. You take a deep breath before heading to bed, crawling on the soft mattress. You’ve had a long, off day. 

When the sound of water finally stops and Sevika steps out of the bathroom, you’re still in deep thought on the bed, fingers idly playing with the hem of your pajamas. She walks into the bedroom in a loose tank top and sweatpants, the fabric hanging comfortably from her form. 

She glances at you, her damp hair clinging to her face, before sitting down on the edge of the bed. You expect her to join you under the covers, to settle into the space you’ve shared countless nights before. But instead, she just stays there, her back to you, her shoulders taut. 

“...You okay?” 

She exhales sharply, almost like a scoff. “I just need a minute,” She mumbles. 

Sevika has been through girls before, at Babette’s— she’s no stranger to how a girl feels by her sides at night. But she’s never had someone so determined to comfort her like this. And knowing her relationship with you, knowing that she’s somehow married to someone like you— it’s different. It’s horrifying. 

Somehow you seem to recognize that— and she feels your presence shift towards her from behind, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. She breathes as she feels your hand move to her shoulder, letting the warmth brush against her like you’re testing the air between you. 

Her body stiffens under your touch. You can feel the tension of her defined muscles beneath her skin, as if she’s bracing for something sharp, something brutal— but you keep your hand steady, fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns on her back. 

You worry she might pull away. But then, so quiet you almost miss it, she exhales. It’s small, broken in half, but it’s enough to soothe the suspense. You keep going, outlining the curve of her spine, watching her shiver— and the tightness of her body begins to fade in pieces, bit by bit. 

She leans back towards you and you draw closer, hand brushing her nape of her beck. You let the moment of stillness, of uncertainty pass, before she finally turns toward you. Soft. Fractured. Unfamiliar.

She stares at you, searching for something, unsteady, as if she’s not sure what she’ll find. It resembles the look from before, the one from the bar— but you don’t look away. You’re searching too. 

When your lips meet, it’s strange— she’s being so gentle. Modest with her ability to love you. Her touch is light, testing— and for a split second, it feels awkward. Almost as if it’s the first time. 

But then she moves her hand and brushes against your arm, fingertips barely grazing your skin, and you liquefy— it’s enough to deepen the kiss, slowly, naturally— as she pulls you closer, and the warmth between you grows. Her breaths are uneven, blending with yours as you feel her tongue slip in— and you’re gone. The world narrows until it’s just this moment, just the two of you. 

And somehow it’s not urgent nor overwhelming— it’s not the usual excitement she brings in her kisses. Instead, it’s like she’s carefully learning the parts of you, afraid to miss a single detail. Her hands slide up your sides, not rushing, not pushing— just anchoring herself to you, grounding both of you into a comfortable position on the mattress. 

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together. Her breaths are hot and close against your cheek, and you share the same air, your chest heaving up and down, shallow and quick. The silence lingers, but then you start to laugh and she smiles too. 

And everything falls back into place. 

She’s yours again. 

You’re a fast sleeper, gone just as soon as you hit your head on your pillow. But Sevika lays awake, listening to the unchanging sound of the clock echoing from the living room. 

Every time she closes her eyes, she feels it— a certain weight pressing against her chest, filled with thoughts she doesn’t want to entertain. She shifts slightly, careful not to disturb you, her gaze fixated on a certain grainy spot on the ceiling.

There’s an emptiness inside of her. She’s lived her whole life for Zaun. For years, she sacrificed everything for a better life. She always believed that the people deserved a better Zaun. That she deserved a better Zaun. And now that she has it—

She’s not sure she deserves it. 

She feels the soft, comfortable blanket around her and grips it tightly. 

This could have been her life. This is supposed to be her life. 

Sevika feels you shuffle beside her, still asleep, turning to sluggishly hug her large frame. She tenses at first, unable to move, but soon feels your chest against her left arm, pressing in and out on her muscles as she hears the mellow sounds of your breaths. You’re warm. You’re beautiful. She lets your touch engulf her, and closes her eyes. 

Sevika does not fall asleep. But as she lies there, with the warmth radiating from your body, she feels herself melting onto the bed, her body relaxing like it has never before. The weight in her chest lightens at the mere presence of you, and the gnawing emptiness inside feels… a little less hollow. 

And for once, nothing hurts.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hey ladies thank you for reading my unedited silly convoluted fic filled with my love towards Sevika. Get ready for part 2 which is angstier. Crying. Also I wrote most of this during final season and almost failed my final. But I will never fail the WLW nation. XOXO BIA <3

Likes, reblogs, and comments would be SO SO appreciated!!!

PART 2: YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND EVERYTHING HURTS (COMING SOON)

[heartofjasmina]

Fashion designer Bakugou who sees you at his favorite cafe one morning. Your clothes are comfortable and colorful, but they obscure the beauty of your body he tells himself. So he marches over to you, wearing all black and a skull tshirt with heavy combat boots. It doesn't help that he's also drop dead gorgeous, so when he hovers over you and breathes out. "Let me undress you." Your brain short circuits. "I can dress you much better, let me." He doesn't so much ask as he commands, so you find yourself nodding along, unsure why he's interested in you in the first place.

When you get back to his studio he's measuring your figure, his large hot hands skimming over your breasts, your hips, your waist. The more he discovers, your waist would fit perfectly in his hands, and your tits are begging him to taste, the more he struggles to keep professional. He just wanted to have you as a model, he swears to himself. But when he's measuring your ass, he starts to lose it.

"Who the fuck let you out of the house in those grandma clothes when your body is this fucking amazing?"

The words slip out of him in a huff, and you blush bright red. "I-I don't wear grandma clothes." You try to defend yourself, but looking around his studio at the slinky tight fit dresses with corsets and plunging necklines, you realize that yeah- maybe you do wear grandma clothes.

"Just wait until I design something for you, you're going to look even more beautiful. Especially as my date." He's never been nervous asking someone out before, but damnit your curves and sweet, shy personality were a combination he was loathe to let go.

"Your date?" You felt like you were struggling to breathe. The super hot designer wanted to go on a date with you? You knew you were bigger, its not like you're oblivious. But never once did he make you feel lesser for being fat, he just seemed upset that you tried to hide yourself.

"If you'll have me." His voice was suddenly softer, his red eyes gentle as he looks up at you from where he's on his knees, the measuring bunched in his fist.

"Yes." You breathe out, knowing this chance encounter would change your life.

[rainbow-neko-artblog]

I’m asking this out of pure curiosity, in another post you said one of the reasons you don’t like the nightmare critters is because they don’t follow the design rules set by the smiling critters, exactly what do you mean by that? Like in your words what does a critter have to look like to be considered a smiling critter? I’m not trying to be rude or anything I’m just trying to understand what you mean

I dont find this rude don't worry- a lot of people don't actually notice this, but sometimes when a group of characters are designed together, in order to make them look cohesive, there are unspoken rules that may go unnoticed to viewers untrained eye, but helps keeps the characters looking like they came from the same place.

I mentioned, back when I was into Welcome Home, that they used a very special rainbow pallet that hardly ever included purple.

And when old black and white cartoons are brought up, there's specific clothing and anatomy (like pie cut eyes and hose-like limbs) that define the rules of the era.

If you want a cohesive character design, you have to pick out the rules, and then decide when breaking them would benefit the character in a way that won't break the viewers immersion.

Some of the most obvious rules I caught for the smiling critters:

- 2 color pallet.

- Simple Charms

- Tongues but NO TEETH

- Dynamic posing that speaks to their personality

Some of the critters break these rules for the benefit of diversity, but never ALL of them! Dogday is the leader, so he gets an extra color, Crafty is all white, but her CHARM is rainbow, so it balances it out. Kicken doesn't use a lot of his second color, because the LEADER is also using that color.

None of their charms get that detailed. All of them maintain the no teeth rule because that was the whole fucking point of their creepy factor- big open GAPING maws, no teeth. And all of their poses spoke to their personalities. Half of them aren't just *standing there* with a hand up for no reason, and none of them used the same pose.

Now let's compare with these rejects.

Ignoring the fact that Mob Entertainment failed to realize they didn't even post the right images for the first three nightmare critters they showed off (failing to include the iconic smiling critters line-shadow-effect)

-Simon, Maggie, Rabie, Allister and Touille break the color pallet rule, this amount needs to be lowered. To like 3 at most. Holy shit.

-Icky, Maggie, Touille, and Baba's charms are FAR to detailed, they do not need to be.

-THE TEETH OH MY GOD I HATE THE TEETH SO FUCKING MUCH you have ruined anything scary about them in one simply design choice I hope you're happy Mob entertainment.

- Touille and Allister have the same pose. Icky and Maggie have the same pose. Simon and Poe have the same pose. And NONE of them are as effective at telling their personalities as much as the smiling critters were.

Further more- even beyond rules. Icky is FUNDAMENTALY FLAWED as a design. They're ugly- not to mention we all struggled to know what the fuck he actually WAS supposed to be when he was released. It took someone pointing out that he didn't have a tail for me to realize he was one of those toxic frogs.

If you're gonna make something based on a group of characters you ALREADY made, and try to pass them off as new characters, I expect the rules to be the same. These are ugly knock offs made to sell more plushies on Mob entertainments website and I hate them with every FIBER of my being.

[jarofstyles]

Y/N goes over to her friends house to sleepover but then her friend somehow makes plans like while Y/N is still there but she can’t leave cause her friend was her ride. what she doesn’t know is her best friends brother (harry) is home and sees this all happening and is angry because his sister always doing this to Y/N so he spends the night with her

I am a complete sucker for best friend’s brother H… completely down bad so yes !! I got carried away so maybe I’ll continue this as a one shot, I don’t know.

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——

“What are you still doin’ here?” Harry stopped short as he passed the den, seeing Y/N sitting stiffly with her phone in hand. It wasn’t unlike her to be at their place, but he had heard his sister’s car leave 30 minutes prior. He knew they’d had plans, as they usually did during the weekend, so it had caught him off guard.

That, and the fact that he’d have put a shirt on if he knew she was around.

Y/N startled slightly as she looked up at him wide eyed. She didn’t have time to hide her bloodshot eyes or the fact her makeup was messed up, making his confusion grow.

The fuck had happened?

“Hey… hey, what happened? Thought you both were goin’ out to that new place for your birthday weekend.” He walked towards the couch to see that she was indeed dressed up. A cute little black dress and her hair straightened, glitter on her eyelids. Heels were kicked off to the side and she had her nails done in a deep red, something very unlike her. Harry paid a little too much attention to her, it seemed, and it wasn’t her normal soft pastel colored nails with a pretty design. She looked different.

Like she was trying to be the stereotypical version of sexy or something. He couldn’t exactly tell her that her normal looks were sexy in the cute, girl next door way, but this was more vixen, tear your heart out sort of thing. With a lot of shame, he momentarily wished the smeared makeup and tear tracks had been caused by choking on his cock rather than something birthing her heart- but that wasn’t something he should be thinking about right now.

“Um…” her noise was slightly nasally from the crying, eyes avoiding his gaze as he tenderly sat himself on the coffee table in front of her. “We were supposed to. But she… that guy she was seeing asked her to come to a quick trip.” Picking at her nails, she took a shuddery breath. “So she asked if we could do stuff next weekend.”

Harry’s brows furrowed at the situation. It didn’t make much sense, but neither did his sister. Unfortunately, he had seen that Livvy was one of those people who dropped everything for a man. She could have friends or a boyfriend. Both were a struggle for her.

Honestly, he’d been shocked that Y/N stuck around long as she had. He loved his sister to bits, but he wasn’t oblivious to her faults. Being boy crazy had never faired well for her friendships. Sometimes he had seen how she swooped in and took attention away from Y/N. He knew she loved her and cared about her, but his sister had some serious issues when it came to jealousy.

Y/N was ridiculously pretty. He’d been warned away from her, sure, but he had eyes. And a weird little distant crush he’d felt for her the last few years she’d come around. They had a polite friendship, but Livvy had been irritated about it and told him to keep a distance. Still, he knew she had to be jealous. They were both different types of pretty. He didn’t think much of his sister all things considered, but he thought a lot about the type of pretty Y/N was. It sort of thumped you in the chest and grew the longer you looked at her. And when you talked to her? Forget it. She was so fucking kind and attentive, one of those people you never doubted were listening to you. She was a little quiet at first but came out of her shell the longer he was around, and he’d liked everything he’d seen from her.

“That’s shit.” He whispered. “It’s your birthday weekend. It won’t be the same next weekend.” However that was the wrong thing to say, considering her eyes filled back with tears and he felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.” Reaching out for her hand, he squeezed lightly as he tried to make it better.

Maybe Livvy would be pissed about it later but she’d have no room to complain when it was her doing. When she got back he was going to chew her out, tell her how good of a friend Y/N was and how lucky she was to have her- but for now? It was his mission to make her happy.

Y/N was going to have a good birthday weekend. He’d be sure of it.

“Listen. Let me go get dressed and we’ll go out t’eat. Okay?” Maybe he was a little presumptuous by thinking she’d want to spend time with him, but he had to imagine she was upset because she didn’t have other plans. “We’ll go out to eat and then go to the store t’get your favorite snacks and stuff. Can even bake a cake if you want. We’ll come back n’eat and watch whatever trash reality show or cheesy movie you want. You can sleep in the guest room and I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow or I’ll pick you up… I’ve got the weekend off.”

Harry was getting ahead of himself by assuming she’d want to spend the weekend together but he really fucking wanted to. He never got to spend alone time with her. How could he possibly complain about spending his weekend with a pretty girl?

“You’d… you’d really want to do that?” Her eyes met his in disbelief. “Don’t you have other plans or something? I don’t want to bother you. I swear I didn’t sit here to get pity, I just need to call an Uber or something and I can leave-“

“I don’t have any other plans. I really don’t mind. It would be fun to get out and do something. We don’t have to.” He reassured, reaching out to fix her hair. It has stuck to her damp face and he knew it had to be uncomfortable. “I know we don’t hang out a lot or anything but I consider us friends. My sister is extremely shitty for doing this but I really would like to make sure you have a good birthday. If you’re uncomfortable-“

“I’m not!” She peeped, grabbing his arm. “Not at all. I just don’t want to ruin your plans.”

“Well, my plans are now yours. Let’s get dressed and go out for our own celebration, shall we?”

[maddascanbe-blog]

Oh guys. We are so back.

After ALMOST A YEAR I finally got around to drawing the guys. I started with Marc, because I already knew where I wanted too go with his design. All of their civilian designs need revisions, mostly because of art style changes.

I already mentioned in his first redesign that I was pretty much overhauling his personality. That's still true here. The only thing Marc lacks confidence in is his showing his writing to people, he's very friendly and really excited to try things his friends recommend, like soccer or joining art club. Just not with showing his fanfictions to people just yet. Hey we've all been there buddy.

He's got a decent following on Ao3 i'd imagine.

As for design, the darker skin tone is an obvious change, I kept misremembering Marc to have darker skin so I figured I'd role with it. I also made his hair brown instead of black and- Oh, oh fuck his hairstyle in cannon. Agh, it hurts. Note, I don't think Marc was intentionally supposed to look very fashionable, and I tried to carry that through here, bro is wearing mixed metals, a red jacket and a tye dye muscle tee, but at least the colors are a little nicer.

Reverser isn't too different, aside from the lack of hood and no lipstick. Mostly cause I spent 20 minutes struggling to draw his mouth. But I hope you can forgive me because I did give Rooster Bold lipstick instead!

I like rooster bolds design- in theory? I think it looks kind of off in cannon. Definitely my favorite design from Penalteam.

Oh and uh, the season 6 design, we've only seen him in the intro, but why is Rooster Bold 80% blue now?? When Oriko is explicitly orange?? Love the shoes though.

[Edit:]

I have also decided to change the Rooster Miraculous itself some. Now the power is called Chicken Scratch, and the function is that a user writes down a rule. But everyone must be effected by it, not just the attacker.

So theoretically, RB could write "Everytime someone score a point everytime they have the ball." But not "I score everytime I have the ball." So he needs to be clever about it. In addition, the rules tend to have a monkeys paw effect, so the user needs to be willing to take the bad with the good.

[mechncheese]

your designs are so peak! dyou think youd be willing to share some of your process for how you develop the looks you make?

Sure thing ! I'll take you on a journey into my mind's eye

Long text post ahead in case anyone's interested in my designing process

I start off with references-- lots of references. I pull inspiration from more than one iteration for a character ! For Brainstorm specifically I took the most inspiration from IDW Brainstorm with aspects from G1 like his darker/greener color.

Red Alert's darker color palette is also based on the TFA design with heavy IDW influence. First Aid's little doctor's coat was inspired by the Bayverse Crosshair's coat. Ratchet's design is based on his Prime, G1, IDW, and Cyberverse iterations but I took the most inspiration from his Prime design (I think Prime Ratchet is also my favorite Ratchet so I might be biased)

Before I begin designing anything, I map out the character's silhouette, it gives me a feel for the shapes I want and how they'd stand out in a lineup. Here's Wheeljack for an example.

Then I start the first draft/sketch. I just draw on top of the silhouette and adjust as I go, I'm mostly going based on what feels right to me.

Since a lot of the bots I was working with had White and Red color palettes I had to use different accent colors to break it up and I wanted to emphasize their shape language. I try to keep things from blurring together too much. I also used various off-white colors (it's very subtle) and different shades of red.

I also pull inspiration from figurines/model kits from gundams specifically-- honestly I do this mostly for the legs, I struggle a lot with making the legs look right so I look at Gundam legs for references on knee articulations and the ankles.

a lot of it is trial and error and it usually takes me more than one attempt before finalizing a design. Let me show you the monster that is my first Brainstorm attempt.

Good fucking god I have no idea what the hell I was thinking, literally the first thing I said to myself as I was finishing this was "Oh my god he is UGLY, I cannot keep him like that" he was not working out so I went back to the drawing board and worked small.

Here was my second draft of Brainstorm, I was thinking about his personality as I was working on him which I think helped a lot. Chaotically natured, I incorporated a lot of sharp shapes and I darkened his color palette to a sea green to let the red and yellow/orange accents stand out. It also emphasizes his more sinister personality while the broad yellow-accented shoulders paired with the extra red accents kind of give him this "show-off" and "full of himself" vibe.

My previous mistake was that the blue was far too bright and the orange and red were just clashing too much. Also his wings being flat against his back just did not fit him. I think I was too afraid to break to mold with Brainstorm-- Like there was this line between "This is not Brainstorm enough" or "This is too far from being Brainstorm" and then I remembered his very wise words

Then I just started to get adventurous and experimental and bam, we have Science AU Brainstorm. The major takeaway from this is don't be afraid to get wild with your designs.

In contrast, Since Prowl and Brainstorm will be seen around each other a lot, I kept Prowl's design less flashy and his palette limited, pulling heavily from IDW Prowl. It also fits his personality, he's much more serious and orderly. So when they're seen in the same drawing, there's this nice design compliment between Brainstorm and Prowl.

Another oopsies I did was initial First Aid attempt where I made his accent color orange for some reason. It looked really bad and I ended up changing it to blue which worked a lot better.

But yeah ! That's my general design process ! Play around, have fun and don't be afraid to get experimental and try some new things for designs !

[prosypepper]

dirty little secret - kento nanami

word count: 1.3k

warnings: nsfw (18+ mdni!), fashion designer nanami x model reader, kind of...bad? themes, idk how to describe it, cockwarming, female reader + descriptions of female anatomy, p in v, basically descriptions of someone "fucking their way to the top" if you will.

notes: hey! *posts this and runs away* (not tagging anyone in this cuz idk if u guys wanna see the nsfw stuff)

masterlist

the world of modeling came naturally to you.

runways were your area of expertise — watching you walk was an experience that permanently engrained itself into someone’s mind. effortlessly, you made the clothes look exceptional, no matter the cut or color — you made it all look simply glamorous. your face covered magazines across the globe, you made a ravishing appearance in every fashion week in every country.

you had your youth and your beauty and your fame; but more importantly you had him — kento nanami, world renowned fashion designer. he was known for his bold, out-of-the-box ideas, while bringing them to life in a beautiful, elegant manner. and you were his prized doll, making sure you were always front and center in all the collections he produced; you were his star.

mister nanami had taken you under his wing when you were just a random pretty face and tailored you into being one of the most sought-after girls in the fashion industry. he made sure everyone fell in love with you, just as much as he had fallen in love with you.

kento had his girls, his models and everyone that would come in and out of his brand — but you were the girl. but it all came with a price, of course, one you enthusiastically paid.

“now, i have to ask,” the reporter starts off, “rumors have made their way to the station, everyone wants to know: are you and kento nanami dating?” the reporter smiles big, a smile coated with malice as if she had you backed into a corner.

you furrow your eyebrows at the question, making her seem ridiculous for even asking such a thing. “mister nanami is my agent and the both of us just don’t feel that way towards one another. it’s insane how much these rumors get out of hand.” your reply is proper and ultimately sparing you of any more interrogation on the subject.

rumors die down after your response, something about your charm made all the fans in the fashion world believe you. but if they knew what was going on behind the closed doors of those presidential suites nanami bought for you, they’d consider it downright disgusting.

“you did so well tonight, dear,” nanami coos as he runs his fingertips up and down your thighs, “you looked just unbelievable out there. i’m so proud of you.” his eyes gaze over your figure, straddling him on the bed as he laid underneath you, body clad in a lace nightie – one he designed just for you, of course.

“thank you, kento,” you reply, goosebumps crawling under your skin at his soft touch.

he had kept such a spotless reputation in the media as the perfect businessman, allowing himself to be so intimate and carefree with you made you feel so lucky. you had risen to stardom because of him, and he was so happy to help you along the way.

you balance yourself on your palms, leaning down to give nanami a light peck on the lips, allowing yourself to become wrapped in his warmth. under the pretty little couture nightgown, nothing was separating the two of you, with kento having inserted himself inside of you multiple minutes ago, forcing your hips down on him to feel every motion you made.

hissing at the feeling when you lean down, nanami gives a light smile, so very pleased with how sensitive and tight you remained for him. he never got tired of the way you felt, always struggling to take him all the way, and the whines you made complaining how he was “too big” were always music to his ears.

“move…please…” you plead, rocking your hips the teeniest bit into kento, whimpering when his fingers stop on the flesh and hold you in place strictly.

“ah, you have an interview tomorrow, darling,” he refuses your advances, taking one of the hands that made him famous to dip down between your legs and rub your stiffened clit, “we can’t have you struggling to walk there, now, can we?”

“no…no,” you disappointedly mutter, sitting back up straight, hands still pressed against kento’s abdomen. you drop your head to look down, the area that connected you and kento hidden by pretty pattern of satin and lace of your favorite color. you could see his arm coming out from beneath the fabric, thumb slowly circling the sensitive bundle of nerves underneath, large hand out of view due to the nightgown.

kento adored the power he held over you at times like this, he loved denying your wishes, as you had gotten used to getting almost anything you wanted. secretly, he much preferred torturing you this way, forcing his most prized possession to become putty in his hands.

your slickened walls tighten around him at the ministrations of his finger, causing nanami to release a quiet groan as you bite your bottom lip to conceal any noises of your own. his tip gently kisses the deepest parts of you, feeling him effortlessly hit the sweet spot that he showed you.

nanami’s eyes watch you like a hawk, observing every little twitch and feeling every little spasm you give. your eyes flash up to his face, almost embarrassed to linger too long, seeing him with a proud stare and slightly opened jaw. when you look back away, his thumb becomes just the smallest bit faster, the new pace making you squeeze his length once again.

from the sensitivity kento caused and the pure sexiness of the man below you, you already begin to feel the little knot in your abdomen begin to swell up, you lightly buck your hips to meet his thumb.

“stop moving,” he commands, fingertips boring harsher into your hips. his grip doesn’t give up when you comply, his finger only moves faster – you don’t dare to move, no matter how many signals your body gives you to do so. you remain static, the only parts of you moving being your insides fluttering around kento’s girth while he continues to assault your clit.

nanami pulls your hips even more flush against his, only leaving space for his hand to move in cruel circles. your fingers curl into his soft blue button-up, the sensation in your core becoming tighter, inching closer and closer to the edge. it builds and builds as you stare directly where your hands are knotted into kento’s shirt, teeth sinking into your lip even harder – you’re sure you’re probably bleeding at this point.

“c-close…kento, so close – mmph,” you lightly cry, words becoming nothing more than an almost inaudible whisper, clenching the fabric in your hands tighter. nanami can detect how close you are, teetering on the edge of an orgasm that he had all the control over.

“aww,” he coos, “go on then, darling.” his thumb speeds up but a rhythm more, beckoning you to the verge of cumming, feeling you clenching impossibly tighter around him.

easily, the knot in your abdomen releases, making you squeeze your eyes shut and drop your mouth open, a string of curses leaving your pretty lips. your hips stutter against nanami, you can’t stop yourself as you ride out the orgasm he so perfectly induced. it takes you many seconds to come down, blinking away tears when you open your eyes again to look at kento.

you fall against his chest, legs still straddling him as your chest heaves from your previous state. nanami removes his hand from your core, bringing it to your hip as he coerces himself out of you. the cold air hits his arousal-coated length, but he pulls a soft blanket over the both of you, the warmth from both of your bodies getting trapped under the covers. he continues to pet your hair softly, pushing you to exhaustedly doze off.

 oh, how he hates that he has to keep this dirty little secret away from the world.

[rillils]

Don't forget that Steve and Bucky also match in Infinity War, something that HAD to have been done on purpose, because there's absolutely NO WAY they didn't see each other at all in between Steve's missions as Nomad. Meaning Bucky intentionally wore an outfit that not only matched Steve's in color (the dark, dirty blue) and ALSO called back to his Howling Commando jacket via the design of it (which Steve must've been head over heels for bc Bucky looked STUNNING in that jacket)

These two are married, your honor!!

MELES MY LOVE, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BRINGING THIS UP BC IT'S MY FAVOURITE THING ASGHDAGSH 💖💕💖💕💖💕

Like THERE 👏 IS 👏 NO 👏 WAY 👏 that this wasn't a conscious decision on Bucky’s part. He absolutely did it on purpose and canon practically provides us with proof of that!

I mean, let's take a step back here.

I think it's not only safe but also pretty legit to assume that Bucky didn't participate in any of the missions Steve and the team went on, considering that:

1) he didn't trust himself to stay out of cryo (much less out of Wakanda) for too long until he was finally free from the trigger words;

2) once that happened, he was only focused on recovering, resting (in T'challa's words) and finding some calm (in Bucky's own words);

3) he didn't even get the new vibranium arm until earlier that day, and fighting without it would have put him at a disadvantage.

Now, while he was healing and enjoying his skype sessions and conjugal visits with Steve, he wouldn't have needed a suit like this, or any tac gear; nothing beyond the comfy work clothes we see him wearing earlier in the movie. So where does this suit come from? He definitely didn't have it on him when he and Steve first made it to Wakanda.

there's absolutely NO WAY they didn't see each other at all in between Steve's missions as Nomad. Meaning Bucky intentionally wore an outfit that not only matched Steve's in color (the dark, dirty blue)

I LOVE YOU because fuck yes they MUST have met during that time, and fuck yes he absolutely saw the state Steve's suit was in.

He probably watched it happen, month after month, visit after visit, noticing how Steve had ripped the star off his chest. How the red of the stripes had faded into a muddy brown, how the white was now a dirty grey.

How Steve still kept his shield harness, even when the shield itself was long gone - maybe out of habit, maybe to seek that sense of security it gave him after so long wearing it like a second skin. Maybe feeling the ache of this phantom limb, carrying the ghost of its weight on his shoulders still, but never regretting leaving it behind for Bucky - just like Bucky could never bring himself to regret staying by Steve's side throughout the war, and losing all he lost afterwards.

And I may be reading too much into this (hell, I'm willing to read a whole fucking essay into this), but can you really tell me that THESE

don't remind you, even in the subtlest way, of THESE??????

Which is why, I insist: IT WAS DELIBERATE on Bucky's part. It was so fucking deliberate I'm going to cry, honey.

Because at some point, either on the same day this battle happened or sometime before that, probably sensing that something bad was coming, Bucky acquired this suit. Maybe he borrowed it, maybe he bought it off someone. He could have gotten a brand new one, right? Instead, out of all the things he could have worn, he picked this: the blue jacket, the brown pants, all of it well-worn and stained, just like Steve's.

Perfectly matching Steve's suit.

Perfectly matching the suit Bucky used to wear way back in the day.

And it makes me wanna sob, because this is Bucky after the trigger words. This is a Bucky who has been living among people who know perfectly well who he is, but they don't treat him like a danger, like a weapon, or hell, like a name from a black-and-white past.

This is a Bucky who has been reclaiming his own identity, who has been struggling to find himself again, to discover who he is now, in the new century, after everything he's lost.

And I believe Bucky's telling us who he is, right here. No matter what year it is, he is Steve's man. He wears Steve's colours. He fights with Steve, for Steve, always. This is where his loyalties lie, and he's proud to show it off, to anyone willing to look.

I think in that sense, it is also very much a declaration of love. And it's so fucking romantic, okay, because!! Here, at the end of the world?

He's paying homage to their past, while reaffirming in the present that today, and for every day ahead of them, until the end of the line, until that future they were always walking towards hand in hand, he belongs with Steve. Come what may.

Also don't even get me started on how they're growing out their beards and hair TOGETHER 'cause I'll never stop fgdjgsjshdk

In conclusion: THESE BITCHES ARE SO MARRIED THAT THEY GOTTA MATCH EVEN WHILE MARCHING INTO BATTLE, THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK *drops mic*

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Blood singer, part 3

Summary: Hiding from the storm, Jasper is tested as he finds himself close to Y/N for much longer than he had hoped.

Warnings (be mindful of your triggers): injury, blood and death, angst, fluff, grief, swearing, sexual content, mentions of mental health struggles, alcohol, detailed descriptions including physical harm

Pairing: Jasper Hale x human!reader (blood singer), Paul Lahote x human!reader

Word count: 10.1k

Blood singer - Series Masterlist

Teeth chattering, Y/N clings to Jasper, even though his skin is just as cold as hers, if not colder. It's counterproductive. She knows that, but her body refuses to let go. Logic says she should pull away, give him space and stop abusing his kindness, but his touch feels like salvation.

There’s no fire in his hands, only ice. Yet somehow, it burns. It seeps deep into her bones, awakening a part of her soul she long set to rest. All her life, she craved warmth, Paul’s warmth. That human, familiar kind. But this? This icy flame Jasper lights in her makes her feel more alive than any heat ever could.

And God, the way he smiles at her.

Her heart skips a beat every time his lips curl just slightly, just enough to incite the feeble muscle on a course of pure insanity. His voice alone seems to unravel her nerves, twisting her up and settling her all at once, disturbing the rhythm of her pulse. Even now, with his jaw tight and posture stiff, like he's trying to hold himself back from something, he looks at her like she’s the only thing anchoring him.

As he walks inside the cabin, she inhales deeply. To her dismay, she knows he needs to put her down. He can't carry her forever.

So she taps his shoulder lightly. “You can let me go now,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry,” Jasper murmurs, his voice smooth but a little too strained, like it takes effort to speak. He lowers her carefully onto the couch, his movements overly cautious, as if touching her too long might break his control.

She shakes her head, offering a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not.”

He licks his lips, clearly flustered, and then offers her one more of those slow, devastating smiles that could stop the world from spinning. It damn near stops her heart and she has to physically restrain herself from squealing like a teenager with a crush. This can’t be healthy. She doesn’t even know him. Not really.

But he makes her feel… light.

Like the darkness inside her, all the anxiety, the pain, the pressure was never even there. She doesn’t understand it, but something in her soul recognizes him. She feels safe with him. Maybe a little too safe.

“I should set up the fireplace,” Jasper says, finally breaking the moment, “Warm up the place.” He nods toward the hallway behind him. “You’ll find some dry clothes in the bedroom. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” she says, standing with a wobble. She’s soaked to the bone and freezing, and any clothing that’s not clinging to her like a second skin will be a step up.

The bedroom is warm, bathed in honey-colored light from a small lamp in the corner. The bed is centered beneath a large, tinted window, and a closet stands tall beside it. It’s simple. Rustic. Comforting. She wonders if this is his room, if he chose this color palette, if amber is his favorite shade.

Bracing for some vintage cowboy fashion, she opens the closet, only to freeze.

Dozens of dresses greet her. Not jeans. Not flannel. Not even a dusty old hat. Just designer dresses; sleek, expensive, feminine. Her jaw drops.

“What the actual fuck…” she whispers, flipping through them. Labels that most people would kill for. Some are still tagged. Others look barely worn. A chill races down her spine, this time not from the cold.

Why the hell does Jasper have a wardrobe full of high-end women’s clothing?

Her heart rate spikes.

Did he break into this place? Was he following her? Did he plan this?  Is she in a damn Lifetime movie?

The thoughts spiral faster than her heart can keep up. She doesn’t even know where they are. What if he brought her here on purpose? What if…

“You alright, darlin’?”

She gasps, whipping around so fast her wet hair slaps her neck. Jasper’s leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, that unreadable look on his face. He seems calm, but his eyes…they’re a little too sharp. A little too dark…Where has the golden gone?

Still, the way his presence makes her nerves soothe is suspicious. She recognizes it now. It’s as if he is doing something. Jasper’s presence feels like a weighted blanket, steadying her breathing, grounding her thoughts. She swallows hard.

“Be honest,” she says. “You’re not, like…a criminal or something, are you?”

His brow arches, and he lets out a soft, breathless chuckle. “What? Why would you think that?”

“I mean, look.” She gestures wildly toward the closet. “You have, like, a dozen high-fashion dresses in here. Unless you’re secretly married or have a very niche hobby, this looks like a setup. Like… a really weird hostage situation.”

Amusement sparks in his darkened eyes. “It’s my brother’s cabin,” he says with a lazy shrug. “His wife’s real into fashion. Leaves her stuff here.”

She stares at him, wishing the ground would just swallow her whole. But Jasper only grins wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. If he thinks she’s amusing now, he should see her with her claws out. Might erase that confident smirk right off his face.

“But if you’re into roleplay,” he adds, voice low and teasing, “I won’t put up a fight.”

She snorts, folding her arms across her chest as she leans against the closet. “Might take you up on that, Cowboy.”

His grin turns lopsided, lazy and cocky, but his eyes stay locked on hers, darker now, like storm clouds just before a downpour. The warmth that spreads through her is instant, crawling beneath her damp skin, finding a home low in her belly. He doesn’t even have to touch her to ignite something. The way he looks at her is dangerous. Addictive. Trouble with a capital T. Girls probably fall for him in seconds. But Y/N? She’s far too proud to admit she desires him openly, resorting to teasing. Her specialty isn’t the fire most are drawn to, it’s ice. Cold, calculating, distant when she needs to be.

And yet…

There’s something in his stillness that mirrors hers. Something cool. Controlled. Until it’s not.

She shifts slightly, and Jasper’s eyes dip, just for a second. She doesn’t miss it. Neither does he. Her shirt is soaked clean through, clinging to her skin in all the worst ways. The thin fabric does nothing to hide the curve of her breasts or the black, lacy bra covering them. She knows she should be embarrassed.

She’s not.

Not when Jasper’s shirt is just as wet. Just as translucent. She can see every line of his chest, the way it narrows down to his waist, the sharp dip of his collarbones and the delicious happy trail. And damn him, he knows it. Knows exactly what kind of effect he’s having on her.

“You know,” she drawls, voice silky, “I was going to change out of these clothes. But… With you standing there, giving me a nice view, it feels a little unfair not to return the favor for a moment or two longer.”

Jasper’s brow lifts slightly, a slow smirk tugging at the corner his mouth. “You think I haven’t noticed, darlin’? Been tryin’ not to stare like a gentleman.”

“Failing miserably,” she murmurs, stepping toward him, a single step, measured. Testing.

Jasper’s throat bobs as he swallows. His hands curl into fists at his sides, his jaw ticking, but he doesn’t move back. Doesn’t breathe. And she feels it, his presence wrapping around her, trying to still her racing heart. Trying to calm her, like she’s some wild creature that might bolt if he makes a wrong move. How does he do that?

One thing is certain. She’s not running. Not tonight.

She takes another step, now close enough to reach out. And she does, just lightly brushing the soaked fabric over his chest with the back of her fingers. His shirt clings like a second skin, and he tenses beneath her touch, muscles rippling beneath her fingertips. Still, he lets her, almost as if he’s been waiting for her to make a move.

“You’re freezing,” she murmurs. She doesn’t mention his hard muscles. She’s never touched someone like that, ripped to the point of feeling like marble.

His voice comes out rougher than it was a moment ago. “So are you.”

“So warm me up.”

His gaze sharpens like a blade. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

She meets his gaze head on, daring him. “Maybe I do.”

That breaks some of his resolve. Not all the way, but enough.

Jasper closes the distance between them with terrifying, graceful ease, pressing her into the closet door. One of his hands lifts, fingers grazing the curve of her jaw, trailing just beneath her ear. It’s such a gentle touch, but the way her body shivers under his fingertips drives him insane.

“You’re playin’ with fire,” he says, voice low, the southern drawl thicker now. Rougher. It drips with warning. Hunger. “And fire melts ice, sweetheart.”

Y/N smirks, heart beating far too fast. She’s not letting him believe he’s winning though. “I thought you were cold.”

He lets out a soft, humorless chuckle, but his eyes stay locked on hers, black with no gold in sight, wild, and aching. “I am. That’s the problem.”

Did he…Did he imply he’s she’s the fire melting him? Good, she thinks. I’m winning. And if she must become a flame to get this man to surrender, she will let the fire reign.

His thumb brushes over her bottom lip, featherlight, but it leaves her dizzy. She should move. She should think. But all her body wants is more.

Jasper leans in just slightly, like gravity’s pulling him closer against his will. She can feel the tension in him, how tightly wound he is, how hard he’s working to stay in control. He wants her. That much is obvious. But it’s not just want. It’s something deeper. Something almost dangerous.

And she’s loving every second of it.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over her lips.

Her lips part, but no sound comes. Her heart thunders, her skin tingles, and every inch of her screams for more. Her voice, when it finally emerges, is soft and certain.

“I’m not that nice.”

Jasper closes his eyes for a moment, just one, and when they open again, there’s a war inside them. Then, with a breath that sounds almost like a growl, he steps back. Just far enough to put space between them, yet close enough for her to still feel him.

“Get changed,” he says, voice strained. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

Y/N bites back a smile, the heat in her chest flaring. “You regret things easily?”

His eyes drag over her one more time, lingering like a promise. “Only if I mess ‘em up.”

“If you don’t want to touch, it’s fine by me.” She lets the words hang, tilting her head slightly as a devilish smirk appears on her lips. “But you’re free to look if you want to stay for the show?”

His eyes darken, not with lust, exactly, but something more primal. His eyes meet hers. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink.

Her heart skips three beats and then pounds back with a vengeance. The room is quiet. Too quiet. She swallows hard, and the blush creeping up her neck gives her away. Jasper notices. His stern expression softens into something tender, almost…shy.

 “Don’t tempt me, darlin’,” he says, voice is low. “I’ll leave you to it,” he murmurs, offering a small nod.

And with that, he turns, disappearing down the hall, leaving her to catch her breath and pretend like her knees aren’t shaking. She finally lets out the breath she’s been holding and her lungs feel like they just ran a marathon. She plants her hands on her knees, trying to steady herself.

Jasper is going to be the death of her. And for once…she doesn’t mind the idea. She’s rarely ever pursued men like this. It’s as if the mere thought of him is bringing her to the brink of madness. Whatever it may be, Jasper is different. Something isn’t quite right about him or the way his presence causes her to act and yet she finds no regrets about any of it.

She was wrong about Paul. She might be wrong about Jasper. To hell with consequences! Her heart’s broken anyway. It may fracture to the point of no return…or it may heal. Feeling this drawn to someone is rare. Of course, it could be caused by her near death experience and yet she doesn’t care. She’ll discover it along the way and the way might be leading her straight to hell, but at least she’ll make sure she enjoys the ride.

The closet is full of surprises. She pushes hangers aside until her fingers brush against silk. Her eyes catch the shimmer of crimson, a deep, blood-red nightgown tucked in the far back. It’s soft, almost liquid to the touch, sliding like water through her fingers. When she pulls it out, her brows lift in surprise. It’s... simple. Elegant. A little sexy without trying to be. The kind of fabric that kisses the skin when you move. It falls to mid-thigh, the top a delicate web of lace that dips low, supported by slim, almost invisible straps. No sleeves. No bra. No armor.

She hesitates, her heart doing that annoying flutter thing again.

She slips it on anyway. Over it, she finds a matching robe, same rich crimson, edged in subtle lace, loose enough to keep things comfortable but tied snugly around her waist. The cool silk caresses her skin and clings in places it probably shouldn’t.

Her reflection in the small mirror over the dresser stops her. For a second, she doesn’t recognize herself. She looks like she’s about to seduce a man instead of relax by the fireplace until the storm ends.

With a sigh that’s half exasperation and half laughter, she gathers her hair up into a messy bun, strands falling loose around her ears. The motion exposes her neck, pale and vulnerable. She considers letting her hair back down but... no. She likes the honesty of this. It feels brave in a quiet way. She washes her face, the last remnants of her make up. She’s bare now, entirely vulnerable to his gaze.

Then she pauses.

This is insane.

You’re acting like a damn cat in heat, she scolds herself silently, adjusting the robe’s tie. Her fingers linger at her waist, and she forces herself to breathe.

This isn’t about sex. Not this time. She’s learned her lesson with Paul, burned herself on the promise of something hot and fast that turned to smoke in her hands. That’s not what she wants from Jasper. She wants to know him slowly. Carefully. Until she’s learned every corner of his soul. And if he lets her... she might just show him every hidden part of hers too.

Composing herself, she pads back into the hallway, bare feet silent on the wooden floor.

The small living room glows softly, bathed in the gold orange flicker of firelight, and a night-lamp by the doorway. The flames dance lazily in the hearth, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls.

And there he is.

Jasper sits low in a chair just in front of the fireplace, his back to her, the light tracing the silhouette of his broad shoulders and long frame. His legs stretch out in front of him, relaxed, and his posture is looser now. He’s not stiff like before. But there’s still that… tension. Always with him.

She holds her breath as she studies him.

His hair is drying, slightly wavy, reaching his shoulders. That golden honey tone gleams darker in the firelight, tousled and imperfect in the most perfect way. His skin glows pale and smooth, almost too flawless. And his jaw… it’s sharp with a quiet restraint, like he’s sculpted from stone. But it’s his lips that hold her hostage, pressed together, unreadable, in control. She wonders what they’d feel like if he ever let go of all that restraint. Jasper is beautiful in a way most men aren’t. Not pretty. Not handsome. Beautiful. Angelic. A creature from a painting brought to life.

She smiles softly, involuntarily, as memory flickers to life.

She has seen him before.

Just once or twice. Passing glances in Forks, back when she visited her grandmother at the hospital. Her grandmother had raved about Dr. Cullen, how kind and polite he was and of his well behaved children she wanted to set her up with. She talked about their unusual beauty and more than once, she mentioned the “quiet southern one” with the saddest eyes that seemed to be in perpetual pain. Y/N always thought she was imagining things. Now… now she knows she wasn’t.

The wedding of Bella Swan with Edward Cullen. That was the last time.

Her grandmother had been invited but passed before she could go. Y/N brought the gift in her place. Just an awkward drop-off. But the Cullens had all been there. She remembers the short girl beside Jasper. The way he looked at her back then, fond, maybe even in love. Everyone said they were adopted into the family. He went by Hale, if she remembers correctly.

And then she left.

Now, here he is, sitting in front of her like a beautiful ghost. She can’t help but wonder if his restrain is due to his feelings for the adopted sibling he was with. If rumors were true, they were together back then. Are they still? Or was the pain in his eyes born from heartbreak she caused?

“I can feel you starin’, sweetheart.” His voice rumbles through the quiet like a secret. He doesn’t even turn around.

Her lips curl. She bites her lower lip to hide her smile. “I think I prefer darling.”

He turns his head, just slightly. Enough to catch her in his peripheral. She sees the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. “I’ll make sure to remember that,” he says.

His eyes glance down, flicker, just for a moment, over the length of her, then back to her face. But that one look is enough. She can’t stop the blood rushing to her face, and she’s done hiding the blush it brings.

She walks closer, slowly, barefoot steps padded and quiet. But he hears her anyway. Probably knew where she was before she moved. There is something between them, something wordless she can’t quite explain. Not quite desire. Not yet. But the possibility of it.

She sinks onto the couch across from him, crossing her legs casually.

“Nice fire,” she says lightly.

His gaze lingers on her face. “You’re not cold anymore.”

“No,” she says softly. “Not at all.”

The silence between them is comfortable but weighted. The only sound is the crackling fire, its warmth only fueling the tension growing between them. Neither of them speaks. Neither of them moves much. She watches the flames, but her gaze drifts. Always back to him.

Jasper’s eyes are cast downward, though he’s not really watching the fire. He seems lost in thought, jaw tense, the tip of his finger tapping against the arm of the chair in a slow, restless rhythm.

She can’t help but steal glances.

Again. And again.

The golden hue of his eyes has returned, it shimmers in the low light, intense and quiet all at once. Familiar.

Too familiar.

Her breath hitches. She’s seen them before. Not just at the wedding. Not just tonight. But inthe dream.

That recurring dream she never quite understood. The one that left her aching and hollow every time she woke. A figure in the dark. A storm outside. Golden eyes glowing in the shadows, looking right into her, like they’d always known her. And she’d reach for him, desperate, always desperate, and wake up before her fingers could touch him.

She thought it was a metaphor. A manifestation of loneliness. Of longing.

But those eyes?

They're his.

Her heart skips a beat. She saw those eyes recently, as well.

“I saw you before,” she says, almost absently, like the words slip past her lips before she can second guess them.

Jasper freezes. He doesn't look at her. Not right away. But the tapping stops. His whole body goes still, so still it’s unnatural. Tension spikes, growing in the space between them, and for the first time tonight, it’s not playful. It’s something colder. Darker.

His voice is low, cautious. “When?”

She tilts her head, brows drawing together as she watches him. “The other night,” she says slowly. “I think I stumbled into you. You caught me before I fell.”

Jasper exhales. His shoulders drop. Relief flickers across his face like wind snuffing out a flame, and he finally meets her gaze. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That was me.”

“You left pretty fast,” she adds, her voice lighter now, testing him, watching him closely. “Why?”

He shrugs, looking away again, his jaw ticking just slightly. “You seemed... busy.”

“Busy?”

“There was a guy.” His tone is flat. The accent thicker. “He was walking toward you with roses.”

Her lips part. And then she laughs, warm and genuine, caught off guard. “Oh my God.”

He looks back at her, brows lifted, uncertain.

“I hate roses,” she says, smiling wide. “They always feel like a cop out. Like the guy couldn’t be bothered to think for more than ten seconds.”

Jasper blinks, processing that.

“And the guy?” she continues, rolling her eyes. “Let’s just say... he’s very much out of my life. Where he belongs.”

A flicker of something shifts behind his eyes. A subtle satisfaction. It’s there and gone in a second, but she sees it. His lips twitch, and for a moment, he looks smug.

“Is that right?” he murmurs, and the warmth in his voice makes her toes curl.

“Mm-hm.” She leans back slightly, watching him from beneath her lashes. “So if you disappeared because you thought I was on a date with Mr. Red Roses, I’m here to clear it up. Just in case that’s why you were holding back.”

His eyes are on her again, fully this time. No restraint.

The firelight dances in the reflection of his gaze, and the tension from before doesn’t vanish completely. It just shifts into something else. Something quieter. Hotter.

“Noted,” Jasper says at last, his voice velvet soft and unmistakably pleased.

She smiles at him, soft and secretive, her heart fluttering in her chest like it hasn’t in years. And as the fire crackles and the silence fills the room once more, it’s no longer heavy.

Blinking slowly, she reminds herself to breathe, inhale, exhale, don’t fall apart. But it’s not easy, not when Jasper is looking at her like that. His golden eyes glow in the low light, molten and unreadable, and she feels like she’s standing too close to something she should be afraid of.

But she isn’t.

She’s captivated.

"Your eyes are like liquid fire," she murmurs, her voice soft, words leaving her before she can weigh their weight. "I fear the burn… but I cannot look away."

Jasper’s lips twitch at the corners, a faint smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. His gaze stays locked on hers, unwavering. "You sure you’re not the poet, darlin’?"

His voice is low, rich like dark honey, and it’s impossible to remain ice cold as she initially planned.

"You bring it out of me," she replies, chin tilted ever so slightly, matching his smirk with one of her own. "I don’t do this often, you know."

"Flirt with strange men in little cabins in the woods?" he drawls.

"Compliment their eyes while half-dressed," she clarifies, raising a brow. "Totally different."

Jasper’s gaze flickers downward, just once, just enough to remind her that her robe, though tied, clings to the curves beneath. He hasn’t changed his clothes. His shirt is still damp, clinging to his frame in a way that should be illegal. She can see the definition of his chest, the broad cut of his shoulders, the faint pattern of bluish veins on his forearms as he rests them lazily against the chair’s armrests, the tension in every inch of him like a spring ready to snap.

And yet, he doesn’t move. He just watches her.

"What's your favorite color?" she asks, wanting to ground herself and lustful thoughts before she combusts.

Jasper raises an eyebrow, almost caught off guard by the simplicity of it. "My favorite color?"

"You heard me." She tucks her legs under her body slowly, watching the way his eyes follow the movement before moving back to her face with a faint edge of restraint.

He chuckles softly, surprised. Then glances at the fire, as if searching for the answer there. "No one’s ever asked me that before."

She frowns, genuinely stunned. “You’re kidding.”

But something about the way he says it, quietly, almost hesitant, makes her believe it. There’s truth in it. Pain, too. She sees it then, emerging behind those golden eyes, buried beneath years of silence and shadows. The light from the fire doesn’t just dance across his skin, it reflects all the things he tries to keep buried. It catches on the cracks.

“It’s red,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Deep red.”

His smile is small but real. She swears it steals the breath from her lungs. Red like her nightgown and robe, she realizes. Even unintentionally, she’s trying to seduce him.

"I would've guessed… green," she teases. "You have that forest recluse vibe."

He huffs a laugh. “Not quite.” Then his eyes narrow playfully. “You strike me as a purple girl.”

She gasps, mock offense showing across her features. “Wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Blue,” she says with a grin of victory. “Like the sky… like freedom. Ever changing shades of blue that make up every part of our lives.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for her to avert her gaze shyly.

"Freedom, huh?" Jasper echoes, like the word tastes unfamiliar to him.

Her smile softens. “What about the season? What’s yours?”

He leans back, resting his head against the chair. His profile in the glow of the fire looks carved, almost unreal, sharp lines, sculpted features, that unruly hair drying in soft waves. She has to remind herself he’s real. That she’s here. That this isn’t another dream.

“Fall,” he says eventually. “It’s colorful… but everything’s fading. There’s something honest about it.”

Thunder rumbles low in the distance, a reminder that the world outside this cabin is wet, wild, and cold. But inside, it’s warm. Warmer than ever before. And safe… for now.

“You’re not what I expected,” she admits, watching him with curiosity.

His eyes meet hers again, calm but cautious. “What did you expect?”

She shrugs. “A flirt. A cowboy. A mystery. But I didn’t expect you to be… kind.”

That startles him. Not in a dramatic way, but in the flicker of his eyes, the slight movement in his shoulders. Like her words hit somewhere deeper than he expected.

“You don’t know me,” he says.

“I’m starting to.”

And something in his expression shifts. He straightens a little, just enough that the damp fabric of his shirt stretches across his chest again. She wonders if he notices the way her gaze lingers on him now, the way her breath is forgotten when he licks his bottom lip absently.

She doesn’t say anything about it, but her heart is pounding.

He’s too perfect. Too careful. Too calm. Every move he makes seems calculated. It goes against every natural instinct she’s learned. Every red flag she's ever ignored before being burned. Yet here she is. Still leaning in. Still falling.

“You’re dangerous,” she says suddenly, smiling through it.

Jasper tilts his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be,” she murmurs, shifting slightly on the couch, the robe slipping to reveal a sliver of her thigh.

Jasper’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move.

“Do you always seduce women by lighting fires and answering personal questions?” she asks, her tone light, teasing.

He smiles, just barely. “Only the ones I save from drowning.”

Her laugh is soft, breathy. “It’s a good thing I didn’t have to sing like Ariel to draw you in. I’m a terrible singer.”

“No need for singing,” he says, his voice dropping low, eyes darkening slightly. “I’d find you anyway.”

She swallows. He looks at her like he’s memorizing her. Like he’s restraining himself, but she wishes he’d stop. The storm outside rages inside her as well, and she needs to know if he feels it too.

She shifts on the couch again, the soft rustle of silk brushing against her skin. Jasper's eyes flicker toward the sound, briefly, before returning to her face. But that brief flicker is all she needs to know he notices everything.

She should look away, but she doesn’t.

Instead, her voice lowers as she leans a fraction forward, the firelight painting her skin in honey and shadows. "You said something earlier," she murmurs. "About no one ever asking your favorite color."

Jasper nods once, slow. Measured. “Mmhm.”

"Made me wonder…" Her gaze drops to the fire, lashes casting shadows on her cheek. Her tone is soft, almost musing, like she’s trying not to sound like she’s fishing, but she is. "Have you always been alone? Or just… lately?"

That gets his attention. She feels the shift before she sees it, like the world stops and gravity itself tilts toward her just slightly. When she meets his gaze again, it's already locked on her, heavy with something she can't quite name.

"Is that your way of asking if I’m single?" he says, one brow arching with just enough amusement to take the edge off the raw honesty underneath.

She huffs a soft laugh, caught. A flush rises to her cheeks, warm and betraying, but she doesn’t look away. “Maybe. I like to think I’m more subtle than that.”

“You’re not.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes not leaving hers. “But I don’t mind.” He pauses. “I’ve been alone for a while now,” he says, voice quieter. Still warm, still steady, but pained. “Long enough that it stopped feeling strange.”

She nods slowly, letting the words settle. And then, because she can't help herself, she continues. “Was it by choice?”

Jasper doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze lowers, down to her lips, her throat, the pulse that jumps beneath her skin, and then locks on her again,

“Not at first.”

She swallows. “And now?”

His smile is soft. Shadowed. “Now I think some things happen when they’re meant to.”

She wonders if that’s meant for her. The fire cracks beside them, thunder still rolling faintly in the distance. The storm hasn’t passed, but in here, it might as well not exist.

“Are you asking because you’re thinking about changing that for me?” he teases, voice low.

She smirks, though her stomach flips. “Would it be a problem if I were?”

He lets the silence set again, a practiced pause, like he’s savoring the weight of her words before letting his answer fall: “No,” he says. “No problem at all.”

Her pulse pounds louder in her ears, but she plays it cool, leaning back slowly and smoothing the edge of her robe where it’s fallen slightly open at her thigh. “Good. I’d hate to waste a perfectly good storm on poor timing.”

Jasper leans back in his chair, watching her like she’s both a challenge and reward. “Darlin’, with you here…” He tilts his head, a slow grin forming. “Timing feels just right.”

His words linger in the air, rich and slow like honey dripping from a spoon.

Timing feels just right.

The way he says it, how it bears intention, makes her stomach flutter. She’s not easily rattled, but Jasper is a dangerous exception.

“You always talk like that?” she teases, stretching her legs across the couch, draping herself like she’s in control of this entire exchange, when she absolutely is not. “Or am I just a special case?”

His gaze falls to the ground. “I want to answer, but it wouldn’t be polite to say what I’m thinkin’,” he replies.

That does something to her. She swallows, glancing at the fire to cool the flush rising to her cheeks. Her fingers fiddle idly with the edge of the robe belt tied at her waist, nerves masked as restlessness.

Jasper shifts subtly in his chair, sitting a little stiffer now, as if resisting the urge to move closer. His knuckles seem paler against his knees, hands clenched tight, so still. Unnaturally still. Her eyes move toward his chest, narrowing slightly. Is he even breathing?

“Are you…” she trails off before she can finish the question, unsure what she’s even asking. She frowns softly, watching him too closely now. “You’re… hard to read.”

His head tilts slightly. “That so?” His tone is amused, but there’s tension beneath it, like he’s trying to play casual while keeping a tight grip on something unruly just beneath the surface.

“You’re calm. Too calm.” Her voice is soft, speculative, like she’s thinking out loud. “You barely move. You barely blink. It’s like… you’re not even breathing.”

That earns her a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not fear, not annoyance, something like... regret. Guilt, maybe. It's gone before she can name it.

“I do breathe,” he says evenly, lips twitching into a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just not when it’s difficult.”

Her brows knit. He doesn’t make any sense “Difficult?”

Another pause. He shifts again, a subtle turn of his body away from her, like distance might help. She notices how tightly he holds himself, like one wrong move might crack him wide open and she’d catch sight of his soul on display.

Jasper’s jaw tightens. “You make the air… a little thick, is all.”

Her breath catches at the implication, heart thudding. “You blaming me, Cowboy? Telling me I smell bad?” she teases.

“I’m saying it’s not your fault your presence is…intoxicating,” he murmurs, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “But I reserve the right to suffer because of it.”

That gets a breathy laugh out of her before she can stop it. “You’re really pulling out all the lines tonight, huh?”

He finally turns fully to her again, and his expression softens. No grin. No teasing. Just quiet intensity.

“I’m not tryin’ to charm you,” he says, voice low. “You’re just… easy to talk to. Easy to look at.”

Something flutters in her chest, wild and unexpected. She’s not the only one who feels it then. And yet, there’s still that distance in his body. The way his fingers grip the chair too tightly, the way his shoulders lock, like he’s constantly reminding himself to stay exactly where he is. She wonders again if he’s fighting something she can’t see.

Y/N leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch, not with suspicion, but curiosity. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a lot you’re not saying?”

Jasper hesitates. There it is, that flicker again. This time not just in his eyes but in the way his entire body goes just a little too still, like he's deciding between fight or flight.

“I’ve been told I’m a hard person to get to know,” he admits, training his eyes on the fire. “That I keep my true self hidden.”

“Maybe,” she says softly, tilting her head. “Or maybe you’re just scared someone might see too much and use it against you.”

That makes him look at her again, really look. Something shifts in his expression then, and for the first time tonight, he looks… unsettled. But he doesn��t deny it. Instead, he clears his throat and leans back in his chair, creating just enough space to keep whatever storm is inside him from spilling over.

“Tell me more about the man with the roses,” he says abruptly, deflecting with calculated ease. “You said you hated both?”

She laughs, letting him have the shift in conversation, for now. “I did. I do.”

He smirks. “What kind of woman hates roses?”

“The kind who likes honesty over grand gestures. And prefers thorns out in the open.”

That earns a quiet chuckle from him. “Noted.”

Their eyes meet again, and this time, neither looks away. Y/N tugs the robe closer around her body, more out of instinct than chill, because despite the warmth of the fire, there's something in Jasper’s gaze that makes her skin prickle. It's not fear. It's want.

He shifts again, subtly angling his body toward her as though gravity itself favors her presence. But still, not a single unnecessary movement. Still no breath.

“I’m trying to figure you out,” she says softly, her lips curving as she rests her elbow on the armrest. “You seem to act like you’re made of stone.”

He chuckles low in his throat, the sound dark and husky. “Stone’s more accurate than you think.”

“See? There you go again,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “Being cryptic. It’s infuriating.”

His eyes flash at that, and for a second, the teasing slips from his face. Something lingers there. Almost like he is wounded.

“You’re not the only one who’s been burned before,” he says quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

Her smile fades, gaze narrowing as she leans in, heart thudding just a little harder. “That sounded like the beginning of a story.”

Jasper stiffens. His jaw tenses, and he glances down at his hands like he’s just remembered he has them. She watches his knuckles go white again, the firelight catching the fine tremble in his fingers.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he says quietly. “Ones that don’t go away with time.”

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. She just watches him, lips parting slightly as if to invite more, but he doesn’t continue. He swallows hard, like the words are sitting razor-edged in his throat, and one more would tear him open.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” she says gently. No wonder he is so guarded. Is he afraid she’d be a mistake, as well? “But that? That was the most human thing I’ve heard all night.”

He looks up at her then, and for the first time, his gaze isn't guarded. It’s aching. Vulnerable.

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” he breathes.

“It is,” she says simply. “People carry their damage. Doesn’t make them less worth knowing.”

Jasper’s lips twitch, almost a smile… almost, but there’s something close to fear dancing in his eyes now. Like she’s getting too close to something he’s buried deep. She can feel him pulling back again, emotionally if not physically.

Before she can push further, before she can even ask the question dancing on the edge of her tongue.

CRACK.

The entire cabin rattles as thunder explodes overhead, so loud it sounds like the heavens have split in half. The lamp light flickers, the fire jumps, and Y/N jumps too, a startled gasp leaving her lips as she instinctively presses a hand to her chest.

Jasper’s up in a blink.

She doesn’t even see him move, he’s just suddenly there, closer than he was a second ago, hand half-outstretched as if to shield her from something. That strange stillness returns to his frame, but his eyes are sharp and alert now, scanning the shadows for signs of danger.

“Storm’s getting worse,” he mutters, voice low again, low and too calm.

“You don’t say,” she breathes out, forcing a laugh that’s more nerves than humor.

His gaze finds hers again, and there’s a softness to it now, something almost apologetic, as though he’s sorry for pulling away, sorry for not saying more. But he doesn’t speak, while outside, the storm screams.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to stop soon.” Jasper’s voice is quiet, measured. Too careful. “You should probably get some rest.”

Y/N blinks, heart sinking a little more than she wants to admit. Just as she felt she was chipping away at his defenses, this happens. A soft dismissal. She breathes out through her nose, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips out of sheer stubbornness. “Yeah,” she says, nodding as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Guess you’re right.”

She hesitates a moment longer than necessary before adding, “When will you rest?”

Jasper glances toward the fire, then back at her. “Soon.”

The way he says it feels like a gentle deflection. She fights the sting of disappointment, but she doesn’t let it show, at least, not entirely.

“I hope you're not a blanket hog,” she jokes, forcing a playful tone as she rises to her feet, brushing invisible lint off her robe. “You'll be joining me, right?”

His smile is subtle, restrained, like everything about him. It's more in his eyes than his lips, but it hits her all the same, right in the chest. She licks her lips to hide it, but she’s saddened by the way the day is ending.

“I’m good on the sofa,” he says, voice warm but distant. Polite. Detached. She’d much prefer an open rejection, something she can hold close to her stubborn heart and replay in her mind. This only gives her the idea of rejection, but in such a sweet way that it almost angers her.

“I don’t mind,” she presses, hands sliding to her hips. “The bed’s large enough for both of us.”

He shakes his head, golden curls falling softly around his face. He looks ethereal like this, hair dry and tousled, jaw sharp beneath firelight, eyes deeper than anything she's ever seen. How is he real?

“You saved my life,” she says, quieter now, less flirtation and more sincerity. “The least I can do is let you have the bed.”

“That’s alright, darlin’,” he replies with a familiar softness, one that only twists the knife. “I’ll be fine out here. Wouldn’t be a very good host if I took up all the space and hogged the covers, would I?”

His smile is back again, easy and charming, and yet all she can think is, he’s not going to come with me.

She nods, looking away briefly to blink back whatever disappointment is threatening to rise. You’re reading too much into this, she tells herself. He’s being kind. That’s all.

“Don’t be afraid to join me if you change your mind,” she says over her shoulder, quieter now, walking slowly behind his chair. Her voice is smooth, but her stomach churns, unsure if she’s flirting or begging.

He stops her.

A cool hand wraps gently around her wrist. She’s startled, gasping at the contact. His touch is cold. Not unpleasant, but cold enough to send a shiver running down her spine. He pulls her hand toward him, slowly, deliberately, and presses his lips to the inside of her wrist, just over her pulse.

She forgets how to breathe.

The kiss is featherlight, reverent. And it lingers, not long enough to be improper, but just enough to undo her completely. She stands frozen, hoping to hell her legs won’t fail her.

He’s still holding her gaze when he lets her go.

Maybe that’s what people mean when they talk about a gentleman, she thinks dazedly. Not one of weakness or practiced charm. But one who holds back even when he clearly doesn’t want to. One who shows restraint where others would have taken. And yet… there’s something mournful in him. Something unspoken. Something so filled with fear and guilt and she can’t understand where it comes from.

“Goodnight, Jasper,” she says, voice soft, uneven now. Her heart is still racing in her chest.

His eyes search hers for a second longer before he replies.

“Sleep well, darlin’.”

She walks away slowly, still reeling. The storm still howling outside, but it’s nothing compared to the one stirring in her chest. Biting her lower lip, she wracks her brain for a suitable word to say, but she can't even think properly. He has distorted her train of thought entirely.

The bed is too soft. She shifts beneath the covers, one arm thrown over her eyes, the other splayed out on the sheets beside her. The room is warm, her silk nightgown clinging to her skin in places she wishes it wouldn’t, heat rising from the fireplace lingering.

But it’s not the fire keeping her awake.

It’s him. Jasper.

She stares at the ceiling, heart still racing from his touch, from that kiss on her wrist. It replays over and over like a movie scene she’s memorized. Her skin still tingles where his lips pressed against it, as if they branded her, marked her. But that’s not what keeps her from sleeping. It’s the distance in his eyes. The contradiction. He’s warm and kind and gentle, but there's something in him that holds back, as though he's constantly walking the edge of a cliff and can't afford to look down. And God, it hurts a little, the way he wouldn’t come to bed. She had given him an open invitation. It wasn’t about sex, not even closeness, really. It was about comfort. Warmth. Trust. She had wanted to offer it. And he’d turned it down. Not cruelly. But carefully. Which might’ve been worse.

Was she wrong to want more? Was she imagining things, the tension, the shared glances, the moments that felt stolen from something bigger? She bites her lip, the taste of disappointment sharp as she sighs into the darkness.

What is he hiding?

And why does part of her still want him to knock on her door and climb in beside her, cold skin and secrets and all?

Despite her busy mind, sleep finds her soon enough and for the first time in forever, there are no golden eyes haunting her dreams.

--

The fire crackles, low and steady, bathing the cabin in flickering shadows. Jasper stares into it like he’s trying to burn the hunger out of himself.

He can still feel her wrist against his palm. Still taste her pulse against his lips, though he didn’t taste anything, not really. Not like he wants to.

His jaw clenches.

He hadn’t meant to touch her like that. Hadn’t meant to kiss her. But the moment she walked behind him, smelling like honey and warmth and a faint trace of something undeniably her, he lost the thread of his resolve.

And now? Now it’s fraying at the edges.

He inhales deeply, though it’s a habit more than a need. Each inhale is torture. Her scent lingers in the air like a ghost. He holds his breath again, trying to dull the ache in his throat. The hunger. The need.

She has no idea what she’s doing to him.

He imagines it, just for a second. The way her blood might taste. How warm it would be. How it might sing through his body like wildfire, like salvation and damnation all at once. The monster inside him stirs, just a little. He forces it down.

You’re better than this.

But God, it’s been so long since anyone made him feel… alive. He closes his eyes, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of him like he’s praying to a god who long stopped listening. She was kind to him. Open. Inviting. She didn’t flinch when he pulled her close. Didn’t run when she saw something darker in his eyes.

She saw the monster in him and smiled anyway.

And that’s the problem.

Because if he gives in, even a little... He’s afraid he won’t stop.

Jasper flees the cabin like the devil himself is at his heels. Trees blur past in streaks of black and green, rain lashing against his skin as he tears through the forest. The sound of her heartbeat still echoes in his ears. His throat is a furnace, a hollow tunnel of fire and ache. The taste of her is everywhere and nowhere, a ghost on his tongue, phantom sweetness that never came, but almost did.

Too close. Far too close.

By the time he stumbles up the porch steps of the Cullen house, he's shaking. Not visibly, his body is still and statuesque as always, but inside?

Inside, he's on his knees.

Carlisle opens the door before Jasper can raise a hand. “You did well, my son.”

A hand clasps his shoulder. Warm. Steady. Reassuring. But Jasper can’t respond. Can’t even meet Carlisle’s eyes. He’s terrified to draw a proper breath, certain that her scent is still clinging to him, soft and honeyed, soaked into the fabric of his shirt, caught in his curls. If he inhales too deeply, he’s afraid his resolve will fracture.

If I feel her again… would I go back?

Edward appears beside them, arms crossed, face unreadable. “He needs to hunt. Soon.” If anyone understands him, it’s him. He’s had it bad with Bella too. “I’ll help,” he adds. “We all will.”

But Jasper barely hears him. His voice sounds like it’s coming through water. Thick. Distant.

“If I hurt her…” Jasper begins, low and hoarse.

“You won’t,” Edward says quickly, confident in his response.

“There’s no guarantee,” Jasper growls, stepping back like their proximity alone is too much. His eyes, once a soft gold, are dark now. Bottomless. Ravenous. A predator’s stare. “You might know how it feels, but you don’t know what she does to me.”

Edward’s jaw tenses. But he remains calm. “The fact that you saved her, multiple times, means you’re in control. You’re doing better than I ever did with Bella.”

Jasper wants to agree. God, he wants to believe that.

But how can he?

The first time he caught her scent, he hadn’t even seen her face. He and Alice were in the hospital, watching from a distance after Edward saved Bella from being crushed by a truck. Amidst the chaos, the sterile tang of blood and adrenaline, her scent hit him like a freight train.

He hadn’t known who she was. He only knew he needed to feed.

It took three of his siblings to restrain him. For weeks afterward, he couldn’t be left alone. Someone always hovered close, Alice, Carlisle or Emmett, just in case. He was locked in a constant battle with the beast inside, writhing in silence.

He never connected the dots. Never knew that mysterious, maddening scent belonged to someone who would one day look at him like he was something good.

Looking back, it made sense why he snapped at the birthday party. Why a single papercut shattered him. He’d been teetering on the edge for months, made unstable by an unknown presence that inflamed his thirst every time it brushed against the periphery of his senses.

When the Cullens left Forks, he felt relief. The scent vanished. The haze lifted.

And then came the wedding. And again, there she was.

Unseen, but felt. Her scent turned his hunger into barbwire, it wrapped itself around his throat. Alice had to drag him away before he did something irreversible. That time, it only took him a few weeks to regain his senses. He clung to control like a lifeline, forced himself to act normal when Bella returned from her honeymoon, pregnant and terribly human, more human than ever as life drained from her. He distracted himself with the chaos, convinced it was all behind him.

But it wasn’t.

It would take a year and a half before Jasper would finally see her. Finally learn her name. Y/N. It was the same night Edward erased her memories. The moment their eyes met, the thirst returned, tenfold.

Now that he knows her, now that he’s touched her, heard her voice, watched her laugh…this is hell. Pure, exquisite torture.

Edward thinks he’s doing well?

He’s barely holding on.

Half the time she speaks, all Jasper can think about is how easily he could draw her closer. How sweet her breath would feel against his lips if he kissed her, right before sinking his teeth into the softness of her throat. If she came to him willingly, he could almost pretend he wasn’t a monster. Could almost lie to himself about what he would do next.

But no, he’s not in control. Not really.

And definitely not doing well.

Not at all.

Jasper shakes his head. “I almost killed her at the beach. When I pulled her out of the water and the ocean stopped masking her scent... I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to. The hunger was...” His voice trembles, and he clenches his fists to still the shaking. “Intoxicating. Like every cell in my body was begging for a taste. Just one.”

His eyes flash to Carlisle, wide with guilt. “I brought her to the woods planning to drain her dry. I had her in my arms. I ran with her into the trees, ready to end it. And then she opened her eyes and... I couldn’t.”

Carlisle exhales softly. “She’s your blood singer.”

Jasper flinches at the term, as if it brands him. He doesn’t want this. Not this way.

Emmett steps onto the porch, arms folded, the usual grin absent from his face. “She’s lucky it’s you and not me. I killed mine on sight.”

Regret pulses off Emmett like a wave, and Jasper, despite the pain clawing at his insides, instinctively dampens it, dulling the sharpness of his brother’s grief. And he hates that. Hates that even now, he’s still trying to fix everyone else while he’s falling apart inside.

“I don’t want to be around her,” Jasper murmurs, eyes locked on the treetops. Dark. Wet. Tempting.

“Just because your blood singer was your mate,” he says to Edward, “doesn’t mean she’s mine.”

“Alice said -” Emmett starts, but Jasper cuts him off, sharp.

“I know what Alice said.” His voice is rough, stripped of its usual smoothness. “She can’t be the one. No human can survive me.”

“She already has,” Carlisle reminds him gently. “She survived then and today again. She survived you at the beach. She survived the cabin. And you’re standing here, begging for a way to keep her safe. That says everything.”

Edward steps forward, gaze knowing. “You should hunt. Then go back to her.”

Jasper scoffs. “You think feeding will fix this?”

“No. But it will make you stronger and help the burning in your throat.” Edward’s voice is calm but firm. “If Alice is right, if she’s your mate, do you really want to lose her because you were too afraid to try?”

Jasper is silent.

He wants to scream. Wants to vanish into the forest and never return. Wants to erase the memory of her warm skin, her wide eyes, the soft pulse beneath her wrist as his lips hovered over it. He wanted to taste her so badly, he can still feel it. Like her blood is already in his mouth. Lush. Lively. Fatal.

He imagines it again, just for a moment. Her body against his. Her breath hitching. The way she would sigh when his teeth found her throat, the blood rushing to meet him, a welcome he doesn’t deserve. Her heart would stutter. Then stop.

It would be bliss. And it would ruin him.

He looks at Carlisle, then Edward.

“I can protect her from anything.” His voice is almost a whisper. “But how can I protect her from me? Every time I touched her, I was terrified. That I’d snap a bone. Cut her skin. Taste blood.”

Carlisle places a hand on his shoulder again. Steady. Fatherly. “Practice.”

Edward nods beside him. “A lot of it.”

The forest is still damp with the remnants of the storm. Jasper is running wild, untethered, finally hunting. Emmett charges alongside him with a shout of excitement, and Carlisle moves with graceful precision, already several yards ahead. The trees bend to make way for them. He will feed until the hunger is satiated, until his thoughts move away from all the ways he’d savor the taste of her blood, until every last drop is in his system. Until his eyes brighten and the hunter is appeased.

Back at the house, Alice stands by the window, watching shadows move beneath the moonlight. Her arms are folded, but her eyes are distant, seeing something no one else can. Almost no one.

Edward watches her, then speaks. “Are you absolutely certain your visions were right?”

She exhales slowly, finally looking away from the night. “Do you think I would leave Jasper for anything less?”

Edward nods once. “You knew before any of us.”

She smiles, faint and sad. “Y/N was already in town when you met Bella. Back then, Jasper was struggling to stay in control around her… but what none of us realized was that it wasn’t Bella driving him to the edge.”

Edward’s brows pinch together. “It was her.”

Alice nods again, slower this time. “He could smell Y/N in the hospital. I stopped him from seeking her out because I saw what would happen if he did...she’d die. I made a choice, and it changed everything. Because when I stopped him… I saw a different future.”

Her voice softens, wistful. “The future he could have with her. If we keep her alive long enough… it’s beautiful. She’s his mate, Edward. I’ve never doubted it.”

Edward wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in gently. “Still… it couldn’t have been easy. Leaving him.”

Her laugh is quiet and bitter. “Of course it wasn’t easy. I loved him. But I’m not his mate. And I wasn’t going to stand in the way of what he’s meant for. I knew if he was freshly single when he met her, she'd never trust him. I had to make it clean. Immediate. For all our sakes.”

“You’ll find your mate too,” he tells her softly.

“One day.” She leans into his side. “But that day isn’t here yet.”

They sit in the silence for a moment longer. The moon is high up, peeking out from behind clouds, casting light across Edward’s face. Alice studies him for a moment, then asks gently, “Does his thirst for her unnerve you?”

Edward hesitates. Swallows. “The rest of you don’t have a front row seat to his mind like I do. I won’t lie and say it’s been easy.”

“Far from feral?” she teases, trying to lighten the mood.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ve had… worse. But he’s right at the edge. And the things he thinks… the way he imagines her blood…and other things he’s like to do with her…” His voice falters. “It’s a struggle. Every second.”

Alice nods solemnly. “Well, I can already tell you this, none of those futures I’ve seen end with you killing her. You don’t need to carry that fear. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Both of you are.”

Edward looks at her, hesitant. “And in how many of those futures does she actually survive this?”

Alice’s smile fades. Her eyes darken. For a moment she’s still, then she opens her mind to him completely. One by one, visions flood into him. Flashes of blood. Of her body limp in Jasper’s arms. Of him falling to his knees in despair. Others are better, she’s laughing, Jasper seems radiant, they’re kissing underneath the moonlight.

But they’re few.

Edward’s lips part, his breath shuddering. “That was… difficult to watch.”

“I know.” Alice’s voice trembles just slightly. “Now you understand.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, turning from her to the moonlight. “If we can’t save Y/N…”

“We lose him,” Alice finishes.

He nods once. “Yes.”

A heavy silence settles again.

“One in a million chance,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “The odds are stacked against us.”

Alice shrugs with a whisper of a smile. “Well… her chances are higher after tonight.”

He raises a brow. “You’re sure?”

“We’ll see how she feels after breakfast.” Her grin turns sly. “Jasper’s not the only one who’s going to be tested tomorrow. It’s been a while since we’ve had a human in the house.”

Edward groans. “Just wait till we tell Rosalie.”

Alice snickers. “I already saw how that goes.”

----------------------------

Tags: @moonmark98 @formulas-bitch @ronniesreverie @anongirl007 @foxycrafterofgreenwood @lamelover @sl4t4darkling @megaprincesscakes @aj3684 @xnarixkimx

A/N: If you want to be tagged for future parts, leave a comment and make sure your blog's visibility is on (in settings) otherwise Tumblr won't allow me to tag you.

[lumilasi]

Since I've been updating one of my bleach fics more recently, I felt the once-in-a-blue-moon urge to draw something from it.....decision I VERY MUCH regretted lmao, because what I picked was SUPER difficult to draw, and I had to take some creative liberty with these designs, lessening the detail in them (Didn't even have a proper ref for Oni-Ichigo to begin with...).

Still, I managed to finish this at least. Fanart isn't really my thing anymore that much so these will be rare, even if I am writing semi-regularly.

The scene this bases on from Jack of All Hollows:

(Context, this is a memory viewed by "main" Ichigo of the story, Oni-Ichigo is a separate person)

Grimmjow eventually shifts, now just sitting on the bridge ledge properly, dangling his bare feet over the water. His companion follows his example, though chooses to keep his legs towards the bridge instead, sitting the other way around. He was still glancing at Grimmjow, and Ichigo could tell that color on his demon doppleganger’s face wasn’t just alcohol. He looked like there was something he was trying to say, but was hesitating.

Ichigo knew what it was.

Clearly, Grimmjow was aware of his companion mulling over something, as the blunet eventually snorts and turns to look at Oni Ichigo annoyed.

"What? Spill it, I can literally hear yer overthinkin’ shit again.”

"You can share memories, not read minds.”

"The gears in your brain are so rusty they make shit ton of noise, Kurosaki. Hard not to hear all that.”

The ginger demon laughs at that, his reaction seemingly confusing his companion a little, the point he now grabs Oni Ichigo’s arm and threatens to throw him into the river if he didn’t explain what was so damn funny now. His companion eventually manages to stop laughing with a wheeze, now looking back at the pouty looking blunet, who was clearly still confused about his behavior.

"Yer way too drunk huh; never knew your stubborn ass was this lightweight.”

"Yeah, guess I am.”

Watching the pair, Ichigo felt uneasy now, suddenly having a feeling this wouldn’t end well for his twin. Obviously, this Ichigo had died, but beyond that…

Suddenly, his twin leans closer, clearly catching Grimmjow off-guard. The kiss doesn’t last long, and once his twin pulls back he had gone completely red, now averting his gaze and rubbing his neck sheepishly. Grimmjow had gone completely stiff, just like he’d done that night at that other bridge.

"S-sorry. I….uh.”

He seems to struggle for a moment to decide what to say, still avoiding the blue eyes staring at him. Grimmjow still hadn’t moved an inch, as if his brain had short circuited and he was struggling to process what just happened.

"….You know. You’re not as bad as I thought when we first met. And lately, I don’t know. I just….I like hanging out with you, when you’re not trying to kill me.”

Oni Ichigo chuckles sheepishly, still avoiding his gaze. Grimmjow now turns his head away, his face still unreadable, though the shock seemed to have faded. The atmosphere around the pair had shifted from the easygoing drunkedness to something much more tense and awkward, though Ichigo wasn’t sure if he was reading it that way, or if the emotion was attached to the memory itself.

"I’ve been thinking about that a lot. And….I-I don’t think its…”

Oni Ichigo swallows down hard now, finally daring to look up at Grimmjow. Seeing that uneasy look in his eyes, oh fuck he was scared too. It had clearly taken his twin a lot to bring this up, and so far, neither could tell what Grimmjow was thinking.

"I don’t think it’s friendly affection I’m feeling.”

Silence.

[milkycarnations]

Hear me out Bloody Painter gets jealous and shows reader who they belong to👀

I'm sorry I kind of suck at ideas this is just what I'm thinking

Ooomph, no I quite like this one though. Don't come into my ask box apologizing for Helen asks. Helen is always welcome. Divider cafekitsune.

Let Me Get What I Want | Helen x afab!reader | 896 words

one-shot masterlist | mdni | cw: scarification as a display of devotion, knifeplay, obvious heavy trigger warning for anyone who struggles with self-harm, sadomasochism, minor body worship, he/him pronouns for Helen this time, not super nsfw simply because I don't see Helen as much of a jealous/hate-fuck type of person. I'd been trying for a few weeks but I just wasn't sure where to take it sexually!

Helen sighed. It was a strange sound to fall past his lips - something he'd only hear perhaps when in the throes of pleasure - but today, Helen sighed just from the thought of you. It wasn't like craving you was bizarre, far from it. Helen thought about you all of the time. Hour after hour, day by day, months on months, you plagued Helen's thoughts. He couldn't help but think what a sweet, little plague you were - working your way in and taking him over. You consumed him.

So today, just like most days, Helen cleaned the hairs of his paintbrushes by the workroom sink, the colors bleeding out into a muddy brown mess. As he worked the bristles against the cloth towel, he envisioned the appearance of your flesh. He thought about your hair follicles and the pores on your skin. Helen thought, was it really possible to adore someone so much - right down to the cracks on their heels and the blemishes on their cheeks? Why did that have to be such an unwelcome concept?

Under Helen's firm touch, the paintbrush frayed and shed strands of horsehair. His pale and slender hands paused in place.

No, it was far more than a sigh. Helen was terribly jealous. The paintbrush fell from his hand with a clank. Twisting his torso, he glanced back at his recent portrait. There was a fiery warmth in Helen's face as he looked at it. You were such a radiant thing. The fact that you hadn't sent so much as a glance his way this evening was maddening.

He was now staring down the painting, observing the contours of your body and the light bruise he'd put on your breast, simply a smear of pigment. He needed assurance - reassurance that you were his. So later that night, he prophesized an idea.

"Are you familiar with scarification?" he'd ask randomly, suddenly as you lazed against the couch - draped against it like a Greek statue. Whether you knew of it or not wasn't exactly of importance. Rather, all Helen cared about was whether or not you agreed.

"Etching, branding, scaring," they continued, "that sort of thing. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

You thought about it deeply - for the first time in perhaps, ever. Scarification.

He added, "Do you think, maybe, I could do that to you. Etch my art into your skin."

"I'd have to think about it." you'd respond. Scarification, like a tattoo, but a different flavor of commitment. If the scaring took well, it'd be a part of you forever. You had no doubt that whatever Helen had in store would be exquisite, but it still was a lot to take in.

Helen wouldn't bring it up for another few weeks at least, letting it fester and stew in your mind as you went about your work and daily tasks. It nagged in the back of your mind for quite a while. You asked Helen for a mockup.

"Could I just see what you were thinking?" you'd ask, imagining the stencils tattoo artists would place upon their clients. Maybe - if you just saw what he had in mind - it'd be easier to agree. So that evening, as you laid spread over the mattress, Helen free-handed over your hip, penciling in intricate designs around the curves of your body in washable marker. After he'd finished, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom with an intent curiosity.

"It looks... beautiful."

Even through simple lines, Helen's artistry shined through. They'd captured everything about you, the shapes complimenting your body wonderfully at the same time - trailing from your side, down the swell of your hip and stopping just above your knee.

"I'd be honored if you accepted." he added. His excitement was evident in the subtle shifting of his feet, his hands subconsciously smoothing out the fabric of his button-up.

When the moment finally came, you laid against the table awkwardly, feeling a bit more uncomfortable than usual. Once more, Helen had stenciled a design into your skin - this time with a more permanent marker.

"It's okay if you want a break. Just tell me." Helen said, pulling a sharp exacto-knife from a rolling cart. You took in a deep breath as you anticipated the pain. You'd already taken some pain meds, just to ease your mind, but you knew it'd still hurt tremendously. That initial breath turned shaky as the blade made contact with your skin. It was a sharp, biting pain - but it wasn't anything you hadn't felt before with Helen. There were already quite a few scars on your back. You let Helen take his time as he carved out chunks of skin to make the most beautiful mural.

"Does it hurt, dove?" the words came soft - a loving message of reassurance. You nodded your head. It did.

"It's almost finished, my love. Don't worry." he added, pushing the blade just over your hip bone.

He took great care of it once he'd finished - cleaning the wounds, bandaging it well, and placing sweet, gentle kisses over your body. He was ecstatic. It was taking quite a while to heal, but he was psyched to paint you with the new addition. You were his muse - the thing he'd loved to paint and draw the most, and now you'd carry his art on your skin for the rest of your life.

[sarkofagos]

can you explain what you hate about the bachelor's p2 design? i understand your opinion on the others, but i like both of the bachelor's designs, so i'm interested to hear your opinion on it!

Anon I'm sorry to say you've opened Pandora's Box here. I've been looking for an excuse to spew my hatred for P2 Bachelor and you've generously provided it.

^ putting these two images side to side so that everyone knows what we're talking about okay? Okay. And a moment of silence for the beautiful Persian rugs of Pathologic Classic now that we're at it. Okay.

Starting with the most obvious issue; only one of these guys looks 30 and it's not P2 Daniil. And hear me out here, for a while I let it slide, right? I told myself "A 30 year old lab owner, who allegedly was delivering lectures as early as three years ago was a bit extreme, they've probably aged him up to 45 or something so that his achievements match his age, makes sense" BUT NO!!!!! AS PER QUARANTINE, HE IS STILL 30!!!! ALLEGEDLY because I missed out on that piece of dialogue it seems, but I've seen enough people mention it by now. THEY MADE HIM HAGGARD!!!!!

I'm moving on to the absolute travesty that is the coat. I want you to look at the two coats side by side now, okay? Do you notice any difference? IT'S THAT HIS CLASSIC COAT ACTUALLY FITS HIM!!!!!! Not only that but the P2 coat is distasteful in so many fucking ways. The snakeskin patchwork. The asymmetrical lapel and sleeves. Gawwwwwd they took his edgy little coat and made it so ugly (and I am going to be so fucking real now, I do not love the Classic coat either but hell at least it fit him. At least the colors suited his complexion).

Likewise, the waistcoat just does not fucking fit him. It just doesn't. That's not how a properly-fitting waistcoat sits on someone's torso. I am not opposed to the mere concept of the waistcoat, okay? I'm really not. Though I also do not think I'm equally enthusiastic about it as other people are. But at least give him a waistcoat that fits, in a color that suits him for fuck's sake.

Same situation with the trousers, they slouch at the bottom and appear too tight near the crotch. The waist is also too low, which I think is what makes the vest look so ill-fitting. And like, his trousers were just cooler in Classic, okay? Low-waisted flare jeans in the year of our lord 19-something. Entrepreneur, years ahead of his time etc etc. There's a detail I really really love about his trousers in Classic, which is that each side has a zipper that can transform them into skinny jeans. Shit you'd find for 100 euros at a vintage store.

Then his boots MASHAYLA... OH MY GOD MAYSHAYLA... The zipper and buckle details on his classic boots MASHAYLA.... Literally give him his stompers back give him his Dr. Martens Jadons back...... In a similar vein; make him 1.70 again. And make him scrawny again too. I could go on an entirely separate side-rant about how vital being unconventional and non-conforming and not particularly masculine nor eager to perform masculinity is to his character and how his tiny stature was a good visualization of those character trait(s). And how his struggle to overcome the human body's limits could also take the form of neglecting to take care of it properly or simply just not being gifted in that regard. Juxtapose that with Artemy who is meant to symbolize the body and how he is visually clearly physically strong and well-built. Likeeee I'm probably looking into it entirely too much now.... But Am I? #makehimtiny. edit to add: I'm circling back to this point because allow us to also consider the importance of being childlike for his character (like the childish pursuit of defeating death and also being the only main character able to see something inside the Polyhedron) and how that character trait was also visually alluded to by him being short + skinny. Likeee I'd say it was a pretty major aspect of his appearance in Classic and I just cannot even come up with any good reason why they'd change it to him being TALLER THAN AVERAGE in P2.

And then the minor stuff I also like his fuckass bangs better than whatever that middle-part situation is trying to do. I prefer his patterned necktie than the red cravat, though I do appreciate the potentially accidental attempt at giving him a historically accurate indicator of homosexuality. That does not mean the color clashes with his complexion and less.

tldr: they took away his cunti 😢

[arabaka-archived]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ CONTENT WARNINGS: CANON? WHAT 'DAT? SHE/HER PRONOUNS USED. READER IS AN EXOTIC DANCER. READER WEARS MASCARA. UNPROTECTED SEX. ANAL (AND MINOR DEPICTION OF PAIN FROM IT). SPANKING. SPIT ROASTING. GETO'S A JERK. GOJO'S GOT MONEY.

PET NAMES USED: LITTLE THING (NOT REFLECTIVE OF BODY TYPE, USED AS DEGRADATION), BABY, SWEETS, BEAUTIFUL. ゜・。.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ WORD COUNT: 3.4K. ゜・。.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wanna emphasize first that not all exotic dancers have sex for pay and it's common for clubs to forbid it so PLEASE read this as just silly smut and not as a reference for the REAL heroes (jokes aside, exotic workers deserve respect and MONEY!!!) ゜・。.

“Hey, where is she?”

“With a client. Dunno when she’ll be done. The guy she walked with looked like he had money to spend. Might keep her dancing for ours.” At this the manager chuckles, thumb in his pocket smoothing over a fresh stack of bills from another dancer: his cut, of course. 

“Cool, thanks.” He says with a knowing sneer; he’ll make up for your dues. He always does.

Women clamor for the john’s attention the second he pivots on his heel to make a beeline for the hall of neverending private rooms but he doesn’t pay them any mind; his trademark glasses, black and circled are low enough for the dancers to see that he has no interest in paying for their attention.

Yours, however… Seems to just get more and more expensive. Your rate’s stayed the same, it’s him that empties his pocket for you every time. Call it an addiction and he’ll fess up to it. Unashamedly even. “She takes care of me.” Is an excuse he often doles out, to anyone privy to his lascivious, proliferating habit. 

But he should have watched his tongue more, guarded you more, because he’s run his mouth to the wrong people– well, the wrong person.

His best friend. Geto Suguru.

And Gojo Satoru just knows it’ll be his face he sees when the curtains are split. Prepares for it even, his fist already balled up with his knuckles drained of any color. 

They share everything. Everything but you, and that’s by design. Gojo, he’s… Fond of you. Too fond for the relationship you two share.

He treks down the hall, pace methodically slowing down the closer he gets. No, the rooms aren’t notated by dancer; that’d be stupid. No, because Gojo doesn’t need signage to know where you are. He can track you as well as any sniffer dog, infinitely better when he uses his genetic abilities for sin rather than any selfless endeavors. 

When he finally gets to the right room, velvet curtains glowing under the low light, he hesitates. The others may not hear your stifled moans, struggled breaths you’re so good at masking but you know as well as him: you can’t hide from Gojo Satoru.

So when the cloak of privacy is ripped away, it doesn’t surprise Gojo to see you in your preferred position- seated on a Geto’s fat cock, your knees pushed up to the ceiling with your feet bouncing haphazardly to the raven-haired sorcerer’s rhythm, which is anything but kind and intimate. He fucks you like he feels nothing for you and that’s because he does– you knew as well as Geto that this was nothing more than a paid relationship, and one built on a sickening revenge play.

Those pretty eyelashes of yours part, eyes shiny with diamond tears, when you hear the familiar slide of the curtains and you should be worried, should be on edge of someone catching you (after all, having sex with a paying customer is not in your job description) but when you see it’s Gojo, there isn’t much you can do.

Especially not when Geto seems to cut through the tension like it isn’t even there, pumping your cunt full of his cock until fluids spittle and splash from the velocity. He’s so much thicker than Gojo, foreskin so packed it really does feel like he’s making a new home for himself inches into your pussy, your walls spasming around him when the bulbous tip of his member seems to bump and grind against your most sensitive collection of nerves. 

You whimper and whine but Geto doesn’t miss a beat, swollen balls beating into your folds, squelches and the stench of sex undeniable even as Gojo stands by the entrance still.

His nostrils flare. His breath quickens. His chest tightens. His pants, so fitting before, now feel like a prison for the budding erection you are certainly nursing without even touching him.

“Gotta say, Satoru – hngh – you picked a good one. She’s an obedient little thing isn’t she?” Geto grunts out, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he keeps your pussy and ass on full display for his friend to see. Geto wants him to see you plugged up with no room for anything else– anyone else.

“Sa– Sa— Sator–uu—uu– ah, ah, right there, right there, sir.” You started off so innocent, bottom lip jutted out and puffy from kissing Geto all night, but your voice is immediately corrupted and on purpose as Geto mercilessly spears you on his cock, bottoming out every thrust and stretching your cunt to its limits.

“I got her all night.” Geto says with a growl in between, your hot and gummy walls squeezing the base of his shaft so tight his vision blurs for a moment. 

But Gojo seems to ignore Geto’s prodding, his attempts at getting a rise out of the man with irises that seem to never leave yours. Gojo drinks in your expression, lets the way your eyes seem to gravitate towards the back of your skull, your legs shaking not just from the degrading position Geto’s cramped you in but from the waves of pleasure to start with, drown the annoyance of finding you with his friend.

After all, you aren’t his… Even if he pays you like you are.

“Aw,” Gojo coos, zeroing in on his fucked dumb benefactor as he starts a path towards you, “Cryin’ just all over, aren’t you?” His tone is sickly sweet, with a twinge of something dark hanging just off his words. “Pretty baby probably can’t even see straight, huh?”

He looks for an answer. You can’t give him any. Your tongue won’t let anything roll off its drool ridden muscle but the sweet, sweet sounds of debauchery.

So he makes you, Gojo’s spine curving towards you as he grips your chin forcefully, makes you keep your eyes on him. Makes you fess up.

“Mmhmf– mmhmm—” He wants a response but with your cheeks hallowed by his finger and thumb’s pinching, all you can muster are muffled groans from Geto’s quickening pace, his brutal assault on your trembling pussy as he dares to carve his name deep inside you.

Gojo playfully pats your cheek just then, his hand falling from you entirely, just like the shadowed look over his normally jovial attitude. He starts on his belt, metal clanking away with the noise quickly forgotten to your moans and the club’s blistering beats. 

He doesn’t miss Geto’s furrowed brows in irritation as he does so. Nor does he care.

Because he saw you first. He found you first.

So he’s going to remind you why he’s the best. With or without Geto.

“You don’t think she needs something more?” Gojo croons, overconfident in his talents as he starts to go pap, pap, pap with his cock over your distended tummy, taking note of where Geto’s cock starts and ends by the look of his bulge outlining your skin.

You squirm, belly overstimulated with Gojo’s patting and Geto’s cock no doubt ravaging your guts. You try to keep your eyes on Gojo but you’re losing control, of yourself and of the situation. But you give in all the same, pussy quivering and spilling your juices until they’re dripping down Geto’s sac. “Y-Yes, yes.” You’re finally able to sing, lips still trembling when you beg, “P-Please, wan’ both of you.” 

You don’t know what you’re asking for. Hell, you don’t know the two men’s relationship with one another. It’s not like either have divulged to you the extent of their history; you’ve only been left to assume ever since Gojo stepped in, and that’s been minimal because well…

Your whole body is screaming for Geto to take you over the edge, bring to you a nirvana that’s all his own. But you won’t oppose Gojo’s own entrance to your pleasure, now his cock completely out and dragging the reddened tip over your lips until they’re glossed with his pre-cum. You instinctively lick it away, only for Gojo to praise you with–

“Good girl. That’s my girl.” Gojo seems to say louder than usual, “Gonna cum over his cock? Gonna let go? Let go for me, baby. Wanna see you cum.” 

“S-Satoru–”

Geto bites your ear just then, canines digging into the conch of your ear with little care for the yelp that shoots out your throat. “Who’s fucking you right now, huh? Who’s pounding this wet and sloppy pussy? Forget Satoru. Say my name or you’re not cumming.”

And you really can’t be sure who is the reason for the pleasure that overtakes you just then, from the top of your head to the curl your toes take as Geto fucks you through your orgasm. It could’ve been anything.

It could’ve been everything.

“That’s it, pet.” Geto hushes your babbling, a stark contrast to the rhythm at which his cock penetrates your weeping pussy. He’s fucking you like you’re a toy to him.

And he spills his cum into you, forsaking a condom because– “That’s not how Satoru fucks you.”

So when Geto pulls out, the opaque globs of his release start to trickle out, your hole absolutely stuffed full of the stuff that it overflows, running down in rivets from your thighs to your ass. 

Your legs start feeling like they’re running on pins and needles, your whole body suddenly realizing the tight, unbearable full nelson position Geto fucked you in for… You can’t even track the time.

But if you thought you were getting a reprieve, you were solely mistaken.

Geto still cradling you in the obscene position, Gojo leans forward, on the side his own face currently rests and murmurs, “How much to take that tight asshole of yours?” You watch his eyes dart to the cum still following the curve of your ass. “We have the lube for it.” He mutters so closely to your ear that Geto can hear it, can feel his friend’s hot breath crest his jawline.

You bite your lip, gasping at its sensitivity while you mull over the idea. But Gojo has something different in mind, kissing you hard to distract you from the logic possibly creeping in your head over the depravity.

And that’s how he gets you, kisses you until your mouth is equal parts your spit and his, hands smoothly easing your transition from the cage Geto’s wrangled you into. You follow him, intoxication bubbling in your brain and clouding your better judgment. 

“How much more, baby?” Gojo’s voice brings you back to reality, lifting the haze just enough for you to feel one of his fingers teasing your taut rim with circling strokes as you pose for him on your hands and knees, perky ass lifted high and your spine curved low. All the while, Gojo spreads the cum Geto’s left in his wake until your hole is sloppy wet. “Hm? C’mon, he couldn’t have fucked you that good.” 

“Satoru.” Geto’s voice stops you from responding, his tone low and dark but all Gojo can do is laugh and the bark sends shivers up your back. 

You can’t help but admit the tension is exhilarating. It’s dizzying, so much going on and so many things tickling your senses. There’s Gojo now with his index finger crooked inside your asshole, already working on a second, while Geto walks over to your front with his dick still out and half-hard. You can see the foreskin glisten with your juices and his and you know what he wants you to do the moment he positions his twitching cock in front of that appetizing gap between your lips.

“Clean it up.” Geto orders you, admitting defeat in that Gojo will do what he wants, when he wants and the most he can do is take what’s left.

He can’t be too bothered. He got what he wanted. You will no doubt crave more, plead for Geto’s cock. He can hear that voice of yours now, pleading with half a brain, “P-Please sir, more sir! Can’t get enough!”

And that’s how you end up tasting yourself and Geto, your tongue rolling around his shaft as you work towards taking him whole, your throat spasming at the intrusion to come. Your tight rim does the same when Gojo works his way up to another finger, honestly losing himself to the unfathomable pressure. 

“Shit– think you’re ready for me, baby? Tell me. Make him feel how much you want me.” 

You don’t belong to Gojo but you sure act like it, following his order so dutifully as you gargle on Geto’s cock, saliva leaking out the corners of your mouth down your chin as you struggle to moan with Geto’s fat cock stretching your lips more apart than they’ve ever been. 

It hurts. It aches.

“Good, good girl.” Goosebumps prickle your skin at Gojo’s words, your body buzzing with the pleasure of satisfying your longtime client because let’s face it… You have a soft spot for him too.

You gasp and inevitably choke on Geto’s member when Gojo’s fingers pull out swiftly and unexpectedly from your asshole. Geto’s hand shoots out just then, pressing himself so deep down your throat you’re weeping with your nose scrunched up against his pelvis. 

And he’s smirking at you, so proud to be in attendance for your ruination. It makes your pussy flutter around nothing, your entrance already missing the merciless, reckless way Geto pistoned his fat dick inside and out of you. He got what he wanted– you already needing his affection.

Gojo can see the way you look at Geto, the pools of color in your eyes locked on his twisted features, and it irks him. More than it should. So you’ll have to forgive him for the stinging swat that comes for your ass, both sides to even it out. “Gotta make sure you’re ready, sweets. Want you to feel me take this cute hole of yours for the first time.”

And fuck, no amount of preparation could ever hope to mimic the denseness of Gojo’s cock, how the tip of his cock smears pre-cum over the rim before making that hole open for him.  But it burns. It hurts in a way you have never felt before and you instinctively try to inch away, knees buckling forward with your hands desperately pawing at Geto’s abdomen for relief but you will find none there.

Because Geto’s all but ignored your pleading, choosing instead to start a brutal pace into your mouth, goading more slobber to coat his shaft while your tongue presses to the underside. 

And Gojo? He’s got both hands locked on your hips, so cruelly dragging you back to him. “Don’t run from me. It’s gonna feel good baby, I promise.” He talks to you so sweetly but his body language is mean. His nails dig moon-shaped lines into your skin, the other hand once again aiming for your hole with a fist firmly grasping his girth as he prods your asshole to open nice and wide for him. 

“Shit, Satoru. She’s gonna drown in cock and spit at this point.” Geto snorts, taking pride in the way your cheeks are streaked with mascara, how your lips bloom with a pretty color and shine with your own drool. His chest rumbles with a groan as he starts bringing your head to meet his thrusting halfway. 

You can only sit and take it, take it from both ends as the men, the friends, share in the pleasures of your body. 

Gojo’s at least taking it easy, letting your body acclimate to his cock as he starts with a light pumping. Just enough to squeeze his cockhead in a few inches, then back, but never completely out of you. He’s not that mean.

The drag of his cock inching deeper inside you with the passing seconds, you start to relish in the way he fills you up like never before. You can feel your stretched out hole convulse and clamp down on Gojo’s length, every time squeezing a sweet, sweet throaty groan from the man. You’re feeling sensations there you didn’t think were possible, nirvana settling in amongst the fog in your eyes as you feel pleasure running like lightning all the way to your fucked out little brain.

“Fuck, beautiful.” Gojo huffs with his hips slowly closing the distance between him and the curve of your ass, eyes mesmerized at your pretty hole being so spread out by the thickness of his shaft, the way it seems to swallow him whole until he’s nothing but a cage rattling with moans. 

You’ve never heard him sound like that. There’s a bestial growl in his words with a grip on your body akin to a predator having his first meal. He’s fucking you like he’s starved.

As if he wasn’t just there with you the other night.

You can feel your shoulders start to buckle, elbows worn from keeping your body up to satisfy both Gojo and Geto, the latter either unknowing or uncaring of your slight discomfort. From your short dialog with the man, you’re guessing it’s the second option.

“Hope you’re good at swallowing.” Geto grunts with the hand at your neck now groping your breasts, struggling to find a hold with Gojo starting up a pace that’s making you bob and weave, bob and weave.

Your nipples are so sensitive, just the brushing of Geto’s hand makes you whine all around him, your voice drowned out by the barrel of his cock. “Just – hmmph, fuck – like that.” He chokes out, opening his eyes when you start to mewl, an attempt at rushing the orgasm because now it’s becoming all too much.

Gojo’s cock running deep into your asshole, Geto’s member throbbing incessantly the more noisy you become… Your brain might as well be in the clouds, Cloud Nine because even if it’s overstimulating you from the inside out…

It feels so damn good. You don’t realize it then but it’s because their temperaments are so different. Gojo pounding into you, getting a little more rough with his touch and rhythm but still rounding his spine to whisper how good you’re being, how he knew you could take it in your ear until the skin is burning hot and all your nerves are tingling with euphoria. He’s so close, you feel the ridges of his hardened abs cresting your skin, both parties sticky with sweat. And Geto, so crude in the way he pinches your perky nipples, so mean in how he grabs you by the throat just to make your mouth around him shiver. 

“Mmmf– Mmm–” You start to cry, sobs held back when Gojo’s fingers finally play with your clit, rounding the swollen bud just the way you like. 

It’s that last round of whining that sends Geto over the edge, his cock spurting out more cum than you expect while the engorged head twitches against the roof of your mouth; it’s so much so fast that it makes you recoil and bump your ass right into Gojo, setting off a chain reaction that couldn’t have unfolded any better.

Your grinding all the way to the base of Gojo’s cock makes him pant openly and grunt straight from his chest. His fingers strum your clit so eagerly, you feel his desperation on the tips. He wants you to cum with him.

An easy feat, because his cock, so far inside you, perfectly stimulates the erotic center in your pussy and makes you see white. Your slick is already seeping out your neglected hole, dripping onto the couch, down your thighs that seem to endlessly shake from Gojo’s thrusting. 

Geto does you a favor, sliding his cock out your mouth and slapping it on both your cheeks, staining your skin with his cum and your spit. You’re thankful, because now you can…

“F-Fuckfuckfuck, feels s’good, Satoru.” Your words are slurred, your mind dumb with how Gojo is able to rip the orgasm right out of you, your pussy quivering around nothing while your ass clenches tight around his dick. His cock vibrates with every hot burst of cum inside you, making your ass wriggle and skin ripple as he unloads every last drop inside you.

He’s gasping for air, moaning throughout as he rocks his cock until he’s finished cumming. Your chest pressed to the cushion, you also try to get a hold on a stable breath, lips wet with drool and sweat. 

Geto has long left you two, choosing to start dressing now that he’s finally had his fill of you.

So he doesn’t notice, doesn’t even see when Gojo adds another stack of bills to your collection. Not for him, but for–

“See? What did I tell you? I knew you could take two.”