#even though it's not 100% white like before

[hestzhyen]

Chapter 82 Midair Chancla Posting

A perspective switch or two and some much appreciated information- let's dive in, dear void.

Editor's notes: First Page: 生きていた漆羽。場面変わって京都殺戮ホテル。チヒロも何やら感づいているようで...？！[ikite ita Uruha. bamen kawatte Kyouto satsuriku hoteru. Chihiro mo naniyara kandzuite iru youde...?!] "Uruha was alive. The scene shifts to the Kyoto Massacre Hotel. It seems Chihiro has figured something out as well...?!" Last Page: 二振の妖刀がぶつかる！！[futafuri no youtou butsukaru!!] "The two Enchanted Blades clash!!"

Uruha, Revived

Hoo boy, that flashback and info dump.

Missing scene restored?

It feels a little cheap that we couldn't have this line of dialogue be known until now. We were watching this from Hakuri's PoV in Chapter 58; he was in really rough shape but he wasn't fading in and out until he summoned Chihiro and completely did himself in. So it was just withheld from us to be revealed here- lame. Writing this as "you'll die as a hero" in the original scene would have been really cool foreshadowing to gnaw on with new context given this chapter. Alas.

But yeah. The theory of Samura only wanting to kill the Bearers in order to sever their bonds to the blades and spare them from true death? 100% real and factual as of this chapter. More on that later.

For now, what did we learn about Uruha?

One, he's got some really REALLY intense feelings about Samura.

His north star, perhaps?

Uruha actually cares a huge amount that he's the only one who stood a chance of keeping up with Samura. Out of all the people Samura taught, Uruha was the only one who could master the Iai White Purity style. It sounds like he chased that distinction quite desperately too. Uruha backstory soon, please? I want to know what Samura is to him and why he clings to being the only one who could stand by his mentor's side. Very glad we have a chance to get these answers now that he's back in action.

Second, Uruha's quite even-headed despite his silly appearance.

Hakuri parallels go brrrr

Whereas Samura and Chihiro let passion fuel their decisions, Uruha's like Hakuri- he's got a more logical mind that he uses to assess the situation and determine what he should do. Neither of them are cold logician types in the slightest! We definitely won't see them do that stereotypical glasses adjustment pose. They just don't let their hearts steer their actions in the moment nearly as much. Their motivations are just as emotional as their counterparts and they wear their hearts on their sleeves for the most part, especially compared to Chihiro and Samura. They just invert differently under pressure.

Uruha in particular is the direct opposite of Samura in this regard. Samura's drowning in guilt, fear, and other assorted misery- it informs everything he's done since he pushed Iori away to live with her aunt. But despite suffering a heavy loss, literally dying, and having extremely strong feelings about Samura trying to do things on his own, Uruha does what's logically best in the moment. He refused to take Hiruhiko's "bait" at the station despite clearly cherishing the people who protected him. He doesn't try to reach Samura but leaves it to Chihiro and the Masumi. Instead, he puts himself in play to defend the Kamunabi HQ and Hakuri. He might even suspect that there's a traitor in the ranks and tells the doctors to keep his revival a secret. Being an X factor in this fight could be what turns the tides!

Before moving on though, a translation detour...

Hooray for Pride Month

Camellia is a FushiUru shipper for real. The original in Japanese didn't say "he", it was left up to interpretation on who gave Uruha that chance to live. Other languages like Spanish specify "they", staying close to how it was translated in chapter 58. Because Uruha's line in this scene was identical between chapters 58 and 82:

58 ...だが 俺はもう過ごし... 生かされた...！！だから 死めわけにいかない

[...daga ore wa mou sugoshi... ikasa reta...!! dakara shime wakeni ikanai]

"...But ...Those people died for me!! I can't just... ...throw my life away! " (Official EN)

82 ...だが 俺はもう過ごし... 生かされた だから... 死めわけにいかない

[...daga ore wa mou sugoshi... ikasa reta. dakara... shime wakeni ikanai.]

"He allowed me to live... just a little bit longer. That's why... I can't throw this gift away." (Official EN)

"...But those people died for me.... I can't just... throw my life away!" (Original EN TL)

What's going on? Not the first time she did this either:

Chapter 47

Here Fushimi's saying "we" will protect Uruha [俺ら, orera] in the second panel, but the official EN translated it as "I". Congratulations to FushiUru shippers; I suspect you have an agent working for you at VIZ.

Chihiro vs. Samura

He's so fucking tired, man.

Well. This fight started off slow then suddenly kicked into high gear.

At least Chihiro realised that Uruha's alive- hopefully that'll bolster him a bit. He's really got his work cut out for him to get through Samura's dense cloud of despair.

As could be expected, his attempt to Talk no Jutsu Samura into sense didn't work out and now they have to fight with their magic nuke swords instead. At least you tried, Chihiro. And you're right that you're extremely similar to Samura. He's just marinated in guilt for longer than you've been alive and no words will sway him. He's basically the bad end for you if you hadn't accepted help from Hakuri and the Masumi. Samura doesn't want you to be like him and he's absolutely correct in feeling that way!

I actually got a bit irritated with Samura this chapter. He's not doing anything differently, but the way he's acting reminds me a bit of a parent that thinks they know better. You've got people who want to help you, man! We know exactly why he is the way he is -those flashback chapters were brutally clear about it- but I can't help wanting to grab him by the collar and shake him a little bit. He's irrationally stubborn and it's an extremely well-written major fault of his. So, they have to fight it out.

Speed and power so intense even the sound effects are shaken.

I wonder how this will turn out in terms of progressing Chihiro's character. Chihiro doesn't care if he goes to hell. Samura doesn't want him to. Will he keep descending after this arc even after his win (because yeah he's gonna win), or has he stabilised a bit with the help of the Masumi and wanting to get stronger for Hakuri's sake? I guess it depends on how everything plays out. The only thing that's sure to happen is that Iori will come back for the climax as the only person who can get an emotional response out of Samura. She's absolutely going to be the key to getting him to stand down. I guess we will get some kind of mid-air battle until then? Cool stuff, can't wait to see some action reminiscent of the Sojo fight.

Chihiro fighting to save Samura and prove there's a different way to do things, Samura fighting to put Chihiro in his place and spare him from death and pain. The younger generation vs. the older one. Getting by with the help of friends vs. feeling the need to be isolated. Classic shounen, with a uniquely Kagurabachi twist!

A Neat Thing

Hello again, Mr. Pine

I just want to appreciate this bit of writing.

The pine seed bomb implants were a very cool and natural way to help us understand what Samura was doing with Suzaku. Hokazono-sensei set Hakuri up for more trauma to naturally explain the revival mechanic, but it didn't feel forced at all. In isolation those suicidal seed bombs work perfectly fine as a real, credible threat thanks to the elevator scene. And then they're conveniently present when we need to explain Suzaku.

All of this works because of the careful construction of the scenario and the Hishaku.

It's believable that the Hishaku have blackmailed about 50 Kamunabi employee's families because we've seen them use similar dastardly moves with the Sazanamis and Samura. We were sold on them being thorough planners that don't act without a ton of back-up options to secure victory at any cost they think is reasonable. Manipulating Samura, giving the datenseki to and unsealing the Magatsumi for Kyora, letting Hiruhiko lead the Sanso raids- Yura has never once given us reason to doubt that he's ten steps ahead of everyone around him. So of course they have insiders to get them info. Of course they have hostages.

The second key is the theme of family and how important it is. Much of the story revolves around Chihiro's family being shattered and what it did to him. Hakuri's family, the Samura family, Char and her mom, even Mr. Inazuma and his sister are different iterations on the theme of how precious those bonds are and what the loss of them can do to a person. So having those seed bombers be acting out of love for their own families is a cruel twist on the theme. Where Chihiro and his crew strive to preserve familial bonds, the Hishaku co-opt them and use them to cause vast destruction. That's how you really know they're the villains.

Maintaining tight focus like this is one of the reasons I love Kagurabachi so much. Instead of saying a little about a lot of topics, this series revolves around a small core and goes very in-depth on it. It's not perfect but it's damn good and refreshing to see after sprawling series like BnHA and ones that lose the plot later on like JJK. I hope this can remain true for the rest of Kagurabachi's run.

Okay. Now we wait for answers. How're Iori and Ikura holding up? How are Samura's chancla staying on his feet in mid-air? Will we ever get back to Azami and his private rock concert? I'll see you next week hopefully with something to say, dear void.

[roaming-across-the-moors]

NEW OCS

Here’re my new TNMN OCs, Ambrose Nightshade and Saeko Aikawa. They’re dating each other. They’re also childhood friends.

They’re both in their late 20s (Ambrose is 27 while Saeko is 26).

Both of them are Japanese as their parents are immigrants, although Ambrose is half white on his father’s side. Saeko is 100% Japanese.

They live on F02-05. They’re the newer residents as they moved in a year before 1955.

Ambrose works as an undertaker.

Saeko works as a cook in a restaurant. She’s Nacha’s coworker.

Ambrose is a cold, apathetic man. He doesn’t care for many people besides his girlfriend, his cat and his mother. His bluntness, dry cadence and dark humour rubs off on people the wrong way. He might be a borderline sociopath as he lacks empathy and doesn’t respect authority figures. Many of the neighbours fear or dislike him due to his creepy nature. The feeling is mutual since Ambrose doesn’t hold any fondness towards them.

He’s also desensitised to death, given his line of work and considering how the death toll is on the rise due to the doppel crisis.

That’s not to say that Ambrose is completely heartless. He genuinely cares for Saeko in his own way and wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. He also finds a way to provide for her and himself through various means (especially if Dr Afton and the DDD ask for his assistance).

Ambrose has a morbid fascination with death and mortuary sciences as he has many books about those topics. He also loves gothic literature and movies, cats, sweets, taxidermy, collecting oddities and macabre classical music.

Saeko on the other hand, is a warm, kind and friendly woman who is willing to help people and be compassionate to those in need. She’s also humble and prefers not to draw much attention to herself, although she’s rather passive aggressive and a bit mischievous.

She gets along with most of the neighbours. At first some of the neighbours don’t trust her (due to her race) but eventually warmed up to her due to her gentle personality. Many people find her cute and pretty (though this can lead to fetishisation of her race)

Make no mistake. Saeko isn’t some fragile flower. She knows how to fight back if someone tries to harass her and her boyfriend in some way. If she’s pushed over the edge, she’ll likely get violent and impulsive. She can beat you to a bloody pulp. She’s also Ambrose’s partner in crime since she helps him take photos of the deceased for him.

Saeko loves cooking, reading, singing, dancing, sketching, fashion, photography and spending quality time with her boyfriend and cat. Her personality may be different than her boyfriend but she does share his love for Edgar Allan Poe and macabre artwork.

Some of the neighbours wondered why someone as sweet as her would be with someone as bitter as Ambrose. Even they pitied her for being stuck with someone as creepy as him.

Other than being a morality chain to Ambrose, they both hold a deep mutual trust and care for each other especially after what they’ve gone they’ve gone through together.

And that’s all I have for them since I’m still deciding on their backstory 🖤

[sonicenvy]

feeling good because today I submitted two massively overdue grad school homework assignments PLUS the one that was actually due tonight. Go me! I still have one more massively overdue assignment to do, but I think I can actually do it, so that's nice.

I also returned a few of my MANY massively overdue library books to work today (on my day off no less lol). One of the books I returned I've had out for nearly two years (cringes and dies) as I would simply return it from one of my library cards and check it out to the other one lmao.

[the-acid-pear]

Why did my cooking dream get hijacked by my brain making a William Afton oc and au what was that about.

[spock-adoodledoo]

if i got spoiled by accident and something actually happens to cui bei i'm gonna crash out

[eddies-ashtray]

white hot forever

Pairing: Logan “Wolverine” Howlett x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Most days exhaustion plagues him. But tonight, with his last dregs of energy, Logan cooks for you. Though he’s hungry for something far more enticing.

WC: 5.6k

Category: Smut (18+ ONLY, minors dni)

Content: Implied (non-specified) age gap, kissing, Logan throws reader over his shoulder/carries her, cunnilingus, unprotected pnv, reverse cowgirl, dirty talk, petnames (baby, old man, etc), beard burn, 1 single spank, some light nipple play, spitting, kinda dom logan/sub reader, light teasing/mocking, a dash of humiliation kink, lots of manhandling, an inordinate amount of animal metaphor/simile, mentions of logan’s exhaustion/aging due to the adamantium poisoning.

His biceps strain against the thin cotton of his white button-down–the sleeves rolled up–as he finely chops a red pepper. His heavy hand lends to the particularly booming sound of the knife landing on the wood cutting board. But you don’t mind, content to observe from your ideal spot on the countertop of the island. 

A half empty wine glass sits in your palm as your gaze lingers on the smattering of dark hair beneath the low-cut tank he wears under the button-down. 

The kitchen smells of the sweetness of the cooking oil he used and the warmth of nostalgia. Faint memories from childhood of your mother bustling around the kitchen as she prepared dinner linger at the edges of your mind, brought on by familiar scents. When you breathe it in, you also catch lingering traces of Logan’s shampoo and, faintly, sweat. 

“You ever…Ya know,” you pause, swirling the white liquid around. “Use the claws to chop an onion or something?”

Doing your best to suppress a smirk when Logan looks up at you from beneath his brows and pins you with a stern gaze, you hold his eyes. 

You quirk a brow, waiting for his response as a snort threatens to bubble up. 

A smirk cracks through his intense facade, crows feet deepening slightly. With an endearing shake of his head, he huffs a laugh through his nose. Logan’s a bit of a grump—even more so now that his hair has greyed and he’s let his beard grow somewhat unruly—but he’s not without a sense of humour. 

“No,” his voice, though signed with a note of playfulness, is as gruff as always when he rests the knife on the cutting board. “But as you know, they’ve been useful for…other things.” 

The word ‘other’ is loaded with intensity as the hand that previously gripped the knife handle lands deceptively gently on your right knee. It skates roughly up your thigh to thumb at the edge of your skirt. 

You only hum in response. Despite the warmth of the kitchen, a chill runs up your spine and you shiver involuntarily. You’re not sure how he does that. Dial things up to 100 before you can even blink. It keeps you on your toes, even a few years in.  

Now it’s his turn to quirk a brow–ever expressive–when his heavy gaze finally lifts from your legs.

Warmth begins to seep into your chest and stoke a small fire in your belly.

But the growing tension vanishes the moment a timer dings, shrill and intrusive. 

Pulling himself away from your skin to tend to the sound, Logan bends at the knees to pull a steaming dish from the oven. 

The crack of his joints is a quiet popping sound compared to the low grunt he releases when he stands back up to his full height to place the dish on the stovetop. 

He tosses a worn out dish towel over his shoulder–the same one he’d used to pull the food from the oven. 

Watching him carefully as he spins around in search of his whiskey glass, you remark, “You look handsome like this.” 

You pass him the liquor, his large hand wrapping around the glass. 

“Handsome like what?” he asks, a hint of a chuckle in his voice. 

It’s not often Logan has the energy for this. Long days drain him now. Like sweet syrup from a tapped tree, a slow drip that takes and takes.

“Just–in the kitchen with me. Cooking…Taking care of me,” you say. 

Another soft smile graces his lips and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek, a hand at your hip, and your face warms. 

Gulping down a healthy sip of his drink, his throat bobs as he swallows the auburn liquid. When the glass clinks against the marble as he puts it down, you notice droplets linger in his beard. Once you’ve placed your own glass down you reach to thumb away the beaded liquid.

“Hm?” he hums, though it’s more of a growl when he does it, the sound rumbling up from deep in his broad chest. 

“Just got some…” you trail off, expecting him to come to the natural conclusion himself when you lean in and cup his jaw. Feel the roughness of his beard against your palm as you swipe away the small droplet. “There.” 

Logan leans briefly into your touch to kiss the soft skin of your palm in thanks. The gesture makes your heart ache. 

You’re about to pull away, but Logan grasps your wrist in one strong hand, savouring your touch. He’s looking at you with an unexpected hunger behind his eyes as he feels the skin of your wrist beneath his rough palm. You can’t deny the way it revives the searing heat in the pit of your stomach. 

“What?” The word comes out more breathy than you’d intended. 

“Nothin’.” Logan shakes his head, holding your gaze. He releases your hand gently. 

The word lingers in the air between you. 

The way he says it–like it’s not really nothing–wires you right up again. You know he knows it too–his overly keen senses able to pick up the rhythm of your heart hammering against your ribcage. 

You need to expel the energy or let the tension snap but can only think of the intoxicating scent of whiskey on his breath. “You know, I’ve never tried whiskey.”

He’s quick to respond. “No? You want to?” 

“Okay.” It comes out in a whisper. The atmosphere feels too fragile for any other tone.

Logan grabs the crystal glass, just another sip or two remaining. He steals another as he steps in front of you, his left palm falling to your knee to push your legs apart so he has room to stand between them. 

He lingers above you and you lick your lips in anticipation, catching the way hazel eyes darken beneath furrowed brows. 

Then, Logan looks away and you watch as he places the glass down on the counter and his palms flat beside your thighs, effectively caging you in so you’re trapped in his space. Logan is all you can breathe, all you can see, all you can smell as your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. 

Eyes finally returning to yours, his head tilts to the side–cocky, challenging. “Then give your old man a kiss.” 

A whimper nearly escapes you before you’re wrapping your arms around his neck and hungrily pressing your lips to his like it’s an order. It may as well have been, gruff as he is. 

Logan grunts in response to your quick action, pulling your leg around his waist so your heel digs into the small of his back. 

The roughness of his beard rubs your chin and cheeks, a pleasant sting against sensitive skin. Though you’re soon distracted when his hand leaves your calf in favour of greedily running up your thigh. They leave heat and tingling skin in their wake, and you gasp into the kiss when he gives the meat of your thigh a generous squeeze. 

His desperation for you is matched only by yours for him as you wind your other leg around his hips to tug him closer. Grunting at your forcefulness, Logan finally slips his tongue into your warm mouth.  

The whiskey on his tongue is overpowering as he kisses you like he’s starving for it–the meal he was making long forgotten. Warm hands brush up the length of your spine, eliciting a subtle shiver, before one of his large palms cradles your skull like you’ll shatter without the support. 

His nose bumps yours as he deepens the kiss, licking into your mouth with fervour now. When his spare hand coasts over your chest to grab at your tits over your top, you arch into his touch with a moan like he demands it. 

When you bite his bottom lip he growls, long and deep. A renewed sense of desperation claws at your skin as your kisses become increasingly wanton and sloppy. Tangling tongues generate sounds bordering on obscenity. 

His claws may as well be dragging down your body, leaving bloody marks in their wake with the way his touch makes your skin sing. You hope he leaves bruises when he grasps at the flesh of your hips, pulling your lower-half flush against his pelvis. 

You can feel him, hard and straining against his black slacks. It’s impossible not to moan, lips leaving his as your mouth falls open to release the breathy sound. 

For a moment, you grind against his cock with your forehead pressed to his, using your hands wrapped around his neck as leverage. Feeling back muscles flex under your warm palms. The delicious slide of your soaked panties against his hardness is enough to drive you wild. 

A gasp is pulled out of you when your clit catches briefly on his tip beneath clean slacks. Logan growls through clenched teeth, pressing you into him harder, fervently rolling his hips. The sound makes your pussy clench around nothing. 

“Logan,” you whimper, aching for him as you pant into each other’s mouths. “Please.” 

“Fuck,” he rasps before he’s scooping you up off the counter, hoisting you up over his shoulder. Squealing at the surprise demonstration of his great strength, Logan strides through the kitchen and towards the living room. 

Desire burns deep in your belly as he carries you across the house like it’s nothing. He’s all broad chest, bulging biceps, and thick thighs. It makes you dizzy. You can’t help but reach out and pinch the meat of his thigh. 

“Hey!” He barks. 

Unsurprisingly quickly, Logan delivers a sharp smack to your ass and you yelp in shock, jolting against him. “So fuckin’ naughty.” 

The lingering sting coupled with his gruff tone has you squirming in his hold, whining low in your throat. 

In a single sudden motion, Logan manoeuvers you off his shoulder, dropping you onto the couch. And suddenly you feel deliciously small pinned beneath his hooded gaze. He towers over you. His staggering height emphasized from your perspective where you lay against the cushions. 

He’s assumed that authoritative stance that has every atom in your body buzzing–his arms crossed over his chest. This paired with his hard gaze is a lethal combination. He’s got that look in his eyes, like what am I gonna do with you? 

“Sorry.” Insincerity bleeds through your tone. You like to get him like this. To rile him up until he is more animal than man. 

Hazel eyes narrow as he grunts, disbelieving your weak apology. 

“You wanna be sorry?” He asks with a quick flick of his chin in your direction.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nod. His chest rumbles with a deep sigh.

Unable to avert your gaze from his face, you bear witness to the glorious sight of Logan shedding his button-down. Your hips wiggle subtly in anticipation–though Logan would call it impatience. The cotton article is tossed carelessly over the chair by the couch.

He crouches down with a soft grunt, nods. “Okay.” 

Swiftly, you are tugged to the edge of the couch by Logan’s hands on your hips. Your skirt gets rucked up your waist, exposing you to the warm air of the house. Though it feels far more jarringly cool between your legs where you’re hot and wanting, pussy weeping for the older man before you.

“So fuckin’ soaked already,” He mutters, more to himself than to you. The comment has pleasure boiling low in your belly. 

“Logan.” He glances up at you briefly then returns his eyes to your cunt.  

You watch with rapture as his nostrils flare, no doubt overwhelmed by your scent this close to your centre. A predator ready to devour its prey. 

For the briefest of moments, Logan admires the wetness seeping through your panties, presses his thumb against the clothed, leaking well just to see your hips jump. Biting back a pathetic whine is far more difficult when his lips twitch into a faint smirk. 

There’s a change in his eyes in a split second where brows lower and pupils dilate. It’s then that he rips your panties down your legs and you swear you hear the distinct sound of fabric tearing. Gasping, you toss your head back between your shoulders, panting and warm all over. 

His chest rumbles with a guttural sound, savouring the sight of you spread open wide and dripping for him. 

Logan’s rough hands rub up and down your thighs, hungry. When they pause you swear you can feel his gaze burning a hole into the column of your throat. 

“Eyes,” He demands.

You obey, catching a glimpse of him stuffing your panties into his back pocket from where he kneels on the floor between your legs. 

The anticipation eats you alive, hips flexing, unable to remain still. Logan pins them down in an instant. 

Everything quiets. Tunnel vision casts out any and all sound or sight besides him. 

“Don’t move,” Is all he says before he’s diving in and devouring you, tongue hot on your sensitive skin. 

“Fuck!” you cry, hands plunging into his hair. 

He’s groaning the second his tongue licks up your cunt, dining on your taste. He gorges on you like he’s been deprived of your taste for far too long and he’s hollow without it. 

You’re drunk and dizzy on the way his beard scratches against your skin. The way the thick hair rubs against your cunt and sensitive inner thighs. A carnal craving satisfied. He’ll pull away after and be covered in you, unable to kiss you without smearing your desire across your own chin. 

The rough tug you give his hair causes him to grunt into you. He eats you out with zeal, an energy that so often eludes him these days. 

“Feels so good…Shit…So-” you babble on, only half aware of the praise spilling from your mouth.

For now, you are not sorry about his overzealous approach. But you will be. After, when the burn becomes a sting. When you are unable to walk for a week straight without feeling the roughness of his beard between your thighs. When he’ll reach over while he’s driving and squeeze your thigh meanly as a reminder. 

For now, you moan unabashedly as he nips at your clit harshly. Free roaming hands find warm skin, grabbing fistfulls of you. Rubbing your thighs, grabbing at your hips, spreading possessively over your stomach. Soon, his hand snakes under your top to squeeze at your tits, and you gasp sharply when he pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger. 

The fire in your belly rages on, burning bright, spitting ash. 

“Logan,” You whine, long and drawn out, when he shakes his head back and forth animalistically, coating more of his beard in your wetness, your scent. He grunts against your pussy at the sound of his name hot on your tongue, the vibrations it causes driving you mad. 

His roughness makes your cunt throb. You derive as much pleasure from the sensation of his tongue licking up your slit and circling your clit as you do from simply watching him like this. His eyes shut in concentration, locked in as he laps up your juices like it sustains him. Like he is taking his fill of you before he hibernates for the winter. 

Just the obscene sounds of his hunger, the slurping and the groans emanating from deep within his chest are enough to prompt your hips to grind up into the pleasure his mouth provides. And he accepts all of it enthusiastically. 

You get lost in it, his wet muscle prodding at your entrance, licking up your slit to spread the wetness he’d collected over your clit. He sucks it between his lips, causing you to groan. 

Briefly, Logan pulls away, and you whine in protest. But his pause allows you to glimpse the parts of his beard that are now matted down with wetness. The sight causes warmth to spread across your chest, equal parts humiliation and pleasure. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he pants against your thigh, warm breath fanning over your puffy cunt. “Look at you,” he slurs, thumb rubbing over your pussy, spreading the wetness all over. 

Your hips jump and you whine again. Logan growls a quiet, desperate sound before diving back in, practically making out with your pussy and inserting two of his thick fingers into your heat. 

“Shit! Lo-” his name gets cut off with a girlish moan, a high sound only he could pull out of you, body completely overwhelmed by the excess of pleasure. 

“There she is,” he drawls, voice muffled and thick with lust before enveloping your clit in the warmth of his mouth and sucking. Your grip in his hair tightens as your hips grind into his mouth and down onto his fingers. Fingers which curl up into the gummy walls of your cunt, languidly brushing that sensitive spot inside over and over. 

Soon, slow movements evolve into quicker, but still consistent and deliberate, pumps into your weeping hole. It is precisely then that the ever-growing fire in your belly begins to consume you entirely. The moment Logan’s jaw goes slack and he begins to desperately lap at your cunt with a near entire loss of coordination, your vision goes white. 

Your orgasm crashes over you, an all-consuming force as Logan continues to fuck you with his fingers. It’s like you are bursting at the seams, coming apart in his hands. Every cell in your body catches fire as you roll your hips into his hand, riding out the waves of your climax. 

You’re panting as you come down, hips slowing to a stop as your body becomes over-sensitive to his touch. You twitch as Logan slowly pulls his fingers from you, his head falling to rest on your trembling thigh. 

“You know…For an old man, that was-” 

You suck in a sharp breath, hips jumping at the harsh sensation of Logan intentionally rubbing his beard over your already burning inner thighs. He chuckles lowly at your reaction, but is quick to soothe you, laying tender kisses across heated skin. 

Your hands trail down from his hair, and stroke a thumb softly over his cheek. He allows the sweet touches to continue for several moments before he pushes off his knees with a grunt. Logan falls onto the couch next to you, legs spread wide. Eyeing him in your periphery, you can tell he’s just as exhausted as you; his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.  

You’re still panting softly as you watch him, your limbs like Jell-O, skirt hastily pushed up past your waist, and top askew. The sight of him licking his fingers clean of you makes your clit twitch despite its sensitivity. 

Finally, he finds your eyes. 

“C’mere,” Logan rasps, patting his thigh. 

It takes great effort for you to crawl into his lap, and you don’t do it without some assistance. Logan’s hands grip your waist, pull you so you’re seated sideways over his thighs so as not to further irritate the burn. 

You wind an arm around his neck, tenderly stroking the hair at his nape. 

Logan rubs over the dough of your thighs, thumbs caressing between the split of them. Later, he’ll help you gently rub soothing lotion into them, but for now he’s all desire as he gazes down at where his hands press lightly into your legs. 

“How’s that feel?” he asks quietly. 

You can’t help but squirm in his lap a little, feeling him hot and hard beneath your thighs.

“Mmh,” you muse, staring down at his hands on you, legs raw and tingling. “Good.” 

You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, the warmth of his body beneath yours. “Yeah?”

You nod, meeting his eyes before cupping his jaw and scratching softly at his beard, feeling the lingering wetness there. Briefly, his eyes drift shut and he groans quietly. 

“How’s that feel?” you repeat his question back at him, teasing. 

Logan growls, grabs the back of your head, and desperately presses his lips to yours in answer. 

You moan softly into the kiss, holding his face in your hands as you lick into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue more than the whiskey now. 

Then you’re trailing your hands down his chest and pulling away only briefly to tug his white tank off before your fingers deftly begin to undo his belt. The metallic clink it makes, the sound of leather sliding against cotton as it comes off, only makes your pussy clench around nothing as you whine into his mouth. 

Your ardour makes Logan chuckle, breaking away from your lips in favour of kissing roughly down your neck. His hands now cup your jaw, allowing him to tilt your head back as his lips leave a trail of wet kisses across heated skin. You sigh as his beard tickles your neck. 

“So needy,” he mumbles into your skin. 

You groan and feel his smirk against the skin of your chest before he’s pulling your skirt and top off over your head and tossing them aside. 

Wanting hands find their way into his hair again when he pulls away from your skin momentarily. He enjoys having you completely naked in his lap while he’s still mostly clothed. You can tell from the way his nostrils flare when he drags in a deep breath, the way his tongue wets his mouth before he pulls you close and latches onto your nipple. 

He greedily licks and sucks and bites at one while palming the other in one large hand. 

“Logan,” you breathe his name like a prayer, pulling him closer with hands locked in his hair. 

His teeth graze your nipple, tugging it gently. Gasping in shock, your face twists up at the intense mix of pleasure-pain that swirls around in your gut. He releases your breast, breathing harshly over your now damp skin. 

Impatient and needy, you can’t help but squirm in his lap, rubbing yourself over his hardness. Surely, you’ll leave a damp patch on his clean slacks. The thought only spurs you on, movements becoming desperate. 

His cock twitches beneath you, tip probably an angry red and leaking sticky precum you selfishly wish to lick up. “Fuck, need to feel you, sweetheart.” 

The whine his proclamation elicits borders on pathetic, and in a rush you’re helping him tug his slacks down just enough that his cock can spring free. 

“So pretty,” you whisper, dragging your middle finger across prominent veins that run down his length, prompting him to twitch and hiss through his teeth.

Saliva begins to pool in your mouth, but you’re tugged back to Earth when Logan grabs your waist, ordering you to ‘turn around’. 

Body buzzing in anticipation, you allow him to manhandle you into the right position, savouring the feel of his hands manipulating your movements. 

“There ya go,” He praises, pulling your back flush against his chest. His hand sneaks up your chest. When it reaches your neck, he presses gently so your head falls against his shoulder. 

Your eyes meet as your chest heaves. 

“Open.” 

Eyes remaining on his, you part your lips. 

“Don’t swallow,” Logan instructs gruffly, brow quirked. He may as well have pointed a finger in your face, stern as he is. 

You nod quickly, and he leans forward slightly to spit thickly onto your tongue. It’s so obscene a tremor wracks through your body as heat spills into your gut. 

Hand below your chin, Logan closes your jaw for you, allowing his saliva to mix with your own before putting his hand in front of you, saying, “Spit.” 

You obey a little messily, some ending up dribbling down your chin. 

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he says, smearing the sticky mess over your already messy cunt. You whine, all high and breathy. Still slightly sensitive. 

Finally, he adjusts you, shoving you forward in his lap so he’s at the right angle to thrust into your wet heat. 

Tandem groans are released into the air the moment he fills you. A millisecond to adjust. To savour how deeply he fills you before his hands are at your waist to help guide your movements.

Using your own hands on his legs as leverage allows for slow, deep thrusts that make your body quake. Those first sweet drags of his cock against your slick walls are enough to make you shudder. 

Reaching a steady rhythm, you begin to pant, the exertion it takes to ride him like this tiring you out quickly. Though Logan is quick to help, supporting you with strong hands as he guides you up and down. Still, you’ve yet to lose your vigour. Entranced by the slow roll of your hips, the way his cock reaches the deepest parts of you in this position. His strong thighs bracketing your body. 

“That’s it…That’s it.” Logan grunts lowly, nearly delirious and wholly mesmerized by how your body takes all of him. How you stretch around him to accommodate his size. Hypnotized briefly as he hungrily watches the place where you connect. 

A gasp evolves into a moan as one of his hands leaves your waist in favour of seeking out the sensitive button at the top of your cunt. Clumsy fingers toy with your clit, slipping around messily. Flames lick at your nerve endings. On occasion he loses his place, unable to maintain a perfect rhythm from behind you, but just as quickly returns to circle the bud.  

Another hand moves to your belly, pulling your body backwards, his sweat-slick chest now pressed up against your back. You wish you could drag your nails down his broad chest, watch as he loses himself in the feeling. But the closeness this position allows is worth the sacrifice. 

Being nearly immobilized pressed up against him like this, giving him full control of your body, it feeds some deep desire. It’s the reason your head has gone a little fuzzy. He knows it too. He knows it when you let a whine slip past your lips. When you begin to grind back against him needily. 

“Feel good, baby?” he rasps. At the same time, he rubs his middle finger over your clit in time with a deliciously deep thrust. All you can do is throw your head back against his shoulder, another wanton moan clawing its way up your throat, directly into his ear. That’s all the answer he needs. 

Logan grunts in response. Pistoning hips setting a rhythm that is both intimate and punishing, making you dizzy. His closeness makes you dizzy. Those low grunts in your ear are enough to drop pearls of pleasure into the pit of your stomach. All of it contributing to the growing fog in your mind. 

You writhe against him, an arm wrapping around the back of his head, keeping him close with a hand buried in his hair. Your other hand remains locked onto his forearm as it flexes with each rub of your sensitive clit. 

Logan begins to grunt animalistically into your ear, unabashed about his desire for you. You feel it in the way his strong arms grip your body, ensuring your security. In the way he lets moans and grunts and groans rumble up from his chest, unafraid to let you hear what you do to him. 

His hands all over your body, the deep strokes of his cock that reach the deepest parts of you, his soft grunts in your ear–it all feeds the flames in your belly. 

“Fuck. S-so full,” you mewl, overwhelmed tears springing to your eyes. 

“I know, baby. I know,” he placates, tone edging on mockery. His voice sends shockwaves through your body. The sweet humiliation it brings presses into your skin like a brand, leaving it white-hot. 

More. You need more of him. 

Desperately, clumsily, you grind back into him enthusiastically, writhing in his grasp. The rhythm turns staccato and messy as a result. But it doesn’t matter. You just need more.

You whine, turning your head towards him and he gets the hint, meets you halfway and licks hotly into your mouth the moment your lips meet. Your hands twist in his hair. 

It’s messy and uncoordinated and your neck hurts twisted to kiss him like this. But then there’s the fiery taste of whiskey. And you. And him, his cigars. And the pain–it’s worth it. It’s necessary. 

When you break away, only a thin line of saliva connecting your mouths now, it’s to gasp. Your brows furrow, pleasure twisting your insides. 

You go cross-eyed trying to hold his gaze, and he grins. It’s a wolfish thing. A flash of his teeth, lips kissed red and puffy. The sight makes your pussy clench around him. 

A smile tugs at your own mouth, probably fucked out and hazy with pupils blown wide. It only grows when the hand gripping your waist skims over your hot skin. On its journey, he grabs at your tits, pinches your nipple. Every sensation now blends together, overwhelming you with pleasure.

His hand pauses at the base of your neck where it grazes over the stretched expanse of skin. 

A teasing squeeze. Once. Your brows knitting together. Twice. Your mouth dropping open. His grip not quite tight enough to cut off airflow and elicit that floaty feeling. But enough to make you whine low in your throat. You are at his mercy.

Eyes drifting shut, you cry out, feeling your climax building at the pit of your stomach. Breathy moans escape you with each rub of his finger over your sensitive bundle of nerves, edging on overstimulating. Each sharp thrust drives you closer to that edge, setting your body alight. 

“Y’gonna come, honey?” Logan pants, voice hoarse. 

These escapades exhaust him now. You’ve witnessed the way it sinks into his bones after. But there’s also the hint of a grin in his voice. Along with desperation. Desperation to feel you fall apart. An indication that the pleasure he provides, the pleasure he receives, is worth the exhaustion. It’s rewarding for him. 

Your answer is the most pathetic whine, high and wanton as overwhelmed tears blur your vision, threatening to spill over. “Uhuh.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, and you swear his fingers were made to make you come apart at the seams when he rubs over your clit like that. Like it gives him pleasure too.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless, barely moving over his cock as he pounds into you from below, his strong legs beginning to tremble. 

“Yeah,” Logan repeats. Mockery is thick on his tongue, a faux pout playing at his mouth. You lose it. 

Everything else falls away. Tingling heat spreads beneath your skin as you finally let go. Your body thrums with your release, the feel of his damp skin at your back, his hands on your body, how full of him you are. 

 Logan has little room to be cocky. Because the moment you begin to clench around him–cunt pulsing with each wave of your orgasm washing over you–he’s grunting curses into your shoulder, leaving bite marks on the tender flesh as his warm seed spurts into you. 

He shudders with his release. 

“Fuck,” he growls, grinding up into you, his grasp on your body tightening. 

In a flash, he removes his hand from your throat. And, distantly, past your post-coital fog, you hear the sound of metal unsheathing rapidly. You glance to your right.

Retracting claws reveal three deep holes pierced into the faux leather, showcasing thick wire springs and white stuffing. 

Blearily, you drag your hand down his arm, running over hair and slowly aging skin. Reaching his wrist, you bring his hand up to your mouth, cup it in both of yours. You smooth your thumb gently over the edges of his knuckles, watch for moments as the holes very slowly begin to close. 

You kiss his knuckles thrice. Once over each slowly healing wound. 

Eventually, the skin will mend. The wounds will be nonexistent. They will heal in time. But his body is exhausted. And every time the claws come out, the cracks in his skin take longer and longer to repair themselves. 

He collapses beneath you, rugged breaths pulled from tired lungs. 

Carefully, he slides out of you and you help him tuck himself back into his boxers. Press a kiss to his forehead. 

A whisper of, “Be right back.” against heated skin before leaving on unsteady legs to clean yourself up. His desire is a slow leak down your thighs now. 

If he were a younger man, still full of strength and agility, he’d have done this part for you. You know he wishes he could. Part of you wishes he could too. But you like to take care of him too. 

When you return, he’s still sunken into the couch, chest bare and sweaty. He accepts the glass of water you bring him, gulps it down thirstily. 

Cuddling up next to him now, you brush the sweat-damp hair back from his face. You’ll allow him to pull you close. You’ll hold each other, stroke the skin beneath his eyes tenderly. The fresh dark circles there. And he’ll press soft kisses against the lingering bite marks on your shoulder, whisper praise into your ear. 

When his honeyed eyes catch yours, you know he longs to spoil you. To scoop you up in his arms and take you to bed. 

But this takes a lot out of him now. It will be days–maybe more–before you’ll be able to do something like that again. 

So, you’ll take care of him. He’ll insist on having you underneath him. Begrudge the fact that the exhaustion will have yet to be leached from his bones. But acquiesce the moment your hands reach beneath his belt. 

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

[pucksandpower]

So Good to Me

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: Charles Leclerc is the perfect man for you … getting stopped on the street for a random TikTok challenge just serves to prove that even further

The warm Monaco sun beats down on you as you stroll leisurely along the bustling sidewalk, a canvas tote bag filled with fresh produce and flowers from the local farmer’s market hanging from your shoulder. The salty sea breeze wafts across your face, carrying with it the excited chatter and laughter of tourists admiring the luxurious yachts bobbing in Port Hercules.

You smile to yourself, relishing this perfect Mediterranean afternoon. Just a quick stop at home to drop off your purchases, and then maybe you’ll take a dip in the infinity pool on the terrace to cool off before Charles is done with-

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!” A young man’s voice breaks through your daydreaming. You glance over to see a twenty-something guy with a neatly trimmed beard, expensive-looking sunglasses, and a black t-shirt emblazoned with HUSTLE in white block letters. He’s holding a mini microphone and has his iPhone pointed at you, clearly filming.

A TikToker.

You sigh internally but force a polite smile.

“Oui, puis-je vous aider?” You reply in French.

“Ah sorry, I don’t speak much French! Do you speak English?” The TikToker asks eagerly in a British accent.

“Yes, I do. Can I help you with something?” You say, switching to English yourself. You just want to get home but you know these influencer types can be annoyingly persistent.

The TikToker grins. “Brilliant! I’m doing a social experiment for my followers. I was wondering — do you have a significant other? A boyfriend or husband perhaps?”

You raise an eyebrow questioningly but decide to humor him. “Um, yes, I have a boyfriend,” you answer simply.

His eyes light up. “Fantastic! And would you say your boyfriend loves you very much?”

You can’t help but chuckle at the boldness of this stranger’s line of questioning. “Yes, I would definitely say that. He loves me a lot,” you confirm, a soft smile playing on your lips as you think of Charles.

“Perfect! Okay, here’s the challenge,” the TikToker announces dramatically, staring intensely into his camera. “I want you to call up your boyfriend right now and ask him to send you some money. Doesn’t matter how much. But for every ���100 he sends, I’ll give you €20 to keep for yourself. Let’s see how much he really loves you, shall we?”

You stare at this guy incredulously for a moment before bursting out laughing. Is he serious? He clearly has no idea who your boyfriend is. An amused smirk spreads across your face as you fish your iPhone out of your designer purse.

“Alright, you’re on,” you say confidently, already unlocking your phone and tapping on Charles’ contact. The TikToker looks surprised but excited that you actually agreed to his silly challenge.

“Put it on speaker phone,” he instructs, zooming his camera in on your phone screen which is now dialing Charles.

After a few rings, the warm, honey-smooth voice you adore comes through. “Allô mon amour, what’s up?” Charles greets you sweetly. “I’m just finishing up some simulator runs but I should be done soon to help with dinner.”

“Hey baby,” you reply, your voice automatically softening. “Sorry to bother you, I know you’re busy. But I’m out right now and I just passed by that little boutique near the casino, you know the one? And I saw the most incredible pair of shoes in the window. I swear they were calling my name.”

Charles laughs affectionately, the sound like music to your ears even through the cell phone speaker. “Oh yeah? The ones that were calling your name last week turned out to be, what was it, €900?” He teases.

You roll your eyes playfully even though he can’t see. “Okay, fair, but you know I hardly ever splurge on myself. I’m usually so frugal!”

“Mmhmm, whatever you need to tell yourself, chérie,” Charles says wryly and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Let me guess, you need to go get these dream shoes right now? Or else they’ll haunt you forever?”

“You know me so well,” you gush dramatically. “I promise I’ll pay you back though! I get paid next week and-”

“Hey, hey, stop,” Charles cuts you off gently. “Mon cœur, you never have to pay me back, you know that. I love being able to treat you and spoil you. You deserve the world. Never forget that.”

You feel yourself melt at his earnest words, momentarily forgetting you have an audience. “I love you so much,” you murmur. “Thank you for always being so good to me.”

“Right back at you, ma belle. Je t’aime,” Charles says tenderly. “There, check your banking app. Let me know if you need any more. And have fun shopping! I’ll see you at home in a bit, okay? À bientôt!”

You glance down at your phone as a notification from your bank pops up on the screen. Your eyes widen slightly when you see the amount Charles sent over, but you recover quickly.

“Thank you, baby. See you soon!” You reply before hanging up. You turn back to the TikToker who is gaping at you in disbelief. Casually, you turn your phone screen towards him and his camera so he can clearly see the notification that €10,000 has just been deposited into your account.

The poor guy looks like he’s about to pass out from shock. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, rendered speechless. You just laugh good-naturedly.

“Well, guess I won your little challenge, huh?” You remark, slipping your phone back into your purse. “Tell you what, why don’t you donate whatever money you were going to give me to a local animal shelter instead? I think it’ll be put to much better use there.”

The TikToker finally manages to pick his jaw up off the floor. He laughs shakily and nods. “Yeah ... yeah I can do that. Wow. Um, thanks for being such a good sport about this. And congrats on, uh, winning, I guess?”

You give him a friendly wink. “Anytime. Have a nice rest of your day!” With that, you turn gracefully on your heel and continue on your way back home, feeling rather smug and deeply appreciative of your wonderfully generous boyfriend.

“Wait!” The TikToker calls out after you. You glance back over your shoulder curiously. He hesitates before asking in an awed voice, “If you don’t mind me asking ... who the hell is your boyfriend?”

An enigmatic smile plays on your lips. “No one special really,” you reply breezily. “Just a guy who loves driving fast cars.”

You leave the gaping TikToker in your wake as you saunter off, already daydreaming about showing your appreciation to Charles later for being the most incredible boyfriend imaginable.

Maybe you really will splurge on those designer shoes after all … and pick up a little something special from the lingerie boutique next door while you’re at it.

Your smile widens. Just as a little thank you to your man, of course. Life is good when you’re in love with Charles Leclerc.

[rae-writes]

OnlyFantoms?? pt.II

om dateables/sides x reader

wc : 2.k

warnings : nsfw, gn!reader with skirt wearing (raphael), lingerie wearing (diavolo), online sharing

synopsis : lets see what the new latest trending porn videos are

a/n: MWAHAHAHA IT'S FUCKING HERE

brothers ver.

The maroon fabric of your babydoll lingerie was rumpled, tearing not even a second later from how ironclad Diavolo’s grip was. One hand had the lace fisted, using it to yank you back on his cock, while the other was wrapped around your throat, veins highlighted and muscles flexing each time he effortlessly lifted your body and slammed it back down at the rough pace he was fucking you. Your legs were spread wide over his straining thighs, body just barely covered by the sheer material that adorned your sweaty body, hands white-knuckling his horns with your nails scratching along the golden ornaments . Each time skin met skin, it echoed in the room— adding to the sensual sight of the morning light reflecting off the golden floors, walls- the regal throne the two of you were seated in. His sounds were muffled from the way his head was buried in your neck, no doubt adding more marks to the already bruise-littered skin. Your own head was tilted back against his shoulder, his fingers squeezing visibly at your throat before two of them pushed past your parted mouth, making your high pitched moans turn choked. His rough pace got even more animalistic, feral growl escaping him as your body tensed, milking his cock as you came, pushing him past that edge too— and the video cuts.

Where royalty sits | 0:10 seconds | 112.k views | 109.k likes | 100.k comments 

TEN WHOLE SECONDS OF ABSOLUTE GOODNESS

Is this even legal to watch?? Cause if not, I’m happily packing my bags for jail

Typing this comment from my grave 

*eats phone*

Amazing day to be a Devildom citizen folks 

†

Hidden underneath the castle’s foyer stairs, the golden fractures of light shift as each of your bodies move. You were on your knees, thighs flexing, as you bounced up and down— riding Barbatos’ tail. The appendage forced itself deeper and deeper until the camera picked up on the arch of your back, the shimmer of your nails (painted in his colors) digging into his thighs, leaving behind wrinkles in the usually pristine black slacks. Gloved hands were tangled in your hair, gripping tighter the more his composure began to waver. The guided bobbing of your head went from leisure to almost desperate and then back again; after a particularly stressful day, he just couldn’t decide what he wanted. Only murmurs of praise left the royal steward, as opposed to your choked moans and whimpers and occasional gasps of his name when you came up for air before swallowing him down again. There was a brief moment in which he cupped the back of your head and shoved you all the way down- pausing- when footsteps ascended the stairs you were both underneath. Once it was quiet again, he pulled your head back with a caress of your hair and a soft apology, fucking you with his tail at a more rapid pace, insisting you needed to cum first. With you melting at his ministrations, he begins fucking your mouth, too, grunting almost inaudibly; the second your body wracked with your orgasm, he followed suit— and though only your backside view could be seen, the sounds of swallowing were crystal clear. With a low chuckle from Barbatos, and a breathy giggle from you, the screen goes black. 

Off duty | 0:30 seconds | 97.k views | 92.k likes | 88.k comments 

This is gonna be the next big fever dream, come lay your eyes on it while you can-

Mouth? Dropped. Eyes? Rolled. Drool? Leaking. Hotel? Corvo. 

B A R B A T O S ? !

This is the best day of my life

asdfghjkl

†

Scraping of wood against marble tile echoed faintly as the entirety of Mephisto’s desk moved inch by inch. The force he was pounding into you created small thudding noises, your clothes dulling the sound of skin slapping, followed by sharp grunts as he worked to keep the relentless pace. Lights of the newspaper club’s office highlighted your bodies, leaving nothing hidden as he bends you into an even deeper arch, face buried in the mahogany desk. Newspapers- published and uncompleted drafts- are crumpled underneath your hands; he couldn’t care less, though, not when you’re moaning and crying out his name like you are. It’s clear he tries to show some decorum, but the rare sight of his demon form screams how disheveled you’re making him— tails coiled around your waist, horns pressing into your shoulder, sharp nails digging jagged lines into the wood of his desk. An enchanted quill is frantically scribbling in the background, no doubt writing down what was happening into a page of the upcoming newspaper draft; depending on whether or not Mephisto remembers- or cares- he might just leave the article in. The thought actually has him whining, fucking into you a bit faster, because he’d love to see everyone’s reactions once they read the damn paper— knowing he had you right under everyone’s noses. A quick tug of your hair to pull you into a messy kiss that the camera can’t see and he’s spilling his cum into you- dragging you off the ledge with him- and pressing his body flush against yours. You stay trapped like that for a few seconds, quietly laughing and teasing him, before he huffs and pulls back as you both try to make yourself presentable again when the video ends. 

Extra, Extra | 3:25  minutes | 93.k views | 89.k likes | 84.k comments

Front page, baby. FRONT! PAGE!

Got his priorities down pat

What goes down in the news office doesn’t stay in the news office

Get that nOBLE DIck MC

Never thought I’d hear Mephisto whine— 

†

White linen curls around your arms, clenched between your fingers, pillowing your head, delicately shielding the parts you didn’t want too exposed— all while the light in Simeon’s room bathes you in a replicated golden hour. His head is buried deep between your thighs, messy hair brushing your skin at each movement. One of his hands is keeping your left thigh flat against the bed, squeezing at the fat of it, while the other is subtly shoved underneath his body as he fucks his fist. With the leg that isn’t pinned down, your calf is resting over his shoulder, keeping him impossibly close; the sounds coming from him are muffled, as he’s barely able to breathe properly, but they’re desperate and needy, echoed by the mindless ‘please’s and praise he’s babbling out. The sheets covering his own body from view only hide his hips down to his mid thigh, giving the perfect- defined- view of his arched back and the flexing muscles rippling underneath smooth skin as he thrusts into the pleasure. There are faint reddened lines trailing along his shoulders and barely visible hickies on his neck, showing that, clearly, this hadn’t been the beginning of the night. It can also be seen in the way his hips stutter with overstimulation, toes curling at the sensation, even if he can’t stop because he still craves the release. It’s timed with the pace he’s fucking you with his tongue, moans harmonizing with yours, getting louder and breathier and a little whinier before he’s practically crying out an ‘I’m cumming!’. Not even a second later, both of your thighs are snapping closed around his head, trembling, as you follow. The come down is soft and sweet, whispered words and gentle caresses, with a murmured suggestion for a bubble bath just as the video cuts. 

Worship hour | 2:30 minutes | 86.k views | 84.k likes | 78.k comments 

I feel the grace of the celestial realm 

PHEW 

GOD AND DAMN 

We’ve ascended guys— 

Where can I get an angel 

†

The scattered, organized, yet messy sight of school books, miscellaneous supplies, and the fact that you were in your uniform made it obvious this was one of RAD’s many closets. Raphael was sitting on top of an extra desk, legs spread rather wide as you sat on top of him; your skirt rode up around your hips, but his hands groped and squeezed your ass to shield it from view. He guided you at a quick, needy pace as you grinded against his clothed cock, sometimes jerking his hips up to meet the movements. The normally quiet and aloof Angel was panting and gasping, and if you listened closely, you could hear muffled whines every now and then when you moved at a certain angle. The sloppy sounds of wet kissing and tongues tangling seemed to echo in the small room, even despite his whisper of ‘have to be quiet’— in fact, he was more vocal than you, commanding you to go faster, asking you not to stop. Even the shadows passing under the door didn’t deter him from wanting you. The bell signaling class was about to begin made you pause without thinking, but he gave you no time to think: he grabbed you right up and twisted your bodies around until you were laying back on the desk, legs around his waist. With no room to barely breathe in between, he began fucking himself against you like an animal in heat, breathlessly apologizing and announcing he was gonna cum. With a few more rough thrusts, you can see his body shudder and melt over top of you— and the visible wet stain on the front of his pants as he gently helps you off the desk and fixes your clothes, suggesting a quick clean up spell so you can go to class, before the video ends.

[Can’t] resist temptation | 1:10 minutes | 88.k views | 82.k likes | 75.k comments 

PHEW PART FUCKING TWO

His veiny hands make me ajsaljdkd

Are all the exchange students always this hot??

I will take a shower of spears to see this in person 

Mc is my hero 

†

Whatever device was recording had to be enchanted, as the screen was divided perfectly to show the inside of the common room, where the seven brothers all lounged, and the hallway wall just outside, where Solomon had you hiked up against it. His head was buried in the crook of your neck, only a peek of his lips showing. The bottom half of your face that was in frame is covered by his hand, fingers digging into your jaw to keep you quiet. The only thing covering your body was his starry cloak; the fabric fell off your shoulder, showing off the many hickies and bite marks adorning your skin. Your body bounced upwards at every sharp thrust— he was unforgiving with his pace, frame flush against yours as he fucked you deep. The audio barely picked up on the ragged pants falling from his mouth, the debauched praises that he was damn near singing as he had his way with you, all while being ten feet away from the brothers. The muscles in his arm flexed as he held you up, fingers marking bruises into the skin he was gripping. You raked your hands through his sweat-soaked hair, tugging and pushing his head up until you had your mouth against his. A barely audible cry of his name reached the camera as your back arched, fingers pressing just as bruisingly into his back. He finally stuttered in his pace, mouth falling open; he came with his tongue tangled with yours, accidentally having let out a hiss when you moaned aloud. Lucifer, who had been glancing up occasionally, as if he thought he heard something, immediately stood just as all the others’ heads snapped up. With a desperate kiss, Solomon opened a portal and carried you right through, leaving the brothers to hastily round the corner and begin shouting, before the video cuts.

Claim staking | 4:45 minutes | 91.k views | 88.k likes | 84.k comments 

A good section of the comments is just hate from the brothers, I— 

That sly, sexy, smug little fucker

I wanna be between the two of them 

Sorcerer man hot 

You could physically feel the charge in the air through the phone when the brothers figured it out

[mewfistoe]

You find a soft sweater in Sylus’ closet.

———

You had never owned anything made from vicuña wool before. Hadn’t even known what a vicuña was until you looked it up online. Hell, you hadn’t even been able to spell “vicuña” at first, the search engine had to correct it for you when you tried to look it up.

Now though? Now you were gawking at the prices of various online listings of 100% vicuña wool sweaters in mild horror.

“It’s just vicuña wool,” Sylus had said.

“Just.”

****

You had found the sweater a week ago in Sylus’ closet when you stayed the night. You’d been looking for something comfy to lounge in his bed in, and when your hand had brushed up against this particular caramel-toned sweater, you couldn’t help yourself. It was so soft. It must’ve been one of Sylus’ favorites. He must have worn and washed it regularly for it to be as soft as it was.

Sylus had laughed when he saw you emerge victoriously from his closet with your spoils. Said you had surprisingly refined taste for someone so cheap.

You had never felt anything so buttery and soft before. Sylus doubtlessly used some very nice detergent and fabric softener. The sweater was a bit too large for you, intended to fit someone of Sylus’ frame, and the too long sleeves had felt so overwhelmingly cozy. You couldn’t stop petting yourself while you wore it.

Sylus had watched you with a smile and teased that you looked like a self-absorbed hamster grooming itself. You told him that he was just jealous that you had discovered his favorite sweater and had taken it hostage for the night.

When it came time for you to head home the next day, you were loathe to leave the sweater behind. And Sylus, dear sweet generous Sylus, had told you not to bother and to take it with you instead. He insisted. Said you clearly liked it better than he did.

You had hemmed and hawed about it at first. Both wanting, but not wanting, to steal his favorite. But you could tell by his smirk and head tilt that he knew how delighted you were with your new prize.

You had no idea that prize in question was made of one of the most luxurious textiles in the world. That it was worth over four months of rent for your apartment. That it wasn’t soft from Sylus wearing it all the time, but because it was made from the literal finest wool available on the market today.

Sylus just laughs when you call him up to confront him.

****

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s really not that bad, just a sweater.”

“It’s more than my rent! For four months!”

“Tch, that really says more about your meagre accommodations than anything else, kitten.”

“Why do you even have a sweater that costs $9,000 anyway?”

“$17,800.”

“WHAT?!”

“$17,800. It was custom made and I wanted a looser fit for comfort, so it required substantially more wool.”

“SYLUS!”

“Oh sweetie. It’s really not that bad. I have a rather large illegal white shahtoosh shawl somewhere that’s worth at least double that.”

“A what? A sharoo? Huh?!”

“Shahtoosh. Don’t worry, sweetie. It was a gift from a business associate trying to curry favor. And very old. Vintage. I wouldn’t buy one myself, I know how much you love animals.”

“Huh?”

“I’d give it to you, given your fondness for fine wools, but I know you’re a good law-abiding citizen so…”

“You…you big criminal! Why are even the fabrics you own illegal? Sylus? Sylus! Sylus, stop laughing at me! Sylus! It’s not funny. Sylus!!”

****

The next time he sees you, he hands you a skein of vicuña yarn.

“For my kitten to play with.”

“….”

You’ll never tell him that you do end up fiddling around with it later.

———

A/N - I know they use “Linkon currency” in the game but tbh I was too lazy to try and look up conversion rates so I just used what I know. Is Linkon money equivalent to the Chinese yuan, or no?

Sylus’ sweater is definitely extremely expensive, even for vicuña, but I’m assuming he would get the best of the best, so….

Also, apparently, shahtoosh wool is the finest wool in the world (literally. The hairs are the finest in the animal kingdom). It is made from Tibetan antelope (chiru), which are endangered, and the antelope have to be killed for the wool to be harvested, so there’s some ethical and legal concerns with it. According to wiki, it is also illegal to buy/sell/own shahtoosh, however it can still be found on the black market sometimes for exorbitant prices.

That’s all! Yay.

[holeforzenin]

First time with Yuta!! ₊˚⊹ᡣ𐭩

Not proofread, both are 19. Don’t take this seriously I wrote this while I was like half asleep :p

Yuta loses every factor of his well-being the literal second he feels your tight warm pussy enveloping his cock as he slowly thrusts it into you, feeding you inch after inch of his cock for the first time, he literally shivers as he feels your leaking hole coating his twitching dick with your essence.

You both were virgins so he kept promising you over and over that he’ll be so gentle and soft with you, he’d rather die than ever hurt you even if it was an accident. He’d question and constantly ask if you were sure that you were ready for it to happen and even though you kept reminding him that it was fine, it’s bound to hurt even if it’s a little, for the first time but he’s just so sweet and caring he had to make sure you were 100% okay with it!

But after he stuffed his cock deep—all the way into your hole to the point where the small huffs of his pubic hair planted on the base of his cock were tickling and grazing your puffy clit so deliciously, the wave of pleasure was just sooo overbearing for him. It’s something he never felt before even when he’s jerking off. The feeling is just not comparable, not even close—your pussy felt like fucking heaven to him. He whined, his breathing growing heavier as he stared down at your pretty face distorting in pleasure and pain. His eyes filled with pure lust and adoration as he wrapped your legs around his waist. “Fu-fuck! So this is what it hah!—Feels like?? Your pussy feels soo good baby, so warm and tight around my cock. You look so pretty like this” he moaned, his hand moving to slowly pull his shirt off his head, revealing his toned abs and bulging biceps. You bit your lips as you stared at the eye candy but quickly got caught off guard when he starts fucking himself in and out of you, his veiny dick dragging against your sensitive velvet walls.

You moaned out loud, he murmured a low “fuck” under his breath as he sped up the pace, feeling your pussy growing even more gushier and creamy as he opens it up with his cock. He pushes his dick so deep into you to the brim that it’s so brutal at the way his angry tip hits your cervix as if it it had personal problems everytime he forces his inches into you. You whimpered as the two of you held eye contact before his head fell back in pleasure, your cunt fluttered around his hard cock after seeing the sexy scene of your boyfriend being pleasured and fucked out. Your eyes roll back in your head as his tip nudges against your g-spot so deliciously, “Mmm baby your pussy looks so pretty being split open around my cock like this” he groaned, moving his thumb to rub messy circles on your clit.

“Ohmygosh Yutaa I love you so much, fuck! it’s so fucking good” Your back arches as you cried out, he uses that as his chance to grip your waist tighter and pound his cock into you at a deeper angle, your tight walls squeezing so snugly around his cock, threatening to milk it dry.

“Shit- I love you ngh! —too pretty girl! So so much! Love this little pussy too, taking my dick so well. You're doing such a good job baby” He moaned out, almost choking on air as he muttered curses under his breath that you didn’t even know existed.

Heavy meaty balls slapping flushed against your asshole as he bit his lips, feeling himself approaching his release. “Fuck baby m’gonna cum, be a good girl and cum with me yeah?” He basically begged, voice sounding pathetic as ever as he continues toying with your clit. You nodded, eyes screwing shut as you felt him twitching inside of you like crazy, his leaky tip grazing against your favorite spots that had your toes curled against his lower back.

“Lets—cum! Fuck yuta, cum inside of me, need you to fill me up pleaseee” you begged, Yuta gaved you a look that screamed “say less” before you felt steamy hot liquid overflowing in your tight hole, followed by your sticky cum coating his cock. A white O ring appearing at the base of his cock as he continued fucking his sticky seed back into you. “Fuckkk—Attta girl, taking my cock so well, this pretty pussy was made for me baby” He beamed a smile down at you, so innocent and sweet that you can’t believe it’s the same man making your cunt ache while he stretches it out the very second. “You look so beautiful like that my love, all pretty and stuffed with my cum”. In conclusion, after this he kept his cock stuffed inside you so you can cockwarm him while both of your cum leaks out of your overflowing hole.

[haeryna]

the purest shade of white ↪ okkotsu yuuta x reader ⸙͎｡˚⋆ 𓋼

summary: yuuta looks almost like an angel, you think to yourself grimly, as you shift on the balls of your feet. you haven't seen your best friend in a couple years now, not since he left for africa. too bad he's attempting to kill the kouhai that you're trying to protect.

tw: manga spoilers! anime watchers, do not read. mild angst but happy ending. starts at the beginning of ch. 139. naoya zenin is here and he is his classic asshole self. reader is in the same grade as yuuta, both in age and in terms of cursed energy. swearing because reader is a bad bitch. mildly suggestive. unironic use of "senpai" and "kouhai." slight descriptions of blood and injury, everyone is subjected to the author's attempts at writing dialogue and fight scenes. not proofread but at this point that shouldn't be a surprise. it is blatantly obvious that the writer also does not know how to end stories

notes: thank you for 100 new friends! :) poll is technically still up but i'm impatient and yuuta was winning by a pretty decent margin so here it is lol. divider by @/saradika-graphics!

"Yuuji!" you yelp, slicing the head off a curse with a clean stroke of your katana. Purple ichor splatters to the ground as you whirl, searching for the familiar head of pink hair. "Stay close to me!"

Behind you, Choso grunts with exertion, sending out another bolt of Piercing Blood. Panting, you weave through the curses, letting their corpses fall behind you. Yuuji, where is Yuuji?

As the last body falls, you can't but let out an exasperated huff at the sheepish grin on Yuuji's face. "Don't scare me like that," you chide. "How am I supposed to protect you if I can't even find you?" Yuuji opens his mouth to protest but you shake your head. "I made a promise," you tell him, pain rippling through your heart dully. Gojo-sensei was long gone, stolen away by one of the people he had loved most in the world. Grimacing, you sheathe your katana, mindful of the blood that stains your palms, as you try to ignore the memory of his words all those months ago.

If anything happens, I need you to protect Itadori Yuuji. I know they're going to pull something on him once I'm not there to back him up.

"Senpai, what should-"

Yuuji immediately tenses as your hand flies to the grip of your katana. "I smell a rat," you mutter, nose wrinkling as you turn to face Naoya Zenin, standing atop a bridge. He bares his teeth at you in semblance of a smile. "How perceptive as always," he mocks.

"Cut the bullshit," you snap, hand still resting on the pommel. "What do you want?"

"Fushiguro Megumi," is his rather bland response, and you shift your feet into the opening steps of Flowing River.

"What do you want with Fushiguro?" Yuuji yells, and the way Naoya's face twists makes you want to vomit.

"I think I'll have him die."

Cursed energy fills your body as you leap. Naoya's resounding cackle burns through your ears as you swing, barely grazing his shoulder. Before you can push forward off your feet, a heavy presence rests on your shoulders, locking you in place. All four of you freeze. Yuuji and Choso look horrified, and Naoya looks as though he's broken out into a cold sweat. But you know this feeling, feel it settle back into your body as if it never left.

Okkotsu Yuuta steps out from the building ledge, dark eyes unreadable. Your body sings. Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta! His hair has grown longer, bangs sweeping over his forehead, eyebags a little darker than they used to be. You can feel Rika's presence, swirling around you in a mass of death and decay. You're used to it. You've grown to crave it, even. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, his facade cracks. Confusion, fear, and...regret?

Yuuta leaps, slamming into concrete and sending shockwaves deep into your bones. "Who's with Itadori?" God, even his voice is different, so different from the boy who said goodbye to you so long ago. You open your mouth to speak, but Choso beats you to it, brows furrowed.

"So you're Yuuji's executioner."

Blood turns to ice in your veins, and you can tell by the pained expression Yuuta has that you aren't hiding your emotions as well as you think you are. Naoya laughs. "I was going to tell you that, but you were being too emotional like the bitch you are."

"Who're you?"

Yuuta's voice is cold, but as Naoya babbles on, you can feel the horror settle thickly into your chest. Choso and Yuuji are talking behind you but it feels like you're underwater, you're sinking, drowning, and Yuuta must have come to a conclusion because all of a sudden he's surging forward-

You move before you can even think, steel clashing against steel. "Yuuji," you say, through gritted teeth. "Run."

A horrible grating noise fills the air as you let cursed energy flow through your body, shoving Yuuta's sword away from yourself. "I won't let you kill him," you hiss, body already shifting into Jagged Bolt. Yuuta's eyes flash as you surge forward, katana in hand.

"How would you describe my cursed technique?" you had asked Gojo, mindlessly swinging your feet. Gojo hums.

"Have you ever heard of Newton's Law's of Motion?"

You had crinkled your nose at that. "No?"

"An object in motion, stays in motion. Except you are the object. And your cursed energy is the motion." You remember how Gojo's lips curved slightly. "In other words, once you start, nobody can stop you."

You're crying, you realize with a start, as you cut a line into Yuuta's chest. Moisture seeps from your eyes as you twist your forearm into a parry, katanas sparking with each strike. Belatedly, you sense that Yuuji, your foolish, stupid, loyal kouhai has stayed, trading strikes with his fists between the precise movements of your blade. Your heart drops as Yuuta reaches for the ring on his finger.

No. No!

He twists it, and Rika appears behind you. Claws sink into your shoulder and you let out a cry of pain as she flips you into the ground.

"Be nice, Rika," Yuuta chides, as you hit the concrete. Blood spurts from your mouth as you choke, fingers clawing at the ground desperately for your katana. A piece of scaffolding is practically crushing your legs; instinctively, you know that if you try to break through it, you'll tear your limbs right off.

As Rika holds Yuuji up, you lunge desperately, uncaring of what you have to sacrifice. Inumaki's arm, the way half of Nobara's face had been practically ripped out of her skull, the remains of Nanami-san, the way that you were the one to find Maki's charred body-

I can't lose anyone else.

You scream as Yuuta pierces Yuuji's chest with his katana, cursed energy building in your legs as you prepare to shoot forward. Yuuta turns, eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion as he sees you about to tear yourself in half just to reach Yuuji.

With a wave of his hand, Rika dives for you, and everything goes dark.

Yuuta had known you were special from the day he'd first met you. That spring, when Gojo-sensei had dropped him (and Rika) into a class of unsuspecting first years, he remembers that out of the four of them, you had moved so gracefully that he hadn't processed the katana in your hand until you'd pressed it against your throat.

"Gojo-sensei," you'd hissed. "What is this?"

While Maki, Inumaki, and Panda had been subsequently bruised up by Rika, you had dodged every single one of her movements until Rika had been (barely) called back by Yuuta.

"Another Special Grade," Gojo had hummed. "Just like you, hm?"

Special Grade?

What he hadn't realized then, he realized later; you weren't just special to him, but to the entire rest of the Jujutsu World as well. Special Grade Sorcerers were rare, Maki had told him. "You only have it because of Rika," she'd scoffed, "but she deserves it."

You quickly became one of his closest friends. You were fast enough to dodge Rika's ire, even laughing whenever she tried. You'd shown Yuuta kindness that he didn't think he deserved. You broke him out of his shell enough so that when he left for Africa, he felt as though he was standing with his own strength. His first katana had been the sister blade of your own, forged from the same metal by the same hands. The way your eyes had lit up when you saw it was a memory he cherished.

Somberly, Yuuta eyes the chains encasing your wrists and ankles, each decorated with the slips of protective paper that would nullify your cursed energy. Most sorcerers required only one. You required at least twenty.

He knows you, knows the way you always take the strawberry daifuku, leaving him the red bean ones even though he knows you prefer the red bean. He knows that you push yourself hard, harder than he's ever seen anyone work. But most of all, he knows your loyalty, how once your heart finally lets someone in, you'll never let them go.

Did you miss him like he missed you?

The chains are more for your own protection. He needs you to hear him out before you attempt to end his life for a second time. Yuuta knows now that Gojo must have asked you the same thing he'd asked him; to keep Itadori Yuji safe from the whims of the higher ups. Gojo, being the forgetful bastard he was, probably didn't alert you to the fact that he'd gone to Yuuta for help as well. Crouching, Yuuta eyes your body with a sad tilt of his lips. The injuries you'd sustained were immense, and it had taken quite a bit of his own cursed energy to reverse.

Will you forgive him?

You're asleep, breath hitching every so often. Yuuta wonders what you're dreaming of, before pushing the thought away. Tenderly, he cups your face in the palm of his hand, calloused fingers stroking your cheek.

"You need to wake up now," he murmurs, as your eyes flutter open, first in dazed confusion, before sharpening into panic.

"I'll miss you!" you'd cried, as you clung to Yuuta under the shade of the large oak. You were the first person he had told about his departure to Africa, and you took it hard. Yuuta had stood frozen as the first of your tears had dripped down your cheeks. It was the first time he'd seen you cry.

"I'll be back before you know it," he'd murmured, pressing a featherlight kiss to the top of your head. You'd looked up to him, eyes teary.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he'd said, interlocking his pinky with your own. A love like Yuuta's is a dangerous thing, you know, but in this moment you feel nothing but safe.

The first sensation you feel upon awakening is the dull ache in your (miraculously still attached) legs. The second is the warmth on your cheek. Yuuta is standing above you, hand gently resting against your face. Immediately you lunge forward, teeth bared. The rattle of chains stops you, and you swear. Of course he would have taken precautions. Yuuta looks almost hurt as you violently shake off his touch.

"Don't touch me, I swear to god I'm going to rip you apart."

Yuuta says your name sadly, but you're practically trembling with rage.

"He was just a kid, with the kind of power we wield, why the fuck would you listen to the higher ups?"

Yuuta echoes your name a bit more firmly, but you ignore him, tears building in your eyes.

"You're no better than the rest of them are you, you're just-"

"Senpai!"

Your heart stops as Yuuji pokes his head out from around the corner. They must have brought you back to Jujutsu Tech, you think distractedly. Just how long were you out?

"Yuuji!" you cry out, scanning his body for any injuries. He seems to be uninjured, but most importantly, he's alive. Tears fall down your cheeks. "Are you alright?"

Yuuji appears horrified by the sudden outburst as he hastily holds up his hands. "I'm fine, senpai, really, I'm sorry for worrying you. Okkotsu-san is actually on our side, I swear! It was a binding vow, that's why he had to actually kill me, but he did some really cool Reverse Technique shit and I'm all good now!"

Warily, you eye Yuuta, whose expression resembles that of a kicked puppy. "Okkotsu Yuuta," you say, voice hard. "Let me out of these chains right fucking now."

With a wave of his hand, the papers attached to the chains fall to the floor. Yuuta looks dejected as he looks away from you. "I'm so sor-"

Before he can finish you immediate tackle him into a hug, knocking the both of you into the floor as you bury your face into the soft slope of his neck. "You're such an idiot," you sob, unable to hide the rush of emotions going through you. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Tentatively, Yuuta wraps his arms around you, and you melt, pressing yourself closer to his body. "To be honest, I think Gojo-sensei is to blame. I think he forgot to mention to either of us that he asked us to do the exact same thing."

You let out a hiccupping laugh. "Of course he did. That forgetful asshole."

The sigh Yuuta lets out is shaky as he nuzzles the top of your head. "I'm so, so sorry," he tells you earnestly. "I must have scared you, and Rika's mad at me for making me hurt you like that. I think she likes you, even though she pretends not to."

You look up at him, really look at him, and see the look of adoration in his eyes as he stares back down at you. Thankfully Yuuji's escaped long ago, most likely understanding that you two would need privacy. "You came back," you whisper, and Yuuta's resulting smile makes your heart skip a beat.

"I promised you, didn't I?"

Before you can stop yourself, you pull Yuuta down for a searing kiss. He's so soft, and you nip at the plush of his bottom lip teasingly, pulling a whine from his throat. His large hands grip your hips, and in retaliation, you grab a fistful of his hair and tug. The breathy noise he makes goes straight between your thighs. You know he can feel your smile against his lips.

"I missed you," you breathe, pulling away. Yuuta looks dazed, lips kiss swollen, pupils so dilated that you can barely see the soft brown of his eyes.

"I love you," he blurts out, and your resulting laugh is airy as you press another chaste kiss to his lips.

"I've always loved you, Yuuta," you admit. "During Shibuya, I thought I wasn't going to make it. You were the only thing keeping me going."

The look in his eyes is fierce as he tugs you back into him, enveloping you in his arms. "You'll never have to worry about that again. You have my entire life. Where you go, I'll follow, and if I die, not even Death would be able to separate me from your side."

"Those sound a lot like wedding vows, don't you think?"

Yuuta's blush covers his entire face and you grin, pressing one last kiss to his lips. "Come on now. We have kids we need to protect."

As Yuuta leads you to where the others have convened, even under the dark circumstances you're in, the warmth of his hand clutching yours fills you with a giddiness you hadn't experienced in months. The sentiment is quickly dashed as soon as Maki opens her mouth.

"Fucking finally. Inumaki owes me 3,000 yen."

[egophiliac]

How do you draw your high contrast, shape-y pieces? I’ve tried something similar but it always end up off, any recommendations on brushes or exercises that could help with improvement?

(I wasn't sure what part was giving you trouble, so this is sorta an all-over smattering 😅 hopefully some of it helps!)

• the kind of brushes don't really matter, just what you're comfortable with using! more chisel-shaped or calligraphy-style brushes might be harder to control strokes with though. I do personally like using brushes that are like...Mostly Round But With a Little Grit to 'Em!

• work at a higher size and/or resolution than your final size (I usually work at ~3x final size). scaling down will smooth out little imperfections and some of the little aliasing weirdness that comes from raster transformations (scale/rotate/etc.)

• drawing with your arm, as in moving from your elbow while keeping your wrist pretty still, makes big smooth curves much easier (you can also go from the shoulder for BIG movements)

• most drawing programs will let you rotate the canvas -- drawing downward strokes tend to be easier to control (extra cheat: if a stroke is proving troublesome, I'll sometimes draw it as best I can on a new layer, move/rotate it into the exact position I want, and then merge it down again)

• instead of trying to draw a super precise shape and fill it in, I usually draw a bigger, shittier shape, and then use an eraser or layer mask to kinda chisel it into the shape I want:

• Always Check Your Values -- especially if you're finding your colors feel kinda muddy or not contrast-y enough, it's a good idea to make sure there's contrast in the light/dark as well as the hue/saturation! I usually have an adjustment layer set to 0 saturation that I keep on top of my document, and just periodically toggle on and off to check. (there's some debate about the most accurate way to check values, but this works well enough for high-contrast solid blocks of color.)

• on the same note, instead of using pure grayscale colors, particularly full black (#000000) and white (#FFFFFF), adding a little bit of color into them can give you a richer, more interesting and more cohesive result.

(and even when using pure grays, using slightly "off" from full black and white can be more interesting! and it's not to say DON'T use black and white and gray, more just...use them thoughtfully, instead of by default?)

• color thumbs/sketches/roughs, whatever you want to call them. people get SO weird at me about these for some reason, but they're literally just...a little sketch of figuring out colors before you start painting. they don't have to be final or detailed or any good or whatever, it's just to get a starting idea! working super fast and loose especially helps to get out of the mindset of Doing A Good Drawing and more into messing around with shapes and negative space and all that fun stuff. :> then later you can focus on the Doing A Good Drawing part, without having to also think too hard about the other stuff.

• Keep It Simple -- 100% the hardest part. I have absolutely not mastered this in any way. 💀 it's SO easy to overwork this style and end up too detailed/too unfocused/just too much going on -- half the time I spend on these things is just adding details -> squinting at it for a couple of minutes -> erasing all the details again. you gotta keep in mind that it's about getting an idea across more than anything else, and when it comes to that, less is almost always more!

(this is one of the reasons I sometimes make myself use SUPER restricted palettes; when you only have three colors, it forces you to really think about what's important to show and how to leave things implied. ✌️)

[theseinfernalangels]

Heavenly - Bodhi Durran

Synopsis: Four times in which you almost kissed Bodhi, and one where he did it for you.

Includes: Fluff, angst, Reader has some issues, maybe a teeny bit suggestive at the end? Friends to lovers, almost a relationship but not quite, mutual pining. Takes place mostly during Fourth Wing and ends in Iron Flame.

A/N: AUGH this is my baby. I’m in love with this one guys. Also, pretend what I wrote about Tyrrish culture is 100% canon and not totally made up for the vibes.

You always liked the snow.

It was gorgeous; the little white specks of frost glided through the air with what looked like practiced ease, littering your flight leathers with faint, watery markings. You enjoyed the fact that it was silent, unlike the rain, which sometimes made entirely too much noise for your liking — it made it so much easier for you to sit on a distant windowsill and stare into space for what felt like hours at a time. Unnervingly, you also liked how it bit at you, the cold. You’d lay in the snow with your lightest leathers on just to feel the wet chill sink into your bones instead of dry, all-consuming heat that seemed to trail you wherever you went.

Most of all, you like the sight in front of you: Bodhi Durran, in his tall, tawny glory, looking particularly…pretty with little flurries settled in his dark curls. A small part of you aches to run your hands through them, to knock the speckles out — but, you decide, he looks like the pinnacle of perfection like this.

Said man peers down at you with a look of cool concern. “You’re going to freeze,” he accuses.

You smile serenely, your eyes tracking the falling flakes as they descend upon you both. 

“Maybe,” you reply. “It would be worth it, to stay out here.”

At once, Bodhi’s eyes soften. He knew your ordeal with heat and fire all too well. 

“Still,” he chides, slipping a toned arm around your waist and pulling you into him. “C’mere. I’d prefer it if you didn’t get hypothermia because you like to stand in negative temperatures without your flight jacket.”

You tense for a moment before slowly allowing yourself to melt into his warm embrace, bracing your face on his chest as you both watched how the snow fell in the late-January sky. No words were needed between the two of you when all you needed were gentle touches and the chilly air.

You feel his eyes on you, so you reluctantly peel your face away from his jacket and tilt your head up to face him. Predictably, he’s smiling — but not a full on grin like usual. No, he’s wearing a smile of pure fondness as his gaze meets yours. You can’t help but catch your eyes on his lips, though; Bodhi has always been handsome, even as a younger boy, but the atmosphere combined with his fuller features make him look downright ethereal.

“A penny for your thoughts?” he prompts you gently, nudging you in the ribs.

The touch makes you flinch a little before you straighten and raise your chin. “How much to keep them in?” you challenge.

He chuckles and raises his free hand innocently. “You got me there. Just wanted to know what’s got your eyes all hazy.”

You barely noticed it; your eyes, although you’d been observing the snow keenly, were less focused on the environment around you and more in tune with the shape of his mouth, the little scar on his lower lip, how his mouth moved when he smiled…

How his pretty lips would feel on yours.

You hum. “Nothing much. Just daydreaming again, I guess.”

Silence. Waiting.

“And,” you add, “the weather is making my eyes water.”

Bodhi lets out an exasperated but affectionate huff and moves away from you briefly to peel his flight jacket off and sling it around your shoulders.

“You know,” he drawls, “you’d think being a Wingleader would establish some sort of self-preservation in you.”

Instantly, you’re enveloped into pure heat, but not the kind that usually bothers you. No, this heat is warm and velvety, soothing in a way that is purely Bodhi.

“Nah,” you reply with the faintest trace of a satisfied grin. “Quite the opposite, actually. It makes you willing to risk everything for this sort of stuff.”

You keep it vague.

This sort of stuff.

The peace you feel as you watch snow fall like ashes.

The chance to have a quiet moment for once in your too-chaotic lives.

The moment of clarity you feel when you stare at Bodhi and pray to yourself, “Loial, I’ve had too much taken from me already. Please do not touch him, too.”

༘⋆༄.°⋆

The air around you is charged and slightly humid as you watch a pair of first-years, two boys, fling each other to the padded ground of the sparring gym. It’s rough, hard, and ruthless…Everything you’ve come to enjoy about training at Basgiath.

It’s usually easy to predict who will come out on top with these sorts of matches. One of the guys, Cael McCleary, had clearly been holding back out of pure nervousness when he stepped onto the mat. You sympathize with him — but you also know that sympathy would get him nowhere, especially against a man like Jamilian Sirko, who you’re pretty sure is half war cannon the way he towers over almost all of the cadets here like a bull in a china shop.

Surprisingly, though, McCleary holds his own against Sirko, using his anxious energy as a means of dodging and weaving faster than the taller boy is able to strike. It’s impressive, no doubt about it — but it’s also a test of endurance. Where Sirko is strong and built like a great wall of pure, dark muscle mass, he can’t use that to his advantage against McCleary, a lithe and reedy guy, for much longer before he eventually tires out. Neither of the two look like they’re ready to drop, though — not by a long shot.

You sigh. Looks like you’d be here for a while.

“Good, you two!” you call from your place on the side. “Hurry it up a little, would you? You’re the only thing preventing your squad mates from leaving.”

A quiet brush of footsteps behind you tells you that someone has come to stand by you for the time being — Bodhi, as told by his gleaming grin. 

“Look at you, being all commanding,” he greets you, drawing out the last word dramatically. “Gods, how long have they been going for?”

You break your gaze away from the fighting cadets to glance over at the clock on the wall. It’s 11:23.

“I think we’re going on fifteen minutes now,” you murmur. “McCleary is really trying to drag this out to get Sirko down. I can’t say I like the timing, but I do admire his strategy.” You pause. “What are you doing here?”

Bodhi nods, his gaze turning analytical. “Of course,” he adds, completely ignoring your question. “I think he needs to find a place to end it. A good kick to the back of the knees or even the throat would do Sirko in good.”

You’re about to repeat yourself and insist he answer your question when a flash of silver catches your eye — a small dagger being slid from the sideline towards the sparring cadets, its hilt extended to where Sirko would most easily be able to snatch it, if he had the balls.

You freeze. Bodhi nudges you gently with his elbow. “What did they agree to beforehand?”

McCleary, although his fingers twitched anxiously, raised his chin and nodded to his friend, who held three small knives between his fingers. “No weapons?” he asked, raising a hand in need of shaking.

Sirko raised an eyebrow before smiling easily, grasping McCleary’s hand with practiced ease. “No weapons,” he repeated, sealing the deal before they backed away from each other in waiting.

“Oi! Break it up, both of you,” you call over to the boys, who are panting and looking a little more than eager to finish it. You gesture to the little blade that both cadets have yet to notice pick up. “Were you not paying attention to their terms? No weapons for this round. I don’t want to see that shit again.” You quickly use your signet to bend the air around the blade and bring it to you for you to grab. 

You sweep it to your outstretched hand and inspect the knife. It’s indistinguishable, really, with no remarkable hilt or quality.

Little tendrils of wind spin the blade by its hilt before you sigh and clear your throat again. 

“That’s enough, you two,” you yell over to McCleary and Sirko. “I appreciate your persistence and endurance, but a match should be over before the twenty minute-mark. Good on both of you.”

A tide of complaints and cheers arise from the sideline, and you stalk over to the first-years with a little look of disapproval on your face.

You hold up the knife so they can all see it. “Who was it?” you ask with a scowl. “They agreed on no weapons, and if you think I’ll let attempts to cheat slide, then you’re sorely mistaken. Tell me who it was and I might even let you walk out of here with all your joints intact.”

The first-years all look jolted for a moment before one is pushed to the front — Opal Keenan. She’s pretty, with flame-red hair that must reach to the small of her back when it’s not in a entirely too-complicated braid. She looks embarrassed for a moment before she schools her face into a look of pure ignorance.

“Please,” she sneers. “Anyone would have been grateful if someone picked it up and used it. Preferably Jamilian — McCleary was bound to lose anyway.”

You immediately bristle, raising your chin and fixing an icy glare on the cadet. 

“Did I ask who you preferred to win?” you snap. “No, Keenan. If you wanted to see the outcome of the match, you should have considered the consequences of trying to aid a cadet in cheating. The crime you’ve just committed is easily punishable, you know. I’d hate to have to carry out the consequences myself.”

Keenan’s taunting smile widens. “A crime?” she mocks, earning a few glares and hisses from the cadets around her. “That’s rich coming from you, you traitorous bitch. I bet your father—“

Her words are cut off swiftly, and you know it’s because Bodhi has come to stand behind you, standing tall and angrily from a few steps back.

“I’m sorry,” he says sharply, pinning Keenan in place with a glare that looks too unnatural for his warm, brown eyes. “Did you not hear your Wingleader? Cheating on either side of a match is punishable by a dishonorable discharge at its lightest. You should be glad she hasn’t already gone to Emetterio to report this. In fact, I should go do that right now. You’re a shameful example of a cadet, Keenan.”

Keenan opens her mouth again, probably to jeer at you again, before she’s cut off again, this time by you.

“I don’t want to hear that shit out of your mouth again. That’s strike two for you. Test me a third time, and I’ll have no trouble letting Leadership know that you’re interfering with matches and being a downright bitchhead to your squadmates and Wingleader.”

For good measure, you allow your power to flow out of you just a little, little tendrils of air wrapping around Keenan’s throat. She startles and lets out a little choked whimper, losing all of her bravado in what feels like milliseconds. You could kill her like this, if you really wanted to — but you feel a warm hand splay on the small of your back protectively, so you lighten it up just a little. “Do I make myself clear, cadet?”

Keenan nods as quickly as she opened her mouth before you release her after a few seconds of drawing it out, just for your own benefit. She stumbles back with a gasp, her hand flying to her throat and staring at you in horror. You just meet her eyes head-on, steely and cold.

“You’re all dismissed,” you order in a low voice. “And keep this in the back of your minds. I don’t care if you think I’m a traitor or not, but if you think you can get away scot-free with cheating in a match for a reason as stupid as that, then you’re clearly not cut out for this quadrant.”

The first-years waste no time in clearing out of the sparring gym, either because of your order or because they don’t want to be the next one choked out by a Wingleader. Opal Keenan is out first, running like the cowardly little bitch she is, and everyone follows, shooting you looks of fear, surprise, and surprisingly enough, a few grins from the people who agreed that the ginger cadet needed some humbling. You sigh and scrub a hand over your face, suddenly exhausted.

The hand on the small of your back wraps around your waist, pulling you into a chest of taut muscle before Bodhi winds his other arm around you, essentially trapping you against him. His chin comes to rest on your shoulder. 

“You handled that really well,” he tells you in a soft voice. “Do you deal with that every day?”

You lean back into him a little. “Not really,” you reply, fixing your eyes out the window and staring into the late-morning sky. “Usually they know to keep their mouths shut around me. I guess someone just wanted to be bold today.”

His quiet snicker by your ear sends a rush of warmth down the skin of your neck. It dies, though, once he catches the edge of your expression.

“Hey,” he prompts. “You want me to tell Emetterio? I’m sure he’ll dish something deserving out for Keenan as soon as he hears.”

You mull over the thought for a few moments before shaking your head. “No. I’m not going to tattle on a first-year just for being a little too uppity. I can handle it.”

Bodhi’s thumb strokes the leather over your stomach idly. “You can,” he affirms. “And you did. You’re strong as hell, Levine.”

His voice lowers. “But I wouldn’t mind kicking her ass if you asked me to.”

You snort and gently jab him in the side with an elbow, only being met by a sputtered protest. “I appreciate the offer,” you assure him. “But I’m gonna let someone else do it in their own time.” You go quiet for a moment before you remember your conversation just a little bit earlier.

“Bodhi,” you grab his attention again, twisting out of his hold to stare at him. “What are you even doing here? This isn���t your squad, and it’s definitely not your wing.”

“So?” he huffs, backing up a little to give you some room. “I’m on break, and I wanted to see you.”

Oh, Amari bless his heart. Bodhi was probably the only man who would ever do such a thing for you. And the way he looks at you right now, like him hunting you down in the middle of your duties was the most obvious thing he could be doing right now, makes you almost brave enough to stand on your toes and press a grateful peck against his cheek.

You restrain yourself. 

“Fair enough,” you concede, and he grins sweetly. “But it’s —“ You turn and glance back at the clock. “11:45. Don’t you have to be at land-nav by 11:50?”

His face falls immediately. “Oh, fuck.”

༘⋆༄.°⋆

The only two things keeping you awake at a time like this is your dragon’s gentle reassurances in your ear, and the fact that you haven’t seen Bodhi in approximately 27 hours. You lay in a long-sleeved slip, glaring at the moon through your window.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Zephyr,” Spéir rumbles. For once, she is less proud and more…sisterly, in a way. “I know you are worrying about the Bright One.”

“…And if I am?” you ask, your mental voice coming out more passive-aggressive than you mean to. “Am I wrong for it?”

A low chuckle ripples through the bond. “Of course not,” Spéir replies. “You are mine, Zephyr, but before I chose you, he was within your grasp and kept in the inner workings of your heart. He is your human no more than you are mine. No need to jump to his defense.”

You sigh in frustration, tearing your eyes away from the glow of the moon before you stare at the door. If you had it your way, Bodhi would be sleeping right next to you, his curls spilling down his face messily as he dreamed. But he wasn’t next to you — and you had a sneaking suspicion as to why.

As if your thoughts had caused it, a faint rapping at your door draws your attention. You flick your wrist to summon a mage light, the glow a soft lavender, before you slip out of your bed and creep towards the door.

“Is it—“

“Yes. He came straight for you.”

You rip the door open, and sure enough, Bodhi leans against the threshold, his battered body looking like he’ll fall at any moment. 

He stares at you, slightly dazed, before he manages a breathy whisper. 

“A thaisce. I’m sorry, but—“

You cut him off by tugging him through the door and pushing a small breeze out to shut the door quietly. You push him over to your bed, urging him to sit on your soft sheets. His knees practically fold in on themselves, making your heart ache. You feel more awake and alert now than you have since he disappeared.

“Easy,” you murmur. “Hey, mhuirnín, easy. Don’t apologize. I take it you just had RSC, huh?”

His gaze meets yours, and for the first time in a long time, he looks exactly like he did when he was a child: Nervous, disoriented, and exhausted.

“Is that what that was?” he asks hoarsely, grabbing at your hands to run his thumbs up and down your wrists. “I thought they would just…I don’t know, have us take notes about it.” He inhales sharply. “But one moment, I’m heading here, and the next, I’m tied up and hazy and our signets aren’t working and Cuir won’t talk to me—“

You hush him, coming to stand in between his legs and running a hand through his tousled hair. “It was the water,” you explain gently. “They drug you to dull the bond so it’s as realistic as possible.”

You crouch a little, forcing him to meet your eyes while you inspect his body for any intensive damage. To your surprise, he looks relatively unharmed past extensive bruising and a split lip. You bring your little tendrils of wind to a warmer temperature and cushion him as you search him. “Anything need to be looked at?”

He shakes his head wearily. “No. They went kind of easy on me. They went after Iris, though. I guess that’s because she has more of a mouth than I do.”

Your eyes narrow, but you say nothing before you do another once-over, just for peace of mind. Bodhi averts his eyes and quietly says, almost sheepishly, “If you want me to go, I can.”

Immediately, you shake your head. “Hell no,” you mutter, nudging his head up with a little breeze. “I’m not letting you leave. I’ve been waiting for you, asshole.”

His face brightens a little, the usual gleam starting to reappear after what must have been hours. “You waited for me?”

“Of course I did.” You scowl a little, nudging his thigh with your own. “I’ll always wait for you, idiot.”

His entire body seems to relax for a few moments before you poke him. “I still have some of your clothes in here. You probably don’t want to shower, but at least change into something comfortable.”

He leans into you in an odd side-hug before rising to his feet. You know he knows his way around your room, so you turn around and close your eyes to let him change without the burden of your intense stare.

“Zephyr,” your dragon prods. “Cuir would like to tell the Bright One that he is here and is sorry that he could not be there.”

“Spéir says that Cuir is sorry he couldn’t be with you,” you tell him, your eyes still squeezed shut. Bodhi looses a rough laugh, and before you know it, the mattress is dipping and he’s tugging you to lay down, now changed into a simple pair of sleep pants and a black shirt. You allow him to pull you down before you grab him in turn and ease his head on to your shoulder, your hands automatically moving to his head to run your fingers through his hair. He shudders appreciatively and wraps a weak arm around your stomach.

The two of you just lay there in the pale lavender light, enjoying the silence of each other’s company. It was unlike Bodhi to be so quiet, but after the ordeal he just went through, you can’t imagine him being lively enough to talk about anything. You resist the urge to dip your head and press your lips to his forehead, although he probably needs the affection right about now.

After what feels like hours of nothing but soft breathing, Bodhi says your name in such a tone that your eyes instantly snap to his.

He hesitates, looking equal parts pleading and embarrassed. “Can you…talk to me? In the Old Language, I mean. I-I don’t care what it’s about.”

You barely suppress an affectionate coo before you nod, smoothing your hands over his back. “Of course,” you say in Tyrrish, your tone growing a tad bit higher-pitched in your native tongue. “I’m proud of you, you know? You look barely scathed, mo laochain.”

His breath catches a little, and you feel a pang of adoration hit you in the gut as he tucks his face into your neck.

“I don’t feel very strong right now,” he admits. “I feel like I could’ve done something to help. To divert attention from the others so they wouldn’t be as hurt.”

“Hey, no,” you say firmly, rubbing his shoulders with a surprising gentleness. “I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t care if that makes me sound selfish, but I’m glad they went easiest on you. Amari knows I’d lose my cool if they did anything else.”

Bodhi stifles a laugh, and then a small groan of pain. You extend a warm cloud to rest over him and ripple over his cuts and bruises.

“Easy,” you say again. “Do not move too much. We’ll go see the healers tomorrow and see what they can do for you — probably more than I can, at least.”

The younger boy’s head rises from the crook of your neck so he can stare at you, his exhaustion apparent in his half-lidded eyes.

“None of that,” he scolds you, as if he’s not the one laying in your arms right now. “You do more for me than any of them could attest to. That’s why I came here and not there with the others.”

“Besides,” he adds, “I missed you. I don’t know how I went years without talking to you, because I think I was going insane by the fifth or sixth hour they kept us.”

For a moment, all you see is him. Not your bedroom, not the glow of your mage light or the moon, and certainly not the silhouettes of roaming dragons out your window. The only two people here, who exist in real time and space, are the both of you. You lean your head to lay against his and ghost your lips right above his ear — the closest thing to kissing him that you’ll allow yourself.

“Well, you’re here now,” you assure him. “And we can talk as much as you need. You should probably sleep, though. I need my favorite person to be somewhat alive tomorrow so that I can keep myself sane.”

Something closer to an actual laugh, a Bodhi Laugh, finally leaves him, making a smile of your own grace your lips.

“Right, Wingleader,” he says in mock-submission. “You talk so I don’t go mad, and I’ll sleep so you don’t, either. Sound like a plan?” 

You flick him in the shoulder blade, but it’s not out of annoyance — more like, in your opinion, thankfulness, because you know what you need at a time like this, alone and in need of someone to lean on.

“Deal, mhuirnín.”

༘⋆༄.°⋆

The sun blazes in your eyes, nearly blinding you in the late July heat. Your head rests on Bodhi’s thigh, his fingers sifting through your hair softly as the two of you watch the sun set on Navarre.

Bodhi looks down at you and frowns, moving his hand from your head to splay it directly in your line of vision. Your eyes flit to his, and he shrugs. “It would really suck if you went blind on your birthday.”

You make a small noise of understanding and smile, curling into him a little more. “Happy birthday to me; I get an honorable discharge.”

Bodhi grins and resumes his motions in your hair, taking care to try and keep the sun out of your face. “I think you mean dishonorable,” he corrects you, “since you going blind is completely preventable if you’d just keep your eyes away from the sun.”

You scowl and shoot a lick of ice cold air down his tunic, causing him to emit a soft shriek of surprise. He glares down at you and flicks your forehead.

“Not funny,” he pouts. “Dammit, Levine, that was cold.”

You try and keep your face still, but the stoicism is short-lived as a smile of pure delight takes its hold on you.

“My bad,” you bluff, staring at him with absolutely no shame whatsoever. “I was aiming for your head.”

Bodhi’s eyes narrow, and you know instantly that he’s about to try to pin you into the grass. You roll out of the way with a yelp, but he’s always been just a tad bit faster than you, so he’s upon you in an instant, wrestling you to the ground while all you can do is hold him off of you. After a few moments of struggle, his hands clamp down on your shoulders, and you’re flat on your back before you know it. The position you’re in is unfamiliar; one hand cradles the back of your head so that it doesn’t slam into the ground, while the other holds him up over you. He’s close — closer than what you’re used to, his nose just an inch or two above yours. His eyes fall to your lips, and he swallows before murmuring, “Got you.”

Your cheeks heat up at the proximity, and you involuntarily sent another brush of wind down his back — this time, more gentle, something of a more affectionate nature that you rarely show. You force yourself to blink and ignore the fact that he’s quite literally eyeing you like he wants nothing more than to slam his mouth on to yours. 

You stick your tongue out at him. “You had an advantage. I was unprepared.”

He breaks from his staring and snorts, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “Right,” he says dryly. “An advantage. You can call it that, sure.”

You scowl but don’t say anything. It feels a little awkward, seeing as he won’t move from his position above you. You don’t dislike it — not by a long shot — but what’s a girl to do when she’s pinned under her best friend (who she definitely doesn’t want to kiss. Not at all.)?

Bodhi blinks as if coming out of a trance before he clears his throat awkwardly and lets you up, leaning back to sit down. You roll up into a sitting position and lean into him. He feels a little stiffer — probably from prior awkwardness, akin to that of the same nature from when you both were tweens and he was still visibly nervous around you. He’s quiet for a second before he starts.

“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I know you said you didn’t want anything for your birthday...”

You go still. “You didn’t.”

He waves his hand as if to dismiss your protest. “It’s not big,” he insists, reaching into his pocket. “I know you don’t like gifts very much, and you get overwhelmed by big gestures. I just wanted to do something, since this is your twenty-third birthday.”

In Tyrrish culture, 23 was the age where you were officially considered a woman — not in the physical sense, but in the spiritual sense. It was the aois na laochra, the age of a warrior. You’d almost forgotten about it, since you’d barely taken note of your birthday since your sixteenth — the last birthday you’d been able to have with your entire family.

Your eyes soften, and you swallow the lump in your throat that threatens to make it crack before you respond. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Bodhi shoots you an easy smile. “I know,” he replies casually. “But I wanted to. I wanted to keep the tradition alive, even if you’re the only one it happens for.”

He pulls out what was hidden in his pocket — a small wooden box — and drops it into your palm. “Open it.”

Your thumb brushes against the wood — cherry, sanded and smooth — and on the initials that are carved into the top with a delicateness that’s more than impressive. You have a feeling you know who did this part, and Bodhi confirms it. “He didn’t ask for anything in return.”

You smile before taking a deep breath in and slowly opening the box, your hands a little shaky from the nerves that plague you. Your breath hitches, and you blink down at what lays inside the box: A small ring of onyx with a glittering red gem in the middle. Your fingers hesitantly touch it, and Bodhi is suddenly closer to you, rushing to explain.

“I know you don’t really like big things, so I settled for this. The band is onyx, and the gem is garnet, your birthstone.”

He pauses. “Turn it over?”

You raise an eyebrow but do it anyway, hooking your index finger into the ring and bringing it out so you can turn it to the other side.

You choke out a gasp when you see what he’s nudging you towards, tears previously left unshed brimming in your waterline.

A knight. Two twin wildcats. It’s your family’s coat of arms — the one you haven’t seen in close to ten years. 

You swallow again, your voice breaking. “Bodhi—“

“Hey,” he says gently, pulling you into his lap with practiced ease. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I just thought it’d be nice, so you could have a piece of them on you whenever you wanted.”

You couldn’t even begin to imagine where he found the time to find something like this, to put the sheer effort in accomplishing something like this.

For once, you don’t care. You just bury your head in his shoulder and allow yourself to sob quietly, shivering when his hands come up to cradle you to his chest.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him in Tyrrish. “Thank you.”

His heart twists, and he clutches you ever closer to him. “Anything for you.”

༘⋆༄.°⋆

Bodhi’s heart pounds in his ears as he runs through the halls of Riorson House, blood spilling into his mouth from just how hard he’d bitten his lip just a few minutes beforehand. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t have time — not when he’s got a very important matter to attend to.

Xaden had scared the shit out of him when he’d suddenly appeared from what felt like out of nowhere, his dark eyes huge and sparkling. 

“Bodhi,” he’d breathed. “She’s here. Go to her.” It didn’t take a genius to know just who he was talking about, and Bodhi had taken off in a flash, abandoning whatever the hell he’d been doing for Jesinia in her little bookish habitat. His legs couldn’t push him faster, and he suddenly wished he could wield distance like Garrick, so he could get outside much faster than the rate he had going for him.

“Cuir,” he gasps, tugging on the string of his bond. “Is it true? Is she here?”

The dragon lets out an affirming rumble. “Yes, Gréine; Spéir and the girl are injured, but they have returned from Morraine alive.”

If it’s at all possible, Bodhi forces his legs to work harder, pump faster, to book it outside with hardly a glance behind him. He finally bursts through the front entrance and skids on the stone path, whipping his head around to look for you — his girl, his love, his light. He spots Spéir first, her massive black form standing tall next to two other dragons. One of her wings is bloody, and some of her scales have been ripped clean off, but she looks relatively fine other than that.

Then, he spots you and books it toward you, not giving damns nor shits about the three dragons that aren’t his that surround you. You’ve barely looked up once he makes it to you, throwing himself into you and pulling you protectively into his chest.

Nine months. It’s been nine months since you’ve been stationed in Morraine. Nine months of not seeing or speaking to you. He doesn’t know how he could stand it. 

Your arms crush him into a hug, and your knees almost buckle from the sheer force of how you hold each other.

He holds you like it’s the last time he ever will, like every promise he’s ever made and will ever make is sealed into your skin with every fleeting second that he presses into your form. No one could take you from him if they tried — not a general’s orders, not even Malek, if he could help it.

You pull away, and he finally gets a good look at you. You’re gorgeous, as always, even with scars lining your jaw and blood covering your face. He doesn’t think he’s seen a more wonderful sight in his life. He presses his forehead to yours, searching your eyes for…Well, just about anything. He’ll take everything and anything he can get from you.

“Bodhi,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips reverently. “Gods, I don’t—“

Your eyes widen as he silences you. Not with words, though; your lips are sealed the moment he grabs your jaw and slams his mouth on to yours, effectively shutting you up. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

His lips are chapped and bloody, courtesy of how hard he bit them earlier, but the metallic tang is the last thing on your mind as he kisses you fiercely and desperately, like you’re his oasis in a desert of nothingness. His light in a vast ocean of shadow. Your lungs burn from the lack of breath, but you don’t have it in you to care, not when he’s kissing you like this.

He finally breaks away after what feels like forever and nothing and presses his forehead back to yours, wiping some of the blood on your face with a calloused finger.

“A thaisce,” he whispers in the Old Language, long-suppressed tears running down his cheeks at the mere sight of your face. “Mo leannan. Mo Shíorghrá. I am never letting you leave my side ever again. Never again. I promise.”

Tyrrendor is where Bodhi grew up, and Basgiath is where he became a man, but in your arms, with your lips locked with his? Bodhi has never felt more at home.

[fixated-cookies]

okay so hear me out y/n in a revealing outfit for shadow milk cookie and pure vanilla cookie to rate It and you can of course make It yandere :3

oooh, I was brainstorming really hard on this one mhm, I have so many interesting post in my askbox I'm so happy and grateful for you guys ahhhhh hearts!!!

WARNING- Yandere, outfit ripping,

Pure vanilla will definitely favour a light color palette, consisting of creams, white, soft pinks, or baby blues. Very dreamy. Shadow milk's got the opposite spectrum; dark blues with gothic influences. He wants to make you a living doll. Anyways let me skip to the part where we're all here for. Now...with Pure Vanilla seeing you in a revealing outfit, he'd cup your cheeks, eyes filled with awe. “Oh, my dear… You look divine" you’d see the slight dusting of pink across his cheeks—he’s not immune to fluster, even if he tries to be composed. If the outfit had a lot of frills or a dreamy, fairytale-like quality, he’d melt.

But if it’s too revealing, you might hear him gently clear his throat, his fingers subtly adjusting the fabric. “Ah, this design is rather… daring. But it suits you beautifully, even if I’d prefer something a touch more modest.” What can I say? The man is old-fashioned.

His rating? 9.5/10. He adores how angelic you look, but if the outfit is too immodest, he’ll definitely get a bit shy about it.

“Now this—” he drawls, circling you like a predator inspecting his prize, “—this is art.” He’d love the contrast of darker, bolder colors—deep purples, velvety blacks, even a dramatic splash of his very own blue. If the outfit has intricate designs, dramatic draping, or something teasing like sheer fabric, he’d be so pleased. “Ah, Pure Vanilla likes his little doll in soft pastels, does he? Tch. Predictable.” He tugs at the fabric slightly, admiring how it clings to you. “But this? This makes you look absolutely ruinable.”

His rating? 10/10. No complaints. None. It’s perfect. If anything, he’d probably start thinking of even more daring additions just to mess with you further. Their final thoughts? Pure Vanilla: “You don’t have to wear something so bold, little one… You’re already beautiful in anything.” Shadow Milk: "Oh, please. Let them enjoy the attention. Look at them—don’t they just shine under it?” But then, in a rare moment of agreement, their gazes darken at the same time. The outfit is pretty, yes… but wouldn’t it be even better if it was in pieces? Pure Vanilla tilts his head, feigning a thoughtful sigh. “This fabric is so delicate. I worry it might not last very long…” Shadow Milk grins, a sharp, wolfish smirk as he tugs teasingly at the hem. “Mm. A real shame.” His voice is dripping with amusement. “Wouldn’t it be so tragic if it just… fell apart?”

Before you can react, there’s the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

Pure Vanilla’s hands, gentle as they may seem, are deceptively strong as he easily pulls apart the fragile material at the seams. Shadow Milk, on the other hand, grip is ripping away excess fabric without a second thought. “Well,” Pure Vanilla murmurs, trailing a finger down your now-exposed skin, his smile far too composed for the situation. “I suppose that makes it a perfect 100/10.”

Shadow Milk’s breathy laugh is pure mischief. “See? Much better.” He flicks away the last bit of fabric clinging to you, watching as it flutters to the floor. “You should’ve just let us do this from the start.”

Outfit Rating? Doesn’t matter. The real fun is in ruining it -- I feel like this at this point I should just write my own characters because I think I'm ruining PV and SM, are they too out of character??? Like, I know PV would never do this but I just love the though of him hanging around SM and SM just becoming such a horrible menace and influence on him.

[wildpiercy-art]

Figured out something to draw today!

annoying how I can want to draw The Character(s) but can't settle on an idea so I'm just kinda rotating them and playing a game instead

[bunni-v1]

MORE JEALOUS PURE VANILLA COOKIE OMGGGG he'd totally be a jealous person despite his kindness

kinda imagining that in the stage during the push and pull he was doing, trying to push you away, you become quite close to some other cookies in the kingdom, specifically the creme Republic (clotted cream and financier) and he just gets.... uncomfortable when you two are FINALLY together because you're so friendly with clotted cream and his bodyguard.... like, hello.........

his eyes narrow slightly, and it just makes him feel so unpleasant, knowing that clotted cream cookie can easily strike up conversation with you and randomly tell him something you like—it makes his dough seethe slightly, whether he wants to admit it or not. or how financier and some random vanilla kingdom npcs mention a fact about you he coincidentally doesn't know because he was busy going through it and pushing you away before; OUGHHHHHH

i like to think white lily is involved in this in some way? he can't fully get over her and sometimes he tends to get passive about your very real concerns about how he looks at her as though he has something to say, i wonder how he would react if he finds you actually a bit insecure or unsure whether he'd pick you over her......... since he still cares deeply about his once first love, no?

anyways. yes. jealous PV is a concept that sticks heavily in my mind rn

-🃏

Jealousy Looks Ugly on You

🍓Hi pookiebear, I'm so sorry for 100% butchering the Creme Republic. I refuse to play that shit, even for that stupid blonde twink. Note, this takes place significantly after the events of Beast Yeast, so White Lily is technically visiting as a diplomat from the Faerie kingdom, and pv has already had his character development lol. Assumptions are made, and there is heavily implied past PureLily.

Tw: Poor communication; jealousy; implications at the very end; grammar/spelling errors

Info: Pure Vanilla x Reader; Implied past purelily; angst (not really though); fluff

Patience is a virtue that few cookies can claim to have. It's something that doesn't come easy to most, and Pure Vanilla Cookie has never judged anyone for being unable to hold themselves back from frustration. Except... himself of course.

He was exceptionally patient, to the point most gawked at him for his gentleness and understanding in certain situations. He held himself to a higher standard, and very few things brought out irritation in him. So... why exactly was the sight of Clotted Cream Cookie making his dough run so hot right now?

It wasn't as though Clotted Cream was doing anything offensive, quite the opposite actually. He was having a pleasant conversation, all warm smiles and... gentle touches. With who? Oh. Just the object of Pure Vanilla's deepest affections, the cookie he'd only recently been able to call his other half, his dearly beloved you.

Clotted Cream seems to speak to you with such familiarity, such warmth like perhaps he too harbors some kind of affection for you. Pure Vanilla's eyebrow twitches when he leans in to whisper something in your ear, and you laugh like it's the funniest thing you've ever heard. It nearly pulls a frown out of him, but his calm smile remains steadfast, not wanting you to notice and worry over him.

Still, his eyes narrow when Clotted Cream pats you on your shoulder good-naturedly. The former cookie locking eyes with him and smiling before sending you back to his side like he hadn't earned Pure Vanilla's ire only seconds ago. You are oblivious, as you always are, as he wants you to be. He only smiles at you, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you just a little closer than he normally does.

"Did you enjoy your time with Clotted Cream Cookie, my love?" He asks sweetly, though he doesn't really want to know.

You give him a beaming smile, "As always. He knows how to make boring proceedings fun."

"Ah," he hopes you don't notice how he tenses, "What were you talking about just now, it seemed funny."

"Just an inside joke," you smile fondly as you remember, "it's only funny if you were there, or else I'd let you in on it too."

"That's alright," he hums, though his fingers press a little harder into your side as you walk, "I'm just happy to see you happy."

It's not a lie, either. He does love seeing your smile, but not when it's caused by another cookie. Not when it's treated like some kind of secret he's not meant to see. He tries to remind himself that there's no need to be so immature, but his dough is already warm and his mind spiraling. It took him so very long to come to terms with his feelings for you, he missed out on so much. Where he wasn't, other cookies were, and those cookies took his place in experiences that should've been his. Took smiles that should've been his. Moments he should've shared with you.

You place your hand where he holds you at your waist, turning to give him a warm smile. It warms his heart to know you're caring for him in your own way, but he doesn't want to make you worry. To ease your mind, he presses a kiss to your forehead, offering his own smile up to you. You were with him now, there was no need to worry any longer.

·┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆·

Pure Vanilla enjoyed quiet moments with you, especially ones like this. In the garden, surrounded by the white lilies there was nothing more peaceful than that. Your fingers run along their delicate petals as you hum a little tune to yourself, and he enjoys the sight with unbridled delight. His favorite cookie surrounded by his favorite flowers, what a blessing it is on his soul.

There are times where he wishes that every day could be like this. Just you and him in company, taking things nice and slow, soaking in the environment. You turn a little to sneak a glance at him, smiling to yourself when you notice his staring. The shyness cute on your face, something he loves to draw out of you.

Yes moments like these are exactly what he lives fo—

“Y/n Cookie? Are you around?” The familiar voice of Financier Cookie calls amongst the sea of flowers.

You perk up, standing from your spot with a wide smile, “I’m over here with the lilies!”

She comes into view around the corner, normally stern expression softening at the sight of you. Pure Vanilla does not like the look on her face. Still, he holds his tongue, there was no reason to be upset. She was a friend.

“Clotted Cream requests your presence,” She announces, and when you frown she shakes her head, “Nothing serious, he wishes to continue your conversation from yesterday. He’s in he quarters as usual.”

You brighten up, “Oh! I suppose we never did finish talking— ah, but… Pure Vanilla and I were spending some time together.”

He does not frown, though he really wants to. He knows that he could just say no, that you would remain by his side if he asked… but he can’t possibly take up your time when you are wanted elsewhere. It would be unfair to do so over such petty jealousy.

“We see each other every day,” He assures with that same gentle smile, “Go and enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

You frown a little, “Are you sure?”

Of course he isn’t, “Positive. I’ll see you tonight.”

You hesitate for a moment, glancing at him worriedly, but ultimately wander off to find Clotted Cream. Financier stays back for a moment, watching you with an odd look on her face. The consideration is enough to pique his interest, so he raises his question.

“Is something the matter…?”

“Oh, no, nothing,” She shakes her head, “I would tell you immediately if there was anything to be concerned with.”

“Then why do you look so perplexed?” He asks again.

She seems to consider if telling him the truth is worth it or not. Mulling her options over for a few seconds before sighing, “It’s just a bit… odd to see them here.”

He frowns, “Whatever do you mean? Is there something wrong with the gardens?”

She shakes her head, sighing off some kind of weight, “Well, they’ve told me a few times in passing that they’re… not a fan of while lillie’s. The smell irritates them, if I’m remembering correctly, so it’s surprising to find them surrounded by them.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware…” He mutters, grip tightening on his staff.

She gives him a small reassuring smile, but it does anything but help, “I’m sure they just forgot to mention it, that’s all.”

“Of course, thank you Financier Cookie,” He hummed with as much sincerity he could muster.

She smiles tightly at him, and then leaves him alone with his thoughts. And think he does, far too much. Not only are you so close with so many cookies, not only did you leave him for Clotted Cream today, but now he learns you don’t even care for his favorite flower? You hadn’t ever mentioned it to him, but you had to other cookies. Wouldn’t something this important be worth talking about with him?

He takes a deep breath, leveling himself out once again. He couldn’t get ahead of himself, knowing that you would never do anything to hurt him purposefully. He couldn’t stop the ache, though. There was so much he did not know about you, so many things he had to learn that other cookies got to hear without asking.

How much time would it take for him to know you the way they did? He burned with jealousy at how easy it was for other cookies to know you, to see you and talk to you with no effort. Each time you were around he felt himself falling apart at the seams, grasping at any little sprinkle of attention you gave him. He could never be so casual with you, not with the effect you had on him, and it made him so jealous to know other cookies had it so easy.

He sighs again, setting his hat down. Not even the lilies were bringing him comfort now, his mood soured yet again. All he could do was sit and seethe until you returned to his side, imagining what you and Clotted Cream might be talking about that was so important to pluck you from his side.

·┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆·

It is days of this cycle, which he refuses to break, even when given the chance to a million times. He just can’t find it in himself to step in, not when you seem so happy. Besides, it’s not as though he never sees you. He gets to have you to himself for most of the day, and especially at night.

Still, the annoyance grows in his chest little by little. Without realizing it he distanced himself from you, not wanting to overstep, he decides giving you space is for the best. Yet, he doesn’t realize just how much space he has given you. You begin to miss him, but he always has an excuse for you to go and visit with other cookies.

It feels like he does not want you around, even though he misses you dearly. The conundrum reaches a head when White Lily comes to visit. Being the Faerie Queen now, it was rare she took the time to see her old friend. So when the news of her traveling reached his ears, he cleared all his time to be with her.

You had not seen him since she had arrived, unless you were in your shared room. Even then, you hardly spoke more than a few words. There was an awkwardness there that hadn’t existed only a few days prior, it made your stomach ache. But how could you bring up your concerns when he merely brushed them away, always finding some way to make peace with the situation.

You did not hate White Lily Cookie, she couldn’t not control Pure Vanilla. But the sickness in your dough when you see them together does not go away with any soothing. He talks to her with such ease and knowing, in a way he never did with you. And when he looks at her there is a deep affection that never existed for you.

It makes you hurt. You could never be her, not in a million years. Perhaps that was why he was so distant recently, because he had missed her. Perhaps he wished that you were White Lily Cookie instead.

Despite him seeming oblivious, he was anything but. He was fully aware of the distance he had made between the two of you, and yet… he didn’t know how to fix it. His people pleasing ways had come around to stab him in the back, and he had no idea how to heal the wound inflicted by his own foolish actions.

Not until White Lily’s keen eyes picked up in the tension. She had always been able to read him well, it was why he was so fond of her. She knew him like no other cookie did, and he her. Which is exactly why she was the one to notice how worried he’d seemed.

“You’re tense,” She said simply, taking her seat next to him in the pagoda.

He sighs, “Is it obvious.”

“To me,” She smiles, “Tell me what’s on your mind, friend. It’s rare to see you so worried.”

He frowns at her, all the tension and fear from the week flooding him now that she was confronting it, “I am afraid I may be ruining my relationship.”

She blinks at him, tilting her head, “How would you be doing that?”

After a moments hesitation he lists the ways he has been dealing with the situation. The worry that he will never be close enough to you. The annoyance in his chest when other cookies are chummy with you. The distance he has created to avoid those feeling only making them worse. She smiles through the whole thing, knowingly.

“So… you’re jealous?” She chuckles, leaning forward with a teasing smile.

“I… suppose I am,” He admits, “It’s not as though the feeling is new, but it’s never been so strong…”

She laughs at him again, “Because you are in love, silly. Of course it’s stronger, have you talked to them about it.”

“Well…”

“Pure Vanilla.” She scolds, “Goodness, when will you ever learn. You can’t people please all the time, it’s not good for your health.”

He sighs, nodding along in agreement, “I know, I just don’t know how to bring it up so I deflect. And I’ve been avoiding them since you arrived, I can tell they feel horrible, but I fear I’ve gone too far.”

She hushes him, grabbing his hand in her own, “It’s never too late if the intent is there. I’m sure they’ll understand if you just talk to them. I would.”

“Thank you White Lily,” He smiles genuinely for the first time since she arrived, “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

She smiles warmly at him, squeezing his hand tightly. She always had a way to ease his worries with her words. It was just how well she knew him, she knew just what he needed as always.

A throat clears to the side of them, drawing their attention to it. White Lily reacts first, pulling her hands away from him and offering you a smile.

“Am I interrupting?” You ask, mousy with voice shaking.

“Of course not,” She assures, “We were just talking about you, actually!”

Your expression relaxes a bit, inching forward as if one of them might deny you entry, “Nothing bad I hope…”

“Never,” Pure Vanilla speaks with such warmth that you almost forget how much you’d missed him this whole time, “Please come join us.”

So you do, and you sit and talk with them, and things are nearly normal. Pure Vanilla is back to his usual affectionate self, like nothing ever happened. But you catch the way he and White Lily exchange glances, the way banter comes to them more easily than it ever has to you. They just understood each other in a way you never have, and you couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. Especially not after he’d pushed you away so much.

Eventually, White Lily leaves with the excuse of needing rest. Yet, you know it’s to give the two of you space. She’s always been observant and understanding, and you’re grateful for her consideration. When it is just you and Pure Vanilla again, you feel the tension begin to creep back between you. The thick wall of awkwardness wedging between you, and you fear for a moment that this is how it will be forever now. Then, he takes your hands in his, leaning over the table to get closer to you.

“I have to apologize,” He begins, “I have been unfair to you, and we have both suffered because of my actions.”

“Pure Vanilla—“ You want to ease his worries for some reason, tell him it’s alright, but he doesn’t allow you to.

“It took me a very long time to let you in, and because of that I fell short on sharing important moments with you. I’ve found myself… envious of other cookies who take up your time, and I’ve been immature in how I handle it,” He admits, stroking the backs of your hands, “I’ve put too much distance between us, and I can see how much it pains you. I’m so sorry for how I’ve acted, I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.”

It takes you a moment of awkward blinking to take in all he said, and while his genuineness is sweet, you can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your stomach. It’s ridiculous when you think about it. He was jealous so he avoided you, and at the same time you were just as jealous of White Lily Cookie. It was silly, and so easily solved, yet neither of you were willing to upset the other. He seems to find the humor in it all too, laughing heartily at your side.

You laugh until your sides hurt and tears are streaming from your eyes. Leaning your full weight on him so you don’t collapse to the floor. When you finally calm, you find it in yourself to admit to your own plight.

“I would be harsh on you, but I’m just as guilty of jealousy.” You sigh, squeezing his fingers in yours.

“What do you have to be jealous of?” He asks, and you almost can’t believe he doesn’t know. It’s so obvious to everyone else around him that he still adores White Lily, everyone but him it seems.

You shake your head in disbelief, “Gosh, you’re so oblivious. You really don’t know how you look at her, do you?”

He shakes his head with a deep frown.

“When you look at White Lily, I can see how much you still love her. I know you would never hurt me or betray me like that, but it does hurt when I see how you treat her. I feel like… maybe you’ll never look at me like that.” You admit, voice small and shaky the longer you go. It was hard to come to terms with how much it hurt, and worse to say out loud to him. He could reject you, pretend your feelings aren’t real.

Instead, he tucks a finger under you chin and forces your eyes on him, “I already do… I just get so embarrassed when you’re looking that I hide it from you.”

He pulls you a little closer, “I still love White Lily, but not in the same way that I love you. You are my whole world, my love. I would never leave you, not for anyone, and I’m sorry I made you worry for even a moment.”

You smile softly at him, leaning into his touch, “Next time, I think we should both just talk about it? All this dodging each other is silly.”

“I agree,” He chuckles, “I much prefer talking to you than not.”

“Very good,” You hum, sliding your arms around his shoulders, “Shall we make it up to each other then?”

His hand tug you closer by your waist, “I think that would be very nice, yes.”