#he often shrinks just to have an easier time

[deva-arts]

Sizes with the main three ahah, this is super old but I'm still so happy with it

From left to right, Sonia, Sera, and Nate!

[acourtofmenandthirst]

Love You In The Dark

Azriel x Reader, based on Love You In The Dark by Adele :/

Warnings: angst, swearing

Word Count: 2.4K

“Don’t look at me like that.” Your voice was no louder than a whisper, but he didn’t miss how your words came out trembling, or how your dry throat constricted as you spoke. 

He shook his head. You had always known he was a male of few words but you didn’t know that he, in that moment, didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew his words would come out broken, shattered on a muffled scream. He had to blink away the tears just to watch you stuff clothes into your bag. 

You were ashamed, truly, that it had come to this. That the only solution you could find was to pack your bag and go. No matter how many nights you lay awake, convincing yourself that you were the crazy one, making up stories and rumors, you’d come to the same conclusion. 

Leave before he does. 

But what you couldn’t do was go without a goodbye. You knew it would be easier to hastily grab your most valued items and disappear into the high mountains of the Night Court without any words exchanged between the two of you. 

But you couldn’t. 

And he couldn’t stop watching.

Azriel grabbed for you - he reached out those scarred hands, the ones you loved so much - encircled your wrists and tugged you closer to him. But you stood firm, squeezing your eyes shut and shook his hands off of you. And that hurt him, you knew it, shrinking away from his touch like it burned you. He knew the feeling all too well. 

You didn’t mean to, after all. You were being cruel to be kind. 

It was hard to navigate the small cottage that had become your shared home. His clothing had taken over your wardrobe - you’d fumbled through piles of neatly folded sweaters and shirts that had belonged to him, that smelled so strongly of night and rain, in search of your own items to stuff in your bag. 

In the past few years you and Azriel had been dating, he’d moved into your little cottage. It turned into his reprieve, after spending most of his adult life moving around, he’d never had a place to call home. The winged male spent his time flitting between the House of Wind and the townhouse, the Riverside estate and the cold Illyrian war camps. Once he’d spent a few nights with you, it quickly turned into your shared home. 

He still spent time away from you, when his High Lord had ordered him as chaperone for their brother and the moody Fae female, but those nights were some of the longest you’d felt. It was no longer just your bed, it was too roomy and far too cold without him. The kitchen no longer smelled of tea first thing in the morning, and everything felt too spacious when there wasn’t a pair of leathery wings taking up all the space. 

The male trailed you everywhere you went. He followed you step-for-step as you turned all around the bedroom in search of your clothes, so often strewn about the tiny area; his broad shoulders filled the doorframe as you swiftly grabbed your soap and salves from the bathroom. You knew he could do more to stop you - he was so much stronger than this. He could grab you in those big arms, hold on to you and never let you go. He could cocoon you in those dark wings and wrap the both of you in warmth - safety - like he used to do in the beginning.

But he didn’t.

And that’s why you continued. 

He still wouldn’t leave you alone after what you told him. Once you said you were leaving, he hadn’t left your side. He tried to talk you out of it, to promise things would change, that it would get better - he hadn’t known you’d been thinking about this for the past few months. How you were left with no other choice. 

It would hurt the male now - the normally stoich, proud Illyrian whose poker face never faltered. You told him late at night, when you were hoping the darkness would conceal the way his lips parted in surprise, the way his brows furrowed in confusion. But those hazel eyes glinted in the moonlight, and you could have sworn you’d never seen them so shiny. You spent the next few seconds - that moved like centuries - convincing yourself that those weren’t tears brimming in his eyes. His arms moved to constrict around you, to reach for you in the bed that you felt go cold many moons ago. You were too quick, already reaching for your bag and shoveling things inside. 

You’d bitten your tongue long enough about it, the two new females that had entered your boyfriend’s life. Not only his, of course, but his family’s - and everyone seemed dead set on playing matchmaker. Not in front of you, for that matter, but you heard them talk behind your back about how perfect these other females were for him. 

Gwyn, an angel seemingly sent from the Mother above, who so often trained with him, would be the perfect match - body, mind, and soul.

There was an unspoken bond between them already, one that nobody else on the land was privy to knowing besides them. It was something forgotten long ago, but something you saw renewed in those golden blue eyes each time Gwyn looked at Azriel. She gazed at him with admiration, both his fighting style and his calming presence.

If they weren’t discussing training lessons for the day, it was the jokes poking fun at his brother - how he absolutely drooled watching anything Nesta did - or about the newest book she was reading. Azriel, who had seemingly read every book in existence, nodded along, even adding his own commentary on the novel. 

He had built up quite the collection between the books he brought into your shared home, a mix between his old worn favorites and the stacks you had lining the walls and tables. But you soon noticed the fantasy and romance books he held on his lap before bed, the pages were worn and well loved, even the paper smelled different. What was sharing books between friends? There was nothing to it - but you couldn’t help but feel the tinge of jealousy turn your chest red. 

Then there was Elain, the third Archeron sister, the perfect opposite to Azriel. 

You often heard the High Lady whisper to her mate and newfound family: “Three brothers and three sisters - how perfect is that.” Something Azriel just shook his head about - but never outright refusing. You just listened quietly as if you’d never heard anything at all. You pretended not to see the way he gazed at her - the Seer - or the way his fingers brushed hers when she handed over a plate or pastry. 

It was those fingers you knew he didn’t like people to see. The hands that you’d spent years trying to get him to touch you with, to not care what they looked like or how rough they felt. They grazed along her pale skin, so smooth and flawless, in the same soft manner he’d touch you - your thighs, your stomach. And as his eyes held her round ones, you wondered if he imagined the way her body felt, the supple curve of her breast or her straight spine. Azriel had an appreciation for the arts, why would he not be with the most beautiful of the sisters?

She always baked for him. She baked for everyone, really, but always insisted he - it was always him - try her treats. Azriel never complained when it came to food, but he never was one for gushing over how sweet the rolls were or how delicious the jam was. But her insistence with feeding him - such an intimate act in Pyrthian, to any Fae, really - didn’t sit right with you.

You hadn’t felt further from him. It seemed that everything was changing. You were, too. Even though you spent nearly every night together, you felt defeated, unable to compare to the new excitement he must have felt with these two females, both fawning over him. His family only encouraged it, too. Even when you spent those nights together, wrapped tightly in his arms, you felt the space between you grow. 

Azriel had given you the world - you never thought that you’d have to spend another day of your life without him. But you couldn’t shake that feeling from you. The feeling that he thought about those other females, that he’d wonder what it would be like to be with them, to spend time with them. Those rare times when you’d join them for parties or intimate dinners, you saw their eyes linger on him, on you. And those hazel eyes next to you often fell to one of the two. 

You’d never dared to ask him about them.

You knew leaving wasn’t fair. You didn’t bring any of it up until the day you decided to go. He’d only brushed it off, expressing that he wasn’t actually interested in either of them, but rather in the conversation. There were nights he’d stay late at the River House, where you knew all of them resided together as a family. They’d stay up late drinking and laughing, sharing intimate stories and overly friendly touches. 

Once he returned home, he offered you a kiss and then crawled into bed next to you, not pulling you into him or laying half-sprawled over your chest like he normally would. You swore you smelled roses on him that night. 

You knew he’d never touched either of them. He wouldn’t disgrace you like that. But his family so often brought it up. Possibly being mates with someone they already had known and loved - let it be the Archeron sister or the favored Valkyrie - they all had much more in common anyway, and it would be far preferable than him spending eternity with an outsider such as yourself.  

But that wouldn’t stop him from wondering. 

You couldn’t carry on like everything was fine.

So you packed your bags, offering Azriel his fair chance at finding who he might think is his mate. Either one of them would be lovely to him - you knew both the females would offer him the world on a silver platter. 

The hardest part would be choosing which one. 

“Please don’t go, (Y/N),” he whispered, tilting his head down closer to you. He’d followed you from the bathing room back to your bed, and one of his hands fell to your hip. 

“Stop asking me to stay,” you replied, ignoring his touch and continuing with your packing - you were almost done. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat - you saw it. His eyes flitted between the two of yours, dragging down to your lips. “And stop looking at me like that,” you added, breathlessly. So you had to break the trance, blinking away any tears that threatened to pool in your eyes.

Azriel almost laughed. The breath came out jagged, loose from his lips, but he could barely stifle the exasperation. “There will never be a day when I don’t look at you like this, (Y/N).” His voice was low but unwavering. 

“It’s not you, Azriel,” you huff, resisting the urge to throw everything in your arms to the ground. “It’s not the way you look at me or how you don’t - it’s how you look at them.” His brows knitted in confusion. “The way you treat them is the same way you treat me and - ” you huffed a sigh. “I can’t do it anymore.”

He did lose it - he grabbed your arms - palms hot, burning with emotion. “They aren’t you, (Y/N).”

You stared up at him, anger washing over your sadness. “But you treat them like they are!” Everything fell from your hands as you shook out of his grasp. Taken aback, Azriel straightened and watched you closely. “Do you know how long it took for us to get here? For you to even talk to me? Touch me?” You stifled the urge to pull at your hair. “I feel so defeated - watching you joke and laugh with them. You and I are so far apart now - you’re a whole new person!”

He shook his head, black hair shifting slightly with the motion. “I’m not - we should talk about this. You can’t bottle everything up and then just leave.”

“I’m not just leaving, though, Azriel.” His heart thudded at how you said his name - how you spat it like it burned our tongue. “I’ve been in the dark for so long - you never bring me around your family - because you know they don’t like me.” You cut him off before he could interject. “They keep trying to set you up with Elain or Gwyn! I know what they say behind my back, Azriel, you aren’t the only one who knows the secrets of that River House.”

Azriel’s chest heaved with each stabbing breath he forced into his lungs. His hands flexed at his sides as he held himself back - he wanted to grab you, throw you onto the bed, cage you under his body so you had no choice but to hear him out. He wanted to kiss you, to hold you, to tell you that you were so fucking wrong and he would always choose you over them - over his family. 

But he couldn’t.

And he didn’t.

So you took a step back and grabbed the leather bag from the bed. Whatever you already had was good enough - you could rebuy whatever else you needed. Besides, it would probably be better to leave anything that would remind you of the male you were leaving behind. Mother above - if that were the case, you’d truly be leaving with nothing at all. 

“I meant what I said, Azriel, every word.” He was surprised at your sudden shift in tone, as your voice fell to a whisper. His shadows hissed in his ears, expecting more yelling - hell they were about to start screaming at him, too. “I love you - I don’t regret a gods damned thing.”

“I love you, (Y/N),” his voice cracked. Those hazel eyes were glazed over with silver, finally realizing you’d had this prepared. It was premeditated, you’d fallen out of love with him long ago.

“But I want to live, Azriel. Not in anyone’s shadow, and not while every one of your family members tries to arrange marriage for you.”

Azriel had never lied to you. He wouldn’t start now. There was nothing he could do to stop their silly gossip, to stop wishing for their friends to flirt with him - not without breaking the family he’d worked so hard to build. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

“You’ll survive.”

[psuedosugu]

2am ★

suguru geto x reader

synopsis: your friend (?) comes into your room at 2 in the morning because he can’t sleep.

notes: hes so precious i just wanna kiss him ahhhhhh

the glowing numbers on your alarm clock read 2:00 am. the sky outside your semi-open window shows pitch black while the curtain covering it occasionally flutters due to the wind.

you lie in your bed, still and unable to sleep due to the thoughts running through your head plus your efforts to suppress them.

these days, your mind seems to always wonder back to the star plasma vessel mission, to riko herself.

riko amanai. a young girl, no older than 13. she didn’t deserve to die. you can still remember the sound of the gun hitting her, the sound of her now-still body hitting the ground, and her cold lifeless gaze. what could you have done differently to save her?

moping about it was doing you no good, though, so you decided that you would stop thinking about it all together, which was easier said than done.

you stared up at the ceiling, trying to think of something, anything else. counting sheep was turning out futile. sleep. sleep. you just wanted sleep. it felt like you hadn’t slept in months.

the familiar click! of your doorknob turning snapped you awake. you almost never lock your room, but only one person would come in here so late at night.

“nnh…suguru.” you sat up to look at him.

“did i wake you up? i’m sorry.” he asks sheepishly. his dark hair is outside of its usual bun, cascading onto his shoulders and part-way down his back. his eye bags are obvious, he must be just as tired as you are.

“i can leave if you wa-“ he starts but you interrupt him. “you didn’t wake me up! i- i couldn’t sleep either and even if i wasn’t awake, you’re always free to come in here.”

he had already stayed the night in your dorm a handful of times so him still being nervous about it was confusing, but cute nonetheless.

“you’re too kind to me,” he says, a smile adorning his face. that smile. that stupid smile.

admittedly, when your mind wasn’t occupied with dead girls toppling onto concrete floors, it was usually filled with him.

you scooted over and patted on the space next to you. as you started to sink back into the warm sheets, he made his way beside you, sliding into the covers.

“how’d your mission tod- yesterday go?” you ask, turning your head to look at him. he’s gorgeous, so gorgeous, you think.

“mmh, about as good as it could’ve gone.” he sighs.

sometimes, you feel like he’s the only person who will ever truly understand. he was there, right next to you when it all went down. maybe that’s why the two of you are so close now, a trauma bond of some sort.

the two of you lay together, only a few inches in between. that space was slowly shrinking as you gradually shifted closer every time you stole a glance at him. it felt taboo, these feelings that you were having for him. you weren’t supposed to feel this way. not about him.

unaware to you, suguru had been having similar thoughts. as much as he’d try to deny them because you would never ever like him back, he thought, they always sprang back up. he was tired of having to hide them.

to him, you were the sun itself, the center of his galaxy. he was so lucky, he thought, that you let him in your space so often, that he was able to breathe in your presence.

your shoulders were now side by side, touching, and he didn’t say a thing. suguru’s comforting presence had your eyes drooping.

your mind started to wonder to what it would be like to sleep next to him every night, maybe in a house the two of you would own instead of these dorms. you knew were getting ahead of yourself with your white-picket-fence fantasies, but you were too tired to care.

half asleep and absentminded, you snuggled closer to him, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck and slipping an arm around him. maybe you were feeling bold. maybe you were too tired to fully comprehend what you were doing.

suguru froze, his heart threatening to thump out of his chest. he was sure you could feel it against you. could you feel it? could you feel his emotions for you? did you know? he wanted you to know. he wanted to spill his hear out, to kiss you like there was no tomorrow, to have you.

he needed this. he needed you.

“[name]?” he murmured. you let out a faint hum in response, teetering between the border of awake and asleep.

“look,” he braced himself. he didn’t know what would come out of this, if your friendship would survive. he didn’t want to lose you, the only one who, he thought, truly cared, but he couldn’t live like this.

“..I’ve been having these feelings….these feelings about you. i..I’m really glad we’re friends, but every time you talk to me i just don’t know. i don’t know if i want just this. i want more. i want us to at least try having more. i know its sudden but its how i feel.”

he waited in anticipation for your response, staring at the ceiling. a few moments passed and he called your name. “[name]?” he asked, “..please say something.” a few more moments passed and he heard a soft snore. he looked down and sure enough you were knocked out, your chest rising and falling.

he smiled, moving a piece of your hair out of your face. had you heard any of what he said? would you even remember? probably not, he thought. oh well. there’s always tomorrow.

his eyes started to droop too, and he slipped into unconsciousness to thoughts of you, you, you.

[diejager]

I love your writings so much, I just can't get enough of it!

In Fantasy, where reader was transported into Simon's world, and left pregnant, what if their child got into the same accident as reader and fell into a broken portal that sent the kid to Simon's world, and discovered the truth, placing piece by piece together and found out how they were made. The kid having a hard time choosing between his mom or dad, your choice on what happens when he chooses one of them, or the both of them.

I just can't get enough! You write stuff that's better than any I've ever read before!

I… I’ve been meaning to post Fantasy pt2, but I’m not super proud of it so I’ve been stalling a lot..

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, past rape, forced pregnancy, kidnapping, locked away, isolation, tell me if I missed any.

They thought it was only a rumour, a little tale spun by people to explain their birth. You - their caring and loving mother - had always sang about them being a miracle, a gift that the universe had given you. It made them feel better, made them feel loved and graced, but there was always a growing curiosity, a nagging feeling that grew by every passing year. You always called them “my little miracle” and they never grew out of it, loving the soft lull of your voice and the affectionate tone you used. 

You named them Gwyneth, Tracer had given you the idea, but they often went with Gwyn, a shorter and easier name to say. Gwyn knew you loved them, adored them to the moon despite your busy schedule and life while fighting against Talon and Null Sector, but they’d seen the melancholic stare you gave them when you thought they weren’t looking at you, a sad and despondent gaze. It served to fuel Gwyn’s curiosity, driving them further and further down a hole of mystery and unanswered questions that they just knew you wouldn’t answer. Your pained grimace and slight tremble told them much, the strong and dependable mother that loved them shrinking into themselves and shuddering. It hurt them to see you like that.

That gear malfunction seemed to have sent them elsewhere, away from home and away from you, thrusted into a strange world and lost in the unknown. They were somewhere in England, some place in Manchester from what the maps they found told them, sharing the same street names and landmarks as the Manchester they visited in their world. Yet somehow, somehow, they found a man so familiar with them - suspiciously so - who had frantically asked hundreds of questions about you. 

There was a certain familiarity in the man, but they were apprehensive about how desperate he was, spewing information about himself and your time with him. He’d convinced them enough to make a trip to a military base to have his DNA taken, tested and matched, and Gwyn was… was shocked, they didn’t know if they were simply surprised or terrified. 

If this man - their father - who presented himself as Simon Riley, a dead man, said the truth about how he loved you and cared for you. The stories he shared about your relationship, from the days where he met you at the cafe you worked, your bright and bubbly smile lighting his days, to the lovesick gleam when he continued on to the nights at the bar, drinking and laughing. It sounded all so embellished, prettily drawn to stifle any suspicion from Gwyn, but if Simon was telling the truth, why were you so afraid of telling them who their father was, the way you met him or the time spent by his side?

Perhaps the truth was better left unsaid, left to collect dust and forget, but they had never been one to give up on something, Gwyn was a being of perseverance and curiosity, much like a cat. Maybe it would have saved them the heartache and trauma to uncover something as dark as the locked basement in Simon’s house. Gwyn couldn’t have known, they couldn’t, they simply followed their intuition and everything that Simon had strung up cracked, shattered and fell apart.

It was an… easy decision to make, to leave a broken man who had nearly broken their mother out of desperation and obsessive love, a deep-seated corruption of his being that scared them. Gwyn wanted to return home and embrace you, wrap their arms around your shoulder and sob out their horrible discovery, to apologise for something they hadn’t done but had been the result of. If only Gwyn could find a way back.

[allfryam]

freshman 50 (freshman 15 part 2)

Jake was delusional. He had gained over 15 pounds in the few months he had been at college and he didn’t even know it. He still saw himself as the perfect image of a man. His smooth abs we’re completely gone and he had a bit of a belly covered in a small layer of peach fuzz. Even Ben had noticed jakes weight gain. And he liked it. Ben had a crush on Jake since the moment they became roommates. The perfect brown hair, the ocean blue eyes, and Jake only became hotter as his stomach grew.

Ben realized that Jake was completely oblivious to the fact that he was getting fat. Ben wanted to keep it that way. Whenever Jake would say something about feeling big or eating too much, Ben would shut that idea down by telling Jake how great he looked. He even convinced Jake that the washing machine on campus would shrink his clothes. “Ohhh. That explains why my pants won’t button” Jake would say. Ben would often take jake out for pizza or burgers. Jake would end up eating an entire pizza all by himself because Ben would claim he wasn’t hungry and jake hated wasting food.

by Christmas time, jake had a proper dad bod. His expanding stomach was beginning to hang over his belt and push tight against his biggest shirts. His belly wasn’t the only thing growing either. His ass had gotten significantly larger than before. It would even bounce when he walked. Ben loved it. His thighs had also become thicker. Even his perfect jawline was beginning to fade. When all of his classes stopped for winter break, jake wasn’t getting nearly as much exercise as usual. He would play video games in his underwear and have fast food delivered to his dorm.

jake never told anyone he was gay. He was way too embarrassed to let anyone know. He was even more embarrassed to tell anyone he had a crush on Ben. Ben was so nice to him and he had the perfect body. The dad bod kind of grew on him. One night, jake mustered up the courage to ask Ben out. Ben said yes of course. They would go on dates all the time. Ben would take him to dinner; and jake would devour everything in his sight.

one night, jake decided to step on the scale to make sure he still had his perfect body. 200 pounds. At first, jake was shocked. But he realized the scale must be broken. There was no way he had almost gained 50 pounds in the span of a single semester. He decided to ask ben. “ do I look fat?” “What? No way! You’ve got the perfect body dude”. “But the scale said I was 200 pounds”. “Yikes” ben thought to himself. He knew Jake was getting fat but not THAT fat. “The scale is probably just broken” ben said. “Yeah. You’re right”

holiday treats had a big impact on jakes body. He would go the the store and see fresh treats at the bakery and he couldn’t resist. He would come home with 10 different types of cookies, eggnog, sweet breads, and candies. All of it would be gone by the end of the week. One day he was really hungry and he finished a batch each of gingerbread cookies, chocolate chip cookies, sugar cookies, snickerdoodles, peanut butter cookies, brownies, a gallon and a half of eggnog, a loaf of sweet bread, a slice of cake, and a bag full of peppermint m&ms. Not to mention the McDonald’s he had for lunch. Ben didn’t think it was possible to eat that much and survive but here was Jake. Doing it with ease.

when new years came, Jake only had one resolution. Get bigger clothes. None of his clothes fit anymore. Even his baggy sweatpants were skin tight. Bens New Year’s resolution was to make Jake hit 250 pounds without him noticing. This would prove to be a lot easier than Ben thought because little did he know, in December alone, Jake had gained another 35 pounds. Jake was huge. His average dad bod was now a round ball of a stomach. Ben measured it in his sleep one time. 50 inches. Jake had let the peach fuzz on his stomach grow to a nice hairy gut. His ass was also getting to be huge. It would stretch out his pants like crazy and bounced like a wild balloon. His perfect jawline was now replaced by a proper double chin. Jake didn’t even have to look down for it to show. It was always there. Growing. Jakes perfect pecs we’re now large moobs that sat nicely on his large gut. Even Jakes hands were starting to get chubby. They were turning into little greedy sausages. Jakes entire body would move when he walked. He would get out of breath just walking to class. But Ben wasn’t done fattening him up. He had big plans.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

congrats on 2222!! soulmate au with frankie would be so cute. I love frankie sm he’s just the cutest 😍

Hi lovely! Thank you for this prompt. I was a bit apprehensive because I've read one (1) soulmate AU in my entire life and wasn't sure if I could do it justice. But obviously, Frankie takes this by the ears and I just had the best time writing it. This is also a college AU because apparently I love AUs set with Pedro boys in college 🤷🏻‍♀️

This drabble is actually an AU of an upcoming fic I have in the works, called Summer House (with a lot less angst and pain). I hope you like it sweet anon!

Frankie Morales x soulmates AU

Fuck Yeah 2222 Sleepover micro drabble request | 1346 words (sorry) | warnings: mentions of alcohol consumption, college AU, inexperienced reader, drinking games, friends to soulmates

Sometimes, you wonder what colour Frankie’s eyes are.

It’s not something you wonder about often, not when everyone has grey eyes - but not really. One day, when you kiss your soulmate for the first time, you will see their eye colour, and they will see yours.

So you definitely don’t have any business wondering anything of the kind about Frankie at all, seeing that you two do not get along. Never have, probably never will, despite having been in the same close knit group since you were kids. Benny has long played the second to your principal in your duels with Frankie, while Santi is his, with Will keeping the peace whenever you get into a particularly thorny disagreement.

But that’s the funny thing about friendship. Despite your bickering, you got his back, and you know he has yours.

You’ve heard about it once or twice through the grapevine in high school, but finding one’s soulmate seems to be a dime a dozen in college, with happy news dropping left, right and centre throughout the academic year.

While you’re not in a hurry to find your fated other half, you start thinking that you should at least get started with the kissing part. You’re way behind your friends and peers on that front, somehow missing out on the formative experience despite being a regular fixture at house parties at high school, then sorority parties in your freshman year in college.

You really should blame the boys. No one wants to risk messing with a girl who has three hulking seniors and one equally hulking sophomore at her beck and call, not when there are far easier options around.

But you know it’s not just that, and you’ll only admit it when you're drunkenly tucking yourself into bed, alone yet again after another party. It feels like you’re the only person your age who’s still (stupidly) holding onto the hope that your first kiss can be something, not just a sloppy makeout session with too much tongue and too little meaning.

And so you find yourself, still never been kissed, when summer rolls around at the end of your first year at college. Your gang of five is about to shrink to just you and Benny, with the rest of the boys enlisting after they graduate, and the impending farewell upsets you more than you care to show.

The five of you spend the first week together at the Millers’ summer house after school lets out, as has been tradition since you were kids - with your parents when you were younger, but it’s been just kids for the last few years.

Well, just the kids plus one, since Frankie always brings a girlfriend. Unfailingly, it's someone beautiful with perfect hair who has a wandering eye for the other boys, and hates your guts for being the only girl in the group.

On the last night, the guys invite a select crowd over for one final hurrah before they go home and get ready to ship out to basic training the following week. Music is booming, cheap beer is flowing, and you’re all in the garden, the sticky Floridian heat clinging to you like a second skin.

Ironically, it’s Frankie’s girlfriend who wants to play spin the bottle. He sits opposite you, his Standard Oil cap pulled over his eyes but failing to hide his annoyance at being forced to participate. You roll your eyes at him across the circle, and he gives you a middle finger back.

Will, the self-appointed gamesmaster, spins the bottle set on a pizza box atop the lawn.

It spins, and spins, and spins - until it doesn’t.

You look on in sheer horror when the bottle stutters to a stop squarely before you, the other end pointing at Frankie, who turns green with nausea.

‘FUCK NO!’

You attempt to run, only to be tackled to the ground by Santi, who practically hauls you by the waist back to the circle as you kick and scream.

Frankie, on the other hand, has to be restrained by both Miller brothers.

‘I have a girlfriend!’ he shouts, digging the heels of his beat-up sneakers into the grass.

She doesn’t seem to mind though, clapping gleefully along with everyone else, chanting, ‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’

Shoved toe to toe in the middle of the circle under watchful eyes, you exchange vicious glares. Frankie’s broad shoulders are hunched over defensively, arms crossed. It’s strange, you’ve known him forever, but this is probably physically the closest you’ve ever been to each other without being locked in a fist fight.

Warmth bounces off his tightly wound up frame as he towers over you, and by some folly, you feel an inexplicable pull.

You fight the staggering want to bury your nose in that grey tshirt (the one he wears Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and restocks at Old Navy when it wears too thin), to swipe that hat off his head to brush the curls from his face, to look into his eyes - and see what colour they are.

In the end, Frankie breaks first - you’re not sure if it’s the jeering and goading from the crowd or your stubborn standoff that makes him snap. Grabbing you by the elbow, he hauls you firmly into his chest before you can react.

You should be embarrassed, mortified that this is how you’re going to end up losing your first kiss. And yet, losing doesn't seem like the right word.

There’s a deep-seated calmness inside you, knowing that it’s going to be Frankie. The boy you’ve known since you were three, the teenager who used to make you cry with stupid juvenile pranks, and the man now who wouldn’t hesitate to throw a punch if anyone even looks at you the wrong way.

As soon as the tip of his proud nose brushes yours, your eyes slide shut of their own accord - and he kisses you.

God, his lips are so soft. Your breath catches in your throat, and your knees wobble so dangerously that your fingers twist into the front of his tshirt, holding on for dear life.

Can he tell that you don’t know how to kiss, at all? Does he think you’re terrible? The fact that this feels so fucking perfect despite having no idea what you’re doing sets you on edge, a magnifying glass trained on your inexperience in a way that makes you stiffen with nerves and awkwardness. 

He must be appalled at how bad you are, especially after the litany of gorgeous, more experienced girls he’s been with over the years. You can’t believe you’re subjecting him to this, how would he ever look you in the eye afterwards -

But then, something shifts when his hands find your waist, palms easily spanning the small of your back as he pulls back for air, but only just, still so close that you can feel the tickle of his beard on your chin. There’s an unmistakable hitch in his breath, a tremour as he exhales, which in turns makes you tremble and switches off the unwelcome commentary in your head.

It’s as if he wants you.

Before you can think too hard, Frankie leans in and kisses you again, harder this time, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, and heat chases down your spine like a meteor. He sucks on your bottom lip when it falls open in a gasp, dipping between your lips with a clever swipe of his tongue against yours that makes you shudder and whimper, which he swallows with a possessive growl.

Your lungs are burning when he draws back, his nose still touching yours.

Then he calls your name.

You blink as your eyes open -

Frankie’s staring at you, lips parted, his gaze reverential. Like he’s never seen you before. Reaching up, he takes your face in his hands, calloused palms on your cheeks, thumbs swiping away the tears that won’t stop. You break into a watery grin, which he mirrors, a warm chuckle rumbling in his chest, holding you close as everything falls into place -

Frankie’s eyes are brown.

Note: In case it's not clear, in this fic, everyone’s eyes appear grey. You can only see your soulmate's eye colour after you kiss them for the first time.

[ssahotchnerr]

not even a trope but it’s my new favorite thing - buying shirts for aaron a size smaller than he buys for himself, just so you can admire the fit. and it’s funny because he’s onto you practically from the get go (c’mon, he’s a profiler). but you’re oblivious and still trying to be sneaky about it, subtly introducing new polos n button downs n quarter zips 🫠 to his closet, one at a time. how you could think he wouldn’t notice, he has no idea. your favorites of his, old, and of the new ones you bought, you’ll shift to the front of the closet, hoping they’ll catch his eye and he’ll wear one to work, around the house… until of course he confronts you about the evasive and mysterious closet elf who’s been rearranging his clothes and leaving him new ones, including ties that you think he’d look so handsome in and that you’d love for him to tie you up with 😩😵‍💫

would love if you’d maybe write this bestie? <33 mwuah no worries if not, hope you’re well :’)) and that maybe you feel better rested

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 sos aaron in a tight shirt i'm feeling faint

guilty pleasure

cw: none! maybe some very light suggestive content if you squint

-

"sweetheart?" you heard aaron say, causing you to hum in response. the two of you were collectively getting ready to head to the office; you were slipping a pair of slacks on, while he was standing in your shared walk-in closet.

"have you seen my one blue- "

"nope." you interrupted him as you replied, being sure not to meet his eyes; a guaranteed dead giveaway if you did.

a few weeks ago, one of aaron's button-ups had managed to accidentally make its way into the dryer, causing it to shrink. in a rush to leave the house, he had no choice but to throw it on, and it had been life altering. it enunciated everything; the tighter fit allowed his chest to look immensely more prominent, his biceps were easily more visible, flexing as he moved about, the tighter cuffs made his hands look even larger if it were possible. it was almost see through as well, due to the fact he hadn't been wearing an under shirt.

rightfully so, you couldn't tear your eyes away from him for the entirety of the day; distracted couldn't begin to describe it. while aaron was attractive with, or without, anything, this, was a different story.

as a result of your new, beloved guilty pleasure and wanting to witness it more frequently, you had no choice but to begin your own collection of shirts for him. while shopping, you purposely bought button ups, polos, even a duplicate of his favorite quarterzip a size smaller; things you knew he would look handsome in for your benefit. not only that, you had started replacing his other shirts; hiding them in the back of the closet with the newer ones up front, for easier access in hopes of seeing them on him. and it was working. he wore one every so often, but not without making the comment that it felt more snug than usual.

"you have plenty right there, wear one of those. if you don't hurry, you'll make us late." hopefully, he took the bait.

however, aaron was aaron; he profiled for a living, and if anyone could tell if you were up to no good, it would be him. so it was partially no surprise he had caught onto to your antics. "you would like that, wouldn't you?"

"what?" his teasing words prompted you to finally met his eyes.

"you're not very subtle, sweetheart." a laugh rumpled through his chest, an eyebrow quirking up in amusement. "you think i haven't noticed?"

"i have no clue what you're talking about." you shrugged your shoulders and bit your lip to refrain from smiling. you made your way towards him, grabbing onto one of the shirts yourself. "how about this one?"

aaron's eyes scanned the light grey button up as you held it up, which of course, was seemingly a size smaller, "it's nice. i don't think i've even seen that one before, actually."

"really?" you feigned surprise, but you knew, especially with his current expression, you were absolutely caught. "you've had this for ages, babe."

"is that so?" he headed further into the closet, soon finding the shirt he had inquired for a moment ago. "that's strange, how'd this manage to get all the way back here?"

"that's so weird." you agreed as furrowed your eyebrows, making a play at being convincing. "you probably, uh, pushed it back there. unknowingly or something."

"yeah, probably." aaron held his stare with you, but it didn't take long before a smile broke out on his face. "you know, if you want me to wear something specifically, all you have to do is ask, darling."

you attempted to hide the smile on your face, but you surrendered, there was no use at this point. "again, i don't know what you're talking about."

"mhm, sure you don't." aaron laughed softly. "but don't worry, i'll indulge you." he rehung the shirt, gesturing for you to hand the one in your grasp over, "c'mon, like you said, we're going to be late."

without a second thought you tossed it over, a pleased expression on your face. "you're so hot."

"whatever you say," he teasingly rolled his eyes, before looking at you with a fondness in his eyes. "so... are you going to pick me out a tie as well?"

[giggly-squiggily]

Time Wasn't In Our Favor (Demon Slayer)

We're just going for the angst this week huh- kjajkearjkeajkr

Heyo everyone! I wrote this a while back and did a small poll with everyone on which Obamitsu fic they wanted to see: the super fluffy one or this. The fluff won. All this time later I finally decided to share this with everyone! :D I hope you like it!

CW: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR DEMON SLAYER MANGA. Angst, Heavy angst barely any comfort, mentions of past abuse, mentions of past torture, mentions of past bullying, insecurity, blood and injury, death, food mention, almost confessions, just lots of pain and heartache y'all I cried writing this kjarjkekjarjek

Summary: Four times Obamitsu almost confessed, and the one time they finally did.

“Kanroji looks…uneasy.” Obanai mused out loud one day, watching the pink haired Hashira speak with the others. While she smiled and greeted everyone as per her welcome, there was clear discomfort on her face whenever she was alone. She was always clutching the ends of her uniform, tugging on it as if it would somehow get longer.

“I don’t blame her. That perv was the one who made the uniform.” Sanemi grumbled, referencing none other than Maeda- one of the many tailors in the Demon Corps. He was good at the craft, but notorious for his…revealing design choices. “I heard he tried to pull the same thing on Shinobu and her Tsugoku. She burned it before him.” The Wind Hashira snickered, clearly pleased with the thought. “Shame she didn’t get to him a third time.”

“He designed yours too, yes?” Obanai eyed the bare chested Hashira, his scars gleaming brightly against his skin. “I assumed he only did that for the woman.”

“Ay, eyes up here, buddy.” Sanemi snapped his fingers, focusing the other. “And yeah- I told him to make mine like this. Makes the whole bleeding thing easier.”

The ‘Bleeding thing’ was what Sanemi called his Marechi blood- a rare type that demons craved like an addiction. He often used said blood to kill his targets, luring them in with the smell and cutting their heads off clean. It left him with scars all over, but the white haired man didn’t seem bothered by it.

Obanai was about to remark on Sanemi’s other intentions regarding the choice of clothes when his eyes went back to Mitsuri. She was now talking to Shinobu, her stance relaxed once more. It must have been comforting, having another woman on the team to talk to. While he hasn’t seen any of the Hashria leer at Kanroji, he wouldn’t be surprised if those outside their group have, taking in her entire being like a piece of meat.

The thought alone made his stomach turn. He wanted to hunt them all down and gut them.

“Ayo, your bloodlust is showing.” Sanemi reached up and nudged his foot, bringing him back to reality.

“Says the man with the most bloodlust here.” Obanai retorted, earning a snort.

“I save it for demons.” A half truth. Sanemi followed his gaze, humming softly. “She’s a tough woman. You don’t have to worry about anyone being gross to her. She’d probably knock them out with those killer biceps.” He nodded approvingly, flinching when Obanai punched his shoulder. “Ouch, damn- what the hell?”

“Don’t be cruel.” He growled, feeling protective. He didn’t know much, but they seemed to be an insecurity for her- her arms. The way she tucked them in when in groups or kept her hand gestures close to her chest. It was like she was trying to shrink in on herself.

“I wasn’t....” Sanemi rolled his eyes before turning back to the girl in question. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I like her arms. I think they're great.” He nodded. “Don’t hit me again- I’m not trying to steal your girl.”

“She’s not my-”

“But she does look uncomfortable.” He carried on, furrowing his brows. “Especially with the skirt. Think she’d feel better if we force Maeda to make her a longer one?”

Obanai doubted it. Not only would it not be ready for a while, but the implication felt…wrong. Like he was telling her what to wear, or that he was only looking at her legs.

Legs…wait a moment…

“Don’t. It’ll make things worse. But I do have an idea.” Obanai mused, starting to perk up.

~~~

“Oh wow…Iguro-san, these are beautiful!” Mitsuri gushed as she held up the socks. They were knee high, light green with stripe detail down the legs. Thick enough for coverage but light enough so she won’t sweat. They matched the tips of her hair, she realized- a detail she hadn’t even thought of herself. “I love them!”

“I’m glad.” Obanai smiled behind his mask, fighting down the blush threatening to spread over his cheeks. He looked away politely as she pulled them on, Kaburamaru hissing in approval as she squealed with delight. “They’re on! How do I look?” She asked, striking a pose. Already she looked much more comfortable in her own skin.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Obanai almost said it as he took in her smiling face, the look of utter joy in her green eyes as she fluttered about- beyond pleased. It was like the sun was eclipsed until this moment- finally peeking out behind a mass of dark matter to shine down on them, enhancing the world around them. Obanai nearly forgot to breathe when she smiled at him like that.

“You look wonderful.” He got out, making her blush and shine more.

One day, he’d tell her.

One day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mm! Mm, mm mm! The smell is amazing!” Mitsuri was in heaven- her cheeks flushed with absolute joy as she breathed deeply. She had gotten back from a particularly long mission, and she was starving. The plan had been to go home and make something, but she ran into Obanai along the way. The first thing to greet him, much to her horror, was the growl in her stomach.

“Hungry?” He asked, voice teasing. Her face burned.

Now they were here- a small restaurant that Mitsuri knew well. The shop owner loved her- she tipped well and always made his day better. When she walked in, the old man greeted her with open arms and a bright laugh. “Welcome back, Miss Kanroji! Ah, I see you brought a date!”

“Oh, this is Iguro-san! He’s a fellow Hashira.” She reassured him, her cheeks bright red as the man and his wife came around to properly say hello. She dared a peek- Obanai looked rather flushed himself. Don’t let this get awkward, Mitsuri. “I’ll have my usual, though er…keep it to one serving.” She shifted, forcing a smile.

“Just one? But we made a whole pan-” The kind man began, cutting off when his wife pinched his arm. “Alright then- a serving of Curry rice for the lovely lady, and for you sir?”

“I’ll have the same thing.” He nodded, his voice quiet. The couple faded away as Mitsuri and Obanai took a seat, side by side along the table. She knew she should sit across from him but…”Sorry- is this weird? I’ll move.” She offered, starting to stand.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” He patted her hand, keeping her there. He didn’t look uncomfortable- even if he seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Oh dear, did she take too much space? She wasn’t exactly slender. Was she crushing him?

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind-” She began again, only to stop when the restaurant owner came by, placing their bowls before them.

“Here we are! I added half an extra serving for you, Kanroji. I know how much you love our curry rice!” He winked playfully at her before heading back, ignorant to the way her soul dropped to her stomach.

“Kanroji? Are you okay?” Obanai asked, brows furrowing as he took in her pale face. “Is there something wrong?”

“No! No, not at all!” She squeaked, shaking her head as she gathered her chopsticks. “I’m fine! Totally fine! Let’s eat, shall we?”

If she were completely honest- she wasn’t fine. When she usually came here, she was either by herself or with Rengoku. The Flame Hashira ate as much as she did, so she never felt weird polishing off so many bowls of the delicious curry rice.

Awful as it sounds, being here with Obanai- it reminded her of her ex fiance.

“You’ll never find a man who will welcome your presence for the rest of your life.”

“You eat like a boar. What man would want you?”

“Your hair is hideous. And your arms? God- it’s like you're more monster than woman.”

All this time later, and those words still stung. She felt them clawing up her throat, choking her. Her eyes burned as the shame she felt coated her skin like oil, sticky and suffocating. She couldn’t let Obanai see her eat that way. It was bad enough he saw her hair. He saw her fight demons in a way that was without a doubt not fit for a lady.

If he saw her eat like a monster- like a demon…

“Kanroji, are you okay? You look like you're gonna be sick.” Obanai sounded so concerned. He looked at her bowl, taking a sniff. “Is there something wrong with the food? You haven’t touched it. Do you want me to get you something else?”

I want to disappear. She thought helplessly. I want to fade away. I want to be more what the world wants. I want to fit in, to blend in. To go unnoticed. I want to be forgotten.

“I…” She began, freezing when she saw the chopsticks before her, holding some of the rice.

“Erm…sorry if this is…eh…” Obanai seemed flustered as he offered the food, his cheeks red behind his mask. Still, he held her gaze. “I think…I think eating something might make you feel better. Sometimes we get stomach aches from not eating…at least, that happens to me.” He nodded at the rice. “Erm…this is kinda awkward, if you want me to put it down I’ll-”

Her lips closed around the chopsticks, the rich flavor melting on her tongue. It was a little embarrassing, being fed, but… “Thank you.” She smiled, taking the chopsticks from his hand. Taking a breath, she looked at her bowl. She wanted so badly to dive in and eat, but…

“Kanroji, please.” Obanai nodded. “You should eat. If you want, I’ll keep feeding you-”

“Oh no! I got this!” She tried to eat slowly, but before long she was devouring her bowl, lost in its flavor. When she finished, there wasn’t a grain left. “Mm…mh!”

Oh no. Oh god. She forgot. She forgot he was-

The untouched curry slid into her view, Obanai’s eyes kind. “If you’re hungry, eat. A Hashira needs their fuel, and you especially.” At her questioning gaze, he nodded. “Love breathing is a branch of Flame breathing. Those types of moves burn through calories like nothing. You need to restore your energy, so eat what you want.” He nodded. “Besides; I think the restaurant owner here would be pretty sad to let that pan go to waste.”

Her eyes grew misty, but not from hurt. She smiled wobbly, taking the bowl. “Thank you, Iguro-san.” She paused then, suddenly feeling bad. “But your food…”

“I already ate.” He dropped casually, making her stare. “Really. I had those snacks you left me. They were amazing.”

“You really liked them?” She asked, her heart starting to swell. As she turned to her bowl, she heard Obanai ask the old man to bring Mitsuri her usual order. “And some Sakura Mochi. They’re her favorite.” He nodded, making her heart race within her chest. He remembered.

~~~

“That was amazing!” She sighed, patting her belly as she and Obanai left. The restaurant owner and his wife saw them off, smiling at eachother knowingly. She had a feeling she was never gonna hear the end of it from them next time she came. “Thank you so much, Iguro-san. You really didn’t have to pay though! I know my order can get…expensive.” She almost cringed at the amount of bowls she tucked away.

“It’s no trouble at all. You were happy, and that’s what matters.” He nodded, not quite looking her way as he tugged on his mask. His ears were red now, something she found rather cute. “Please never feel the need to hide from us, Kanroji. We’d never judge you for how you live.”

The unspoken “I” was there. It made them both blush.

“Thank you, really. I…” She wanted to say more then. It had been a long time since someone made her heart race like this. Someone who looked at her only fondly as she ate, no judgment in sight as she finished off bowl after bowl. He never pointed it out, only kept the conversation going; talking about missions and life and friends.

He made her feel…normal.

She wanted to tell him that.

She wanted to tell him more.

“Hm? What is it?” Obanai asked, looking at her curiously.

No. Not yet. She swallowed her heart back to her chest.

“Nothing. Just…thank you again.” She smiled, tugging at her hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obanai was more careful than this.

As the Serpent Hashira, he was rather fast on his feet. He moved like his breathing style, slithering and evading demon attacks as he brought them down one after the other. At best, he walked away without a scratch.

Today, he wasn’t so lucky.

“Iguro-san! Oh no, you’re hurt!” Mitsuri was beside him before he hit the ground, the demon fading into ashes behind them as her hands steadied him. His entire body hurt, and his face felt wet. When he blinked, nothing fell from his eyes- it wasn’t tears.

Which meant it must have been blood. Lovely.

“It’s alright- are you okay?” He grunted, the smell of Sakura Mochi telling him she was rather close. Her hair was frizzy from the fight, and her eyes were wide with worry. She had a bruise along her chin, and her clothes were frayed at the sleeves.

Bruised and dirty, but she was alive. Good.

“Nevermind me, you’re bleeding!” Her hands reached out, hesitating momentarily before she took his chin, gently turning it to look at the cut. “It doesn’t look that bad- if Kocho-san was here, she’d know exactly how to handle it.”

“It’s alright- I can take care of it.” If anything- he’d prefer to. The cut ran past his mask, cutting it to the middle. In order to clean the wound, he’d need to remove said cover.

The cover that hid his scar and the painful memories it carried.

“You’re so strong, Iguro-san.” She smiled, cheeks pink as she wiped the blood away with a portion of her Haori. “That’s what makes you so great- you can handle just about anything.”

The words made his face heat up, and he was about to tell her not to use her Haori on him. “The blood will never come out!” He was about to say.

Only for the words to get caught in his throat when he felt his mask slip.

“Oh!” Mitsuri caught it before it could hit the dirty ground, the damage it took was more severe then they realized. “I’m so sorry- I must have worsened the damage! I’ll fix it up-” When her eyes came back to Obanai, he looked stricken, pale and shaky as he clamped a bloody hand over his mouth. “I-Iguro-san? What’s wrong? Are you about to be sick?”

He didn’t answer, his throat closed with fear and his mind racing a million miles a minute. No- no no no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! She can’t see it- she can’t!

His fingers pressed tightly against the scar tissue stretching past his lips, reminding him of that horrible day. The knife glinting in the candlelight. The pain stretching along his face. His tears as he begged and begged them to stop, to let him go, to kill him.

All for that horrid Serpent Demon. All to keep the stolen riches the demon provided.

He wished he could forget it. How he was almost given to that horrid beast, and the consequences that came when he escaped.

All of it, there on his scarred mouth. If Mitsuri saw it…she’d know what he was.

A coward. A monster.

“Iguro-san…” Mitsuri bit her lip, eyes wide with worry as she took in the shaking Hashira before her. Then her eyes grew clear. she grabbed her sword. 

Before Obanai could stop her, she sliced through a clean chunk of her Haori, the strip long and thick. Folding it, she brought it up and pressed it over the hand covering his mouth, her touch light.

“It’s not much, and it probably smells weird, but it’ll have to do for now.” Her eyes were so gentle, so kind as his hand fell away, his mouth once again secured. Her hands came around and tied his new makeshift mask into a secure knot, careful not to catch any of his hair in the process. “There we are! Feeling better?” She asked.

The mask smelled like sakura mochi and tea and home. Even with everything that happened, she never lost that scent. Tears burned his eyes and cut off his voice, making it impossible to speak. Instead, he reached out and took her hand, squeezing it tightly in his own. He hoped she’d hear his silent thank you.

When she squeezed back, fierce and kind- she squeezed his heart as well.

~~~

Later- with his face newly cleaned and his clothes fixed, Obanai found a small parcel waiting for him. The note on top was written in curly strokes, a heart dotting her name.

Iguro-san, I fixed your mask! It was kinda dirty, so I cleaned it as well.

With love- Mitsuri

He held it close to his chest, his newly stitched and clean mask. It still smelled just like her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Master Ubuyashiki was gone.

He gave his life so he could end this Demon war once and for all.

Mitsuri wiped at her tears, running through courier after courier as she searched for the demon in sight. She would not let Master’s parting gift go to waste. She would make his dream come true!

Now if she could only find the freaking thing!

This particular one- an Upper moon she believed- was rather elusive. Anytime she got close enough to cut her head off clean, she’d strum her Biwa and the room would shift. One minute Mitsuri was above her, the next she was free falling into yet another part of the tower.

“THAT IS IT!” She raged as she stood, racing through more hallways. The changing made her head hurt, and she was sure if she saw another Biwa after this the instrument would only play sour notes. Still- she had to pursue!

Flying high, she raised her sword, the witch once again in sight. “I’ve gotcha now-”

And then there was a door.

Smacking her then and there, pain exploded across her body as Mitsuri flew off the edge. Her nose was bleeding- but she didn’t know if it was from pain or embarrassment.

Or both. Most likely both.

Falling backwards, she knew it was not gonna end well. Her body was already sore from crashing into various walls and floors. This time she suspected she wouldn’t make it.

Suddenly, arms were around her, and she was flying. Blinking, she barely registered her savior before they rolled onto a nearby column. “I-Iguro-san!” She gasped, staring up at him. Her heart did a hundred funny things then as she looked into those concerned mismatched eyes.

And then her face burned, shame bringing her back to reality. “I’m so sorry- I got ahead of myself.” She moaned as she covered her face. “Forgive me!”

“It’s quite alright, Kanroji.” He reassured her, helping her to her feet. “You’ve done well. Please be careful- we don’t know how this Upper Moon works or what her abilities are. She very well could have more than we expected. It’s better to analyze her now and look for any openings.”

“Right!” She nodded, the logic in his voice soothing away her nerves. “You be careful too, Iguro-san. This whole room shifting thing isn’t fun to deal with.” Her bruises screamed in agreement, making her wince.

Obanai nodded, a picture of preparation. “Very well. Let’s-” Suddenly the floor split, sending them in different directions. “IGURO!” She cried, barely breathing as he dodged the column. Obanai called out something to her, but before she could react, she was suddenly flying once more, this time towards the ceiling.

With a wall jump and a slash of her blade, she was safe- barely. She shook it off as she turned to glare at the Upper Moon. “You won’t be able to attack me with the same move twice!” She cried, going for an opening.

The room changes, a door opens. She’s falling again.

Well damn.

“GAHHHHH!” She raged as she fell. She was so mad she nearly forgot what Obanai called out to her.

“MITSURI LOOK OUT!” Was what he called.

Mitsuri.

Mitsuri.

He said her name.

The realization motivated her, pushing her to her feet. “He said my name…I have to live, so I can say his.” She nodded, running once more.

And then…

“Later.” She decided. “I’ll tell him it all later.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rain would have been appropriate in a situation like this.

Footsteps she knew like the back of her hand came towards her. Gentle hands pulled her up, resting her against a bloody chest. “Kanroji..I’m back.” Obanai’s voice was raspy. He didn’t have long left.

“Please…call me Mitsuri.” She breathed, the phantom pain of her missing arms nearly choking her. There was blood everywhere. She didn’t know who it belonged to. At this point, did it really matter? “Did we…did we do it? Is he dead?” She had to know. She needed to know.

“Yes. He’s gone.” Obanai breathed, blood dripping from the cuts where his eyes once were. She wanted to see them. To run her once there hands along his cheek, brushing away the blood that coated his face and just feel him.

Muzan took that away from her. She hoped he burned wherever he went.

“Good…hey, I can’t feel anything.” She laughed up blood, shaking her head. “I guess I’m dying.”

“I’m dying too.” The words cut, even if she knew it was true. “So you won’t be alone.”

“No…don’t die yet.” She breathed as her eyes filled with tears. “You can’t die yet.” Her voice grew sad then. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t much use in the fight.”

“No, don’t say that. It’s not true.” His voice was so gentle as his hand came up, running through her shredded locks. “Do you remember that day? The day we met?”

“Of course. I got lost in the mansion.” She giggled at the memory, it felt so far now. “You helped me then. Thank you.”

“It’s the other way around.” His voice grew soft as he reflected on all their moments together. The day they met- how she laughed like bells and smiled so warmly at him. How their time together made him feel like they were just normal people living their lives.

“You’ve saved so many people with your bottomless kindness. You should be proud, Mitsuri. Thank you. Thank you so much for letting me stand by your side.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she let out a sob, shaking her head. “I’m so- so happy Obanai. Thank you, for always making me feel loved. Meals tasted better with you. I just- I want to do it all again.” She looked up at him through the blurriness, and it was like she could see him for all that he was- human and the love of her life. “If we are to be reborn, please- make me your bride!”

“Of course. If you will have me.” He pulled her closer, his lips brushing hers as the last of her breath faded away. “This time…I’ll be sure to make you the happiest person alive. I won’t let you die next time…Mitsuri, my beloved.”

Thanks for reading!

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for redflawedglass behind the cut; they asked for dealer's choice, and I picked "Clark wakes up alive". ( chrono || non-chrono )

“I hope you don't mind me just showing up like this,” he says, gentle and apologetic. Conner never had enough choices in his life, short as it was. He feels like–Clark just wants better for him, this time. “Is it alright that I'm here?”

It was partially his fault, that Conner thought he couldn't choose things for himself for so long. Thought he couldn't have things he wanted. Thought he just had to accept whatever he was offered, more often than not. 

Not always. Not every time. But–too much of the time. 

If Clark can help him learn otherwise sooner . . . 

Well. Of course he's going to try to. 

. . . yes, appears very slowly in Clark's head, and he smiles at Conner again. 

“Thank you,” he says. “I'm happy to hear that. I hope us meeting each other makes you happy too.” 

Conner's face stays perfectly impassive, but his eyes go wet. He blinks, and Clark hears his heartbeat stutter again. 

He could've done this last time. He could've done less than this, and Conner would've had a much easier and much less painful start to life outside Cadmus. 

But he didn't, of course, so he can't do any less than this now. 

“Call security,” Desmond says flatly. . 

“On Superman?” Guardian asks in disbelief. “Sir, even if there was a reason to call security, I wouldn't do that to security.” 

“He’s trespassing!” Desmond snaps. “And interfering with the subject, besides!” 

“I mean, I don’t know if this is interfering . . .” Guardian says skeptically. 

This is absolutely interfering, and Clark is going to be doing as much of it as (in)humanly possible, but he does prefer no one calling security and interrupting the conversation. 

“Don’t mind me,” he says to them, as pleasant and sweet as Ma’s most passive-aggressive “bless your heart”. Then he smiles a little softer at Conner, trying to be . . . careful, maybe. 

He did this so badly last time. Did so badly by Conner last time. 

He doesn’t intend to do anything like that again. 

Ever. 

“It really is so good to meet you, kid,” he says gently. Simple and straightforward, still. Easy for a child to understand, he hopes–or at least easier. Conner had enough trouble understanding other people to begin with, and he can’t imagine it’d be any easier while operating a younger brain and with an even earlier interruption to his education uploads. “Would you mind if I hugged you now?” 

Conner’s eyes . . . flicker, just barely. There’s confusion in them, Clark thinks, but it’s a little hard to tell. He’s even less expressive than the version of himself Clark’s used to. 

. . . was used to. 

Clark doesn’t think about that. Not right now. 

. . . ‘hug’? appears in his head, slow and hesitant over an obviously unfamiliar word. 

Clark debates throwing Desmond through a wall. Just a thin wall. Not a load-bearing one. 

But definitely a wall. 

“I mean I’d like to hold you,” he explains, because if Conner sees him get angry, he’ll blame himself for it. Of course he would, between his current age and the kind of things he’s likely had shoved into his brain so far. “Like you were holding your friend a moment ago.” 

He points at the G-gnome to clarify, and Conner . . . hesitates. Nothing appears in Clark’s head. 

“Call security immediately,” Desmond snaps at Guardian. “Now!” 

“Sir–” Guardian starts, half-raising his hands, and Desmond’s expression turns murderous. 

“That was an order, Guardian,” he says dangerously. Clark half-expects to feel G-gnomes in his mind or for Guardian to change his mind under their influence, but nothing happens. 

He doesn’t look at Dubbilex, but he . . . wonders, a little. 

Conner just barely shrinks in on himself, and Clark wonders how many times he’s been faced with an angry person so much bigger and older than him in real life, or even been out of his pod at all. Is this the first time? A regular occurrence? Something in-between? 

The G-gnome hops up on Conner’s shoulders; leans forward over his head and inspects Clark curiously, tilting its own head. Conner freezes, and Clark sees the faintest trace of fear in the back of his eyes. 

He wonders if the G-gnome’s putting it there, but Conner’s looking right at him. 

So if the G-gnome is putting it there . . . 

If it is, Clark can’t help but suspect it’s not actually a deliberate effort on the creature’s part, as opposed to a genuine by-product of Conner not knowing what to expect from him. 

Not knowing if he’ll hurt the G-gnome, he means, remembering the way Conner had hesitated when he’d called it his friend. 

Considering what he knows of how Desmond ran this place–is running this place right now . . . 

“Hello,” Clark says, and smiles at the G-gnome. “It’s nice to meet you too.” 

The G-gnome stares at him for a long, silent moment, and then slips back down behind Conner’s back and wraps its arms around his neck. Clark hears something like a whisper from another room, but not that clear, and Conner . . . hesitates, again. 

Then the word hug appears in Clark’s mind again, this time tentative and longing, and he doesn’t hesitate himself at all. He scoops up Conner and stands up with him in the same moment, and Conner lets out a little breath as his thrumming heartbeat stutters in his chest, and Clark holds him against his own chest very, very carefully, as if he’s holding something more delicate than melting frost on a sunny morning or cracked porcelain. 

Conner doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself; where to put his hands or arms. If he should hold onto him or lean into him or not. 

Clark keeps him in his arms anyway, and swears to himself he’s not leaving without the kid. Not for anything. If Conner doesn’t want to come with him right now, then he’ll wait here with him until he does, no matter what happens outside. 

If Conner never wants to come with him, well–then he’ll just stay, if that’s what it takes. 

He’s not giving Desmond the chance to hurt or hide him. Not giving anyone that chance. 

He wonders if the Conner he remembers even remembered being this small himself, or if it was so brief an experience that it didn’t stick in his head at all. 

He suspects it might’ve been, and hates the thought. 

Buzzes, appears in Clark’s head, still tentative. He doesn’t understand, for a moment, and then realizes Conner’s ear is practically against his chest. So he’s probably talking about . . . 

“I always thought of it as more a ‘thrum’, myself,” he says, and Conner stares mutely at him. Their heartbeats aren’t a perfect match–even with cloned DNA, Conner isn’t quite Kryptonian enough, and his heart beats a little slower and harder than his does. The separate beats are more audible, too. 

But it does still thrum, when it comes to it. 

Warm, appears in Clark’s head too, and Conner ducks his head just enough to hide his face from Desmond when the tears start falling. 

His expression doesn’t change at all, but the tears on his face are undeniable. 

Maybe a load-bearing wall wouldn’t be so bad to throw Desmond through, Clark thinks, bundling the kid up tighter in his arms and wrapping his cape around him as he does. Then he looks at Guardian, and puts on the most pleasant smile he can manage without needing to actually throw Desmond through a load-bearing wall first. 

“I appreciate you taking care of him, but it’s not good for him to be down in the dark like this,” he says, gently stroking what of Conner’s back the G-gnome isn’t perched on and pretending not to notice the fat, heavy tears dripping onto the El crest on his chest. “He needs the sun.” 

“There’s, ah–a solar suit, sir,” Guardian says, but he looks uncomfortable even as he says it. “I mean–he’s being fed solar energy, not just . . . uh . . .” 

He trails off, and looks much more uncomfortable; like he’s just realized what he’s saying. Maybe he has, given Desmond’s influence over the G-gnomes and what they do and don’t let people down here think. 

Guardian still thinks he’s human himself right now, after all.

[gabessquishytum]

Omegaverse accidental bitching? Either canon or warprize au~

Dream is an Alpha. He enjoys it, it feels right. It gives him an extra advantage besides his magic, makes things easier. The knot during sex is a pleasurable bonus.

Hob is also an Alpha. He's... ok with it. Doesn't really care either way, just accepted his presentation and moved on-- there were more important things in life (fighting, stealing, fucking, drinking among them). The only thing he cares about it is the advantages it gets him.

When they start fucking, Hob's the one being fucked. Dream's Alpha instincts are too strong to let it happen otherwise, not yet, and Hob's done it a few times before anyways. They're both enjoying it too much for Hob to give much thought to it anyways.

He might be a bit cum drunk, to be fair. Because when Dream comes, he comes a lot-- he always has, and something about Hob just makes everything so much more. After two or three rounds, Hob's guaranteed to have a slight stomach bump and absolutely leaking cum from his hole, knot or no.

Dream doesn't know when he first notices Hob's scent starting to change, just that it drove him wild. He starts fucking Hob more often (which is saying a lot, considering how often they were fucking before), fucking him harder, somehow coming in greater amounts than usual, wanting moremoremore. Eventually he locks the two of them away in his room, keeping Hob on his knot as often as possible. It's all Dream can focus on right now.

As for Hob... his body is becoming more and more sensitive every day. It feels good, some days; painful, others. Some days, Dream is able to make him come just from gently playing with his nipples and his cock, some days he feels so hot all he wants to do is soak in a cold bath. Things start to settle, though, and eventually Hob's able to come without anything touching his cock; he does it a lot, in fact, and even comes just from Dream telling him to, on occasion (it was while Dream was knotted inside of him and they were waiting for it to go down-- it was just talk but Hob came anyway and Dream was in awe watching it; it was definitely something he'd have to work on with Hob).

But now, after being locked up for days, scenting nothing but Dream and being filled with and covered by nothing but Dream's cum, Hob was craving something he didn't understand, Dream's teeth were aching and his instincts were screaming bitematebond and-

He bites down.

Oh hell yeah!!! The fact that it’s an accident, totally instinctual - definitely makes it even more compelling.

Just imagine all the little physical changes that happen, almost so that neither Dream or Hob particularly notice. His hole is so much more easy to prepare, not looser but just more flexible. Dream could swear sometimes that Hob is wet, although he quickly dismisses the thought. Hob’s chest is more sensitive, and the muscles seem softer than usual, more able to ripple and jiggle when he moves. If Hob wasn’t too embarrassed to admit it, he’d think that his cock is actually shrinking… but maybe he’s just imagining it. His hips and pelvic area ache so much, but it’s surely just because of all the fucking. Not because anything is changing inside him…

And then Dream bites him, and it’s like everything suddenly slots into place. He’s an omega. Or at least, he’s well on his way to being one. His scent has changed, his body has changed, and on top of all that - Dream has mated him good and proper. The huge swollen bite of Hob’s neck is altering his hormones even now.

He should be angry. But oh, he feels so good inside his body. His blood is singing through his veins. He’s clamping tight around Dream’s knot and he finally, finally feels a missing piece slot into place. This is who he’s meant to be. Which isn’t to say that he won’t give his alpha a good scolding later, but. He’s so happy now, he just wants to bask in the feeling as Dream pumps yet another load inside him. His belly is already curving outwards with the sheer quantity. And he’s such a good omega, holding it all inside.

This is exactly where he’s meant to be.

[gumycandyyy]

OKAY IM FEELING BRAVE N NOT GOING ANON SO HI!!!

I love your writing n I was wondering if i could request a WK x Gn! Reader where the reader is like crashed into a cave or smthn, wk goes to investigate and they find the reader that (size wise) is like HUGE, like 16 feet tall!! BUT. once they see wk they shrink down to around his size, n they talk n find out they’re from like a diff planet in their universe?! N they can’t get back.

(idk where this idea came from I apologize:3)

୨♡ Ｙｏｕ＇ｒｅ Ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ， Ａｒｅｎ＇ｔ ｙｏｕ？" ♡୧

I love this idea! I think I'm gonna combine it with another ask i got.

(For those wondering why the gumlee fanart tag is here, it's because I put some of my art at the end of every fic. It just happens to be gumlee this time)

Gender neutral reader

Romantic

Type: Headcanons

Request: Yup! They're back open, too!

Some descriptions of the reader, nothing detailed, just dragon stuff.

Summary: Being a space dragon is cool. Except for when you're too tired to leave a planet.. Thankfully, you have help from a new friend.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

-You're a space being.

-A celestial dragon, if you will.

-You're quite a majestic being, even having some of your own constellations named after you.

-Perks of being a beautiful immortal creature.

-While you're practically immortal, you can get tired, especially after traversing through the cosmos.

-So every so often, you gracefully land on a habitable planet, to regain your strength for a few days.

-You more or less crash landed on this one.

-It was called Ooo, if you recall correctly. You're sometimes allowed to name a few planets or stars, but this one has existed for longer than you have.

-It's a little embarrassing to be taking refuge in such an old planet.

-However, you had the funniest encounter while on Ooo.

-It was little more than twenty minutes after you crash landed in an icy forest.

-You had knocked down quite a few trees and stirred up quite the commotion in a town nearby, as they could see you flying in from the atmosphere.

-You were trying to take a few splinters out in your dragon form when you met...

-Him.

-It sounded so cheesy, but you had never seen a more beautiful thing in the universe.

-Safe to say you were floored.

-Literally.

-He and a few... What looked to be scouts and knights made of ice neared you cautiously.

-He seemed to recognize you, which was a little strange. You guessed there were history books of some sort written about you.

-He introduced himself as the Winter King, and welcomed you to Ooo.

-Yes, he had definitely heard of you.

-You decided to shift into your smaller form. It was still ethereal and god-like, but it was easier on the eyes than being a twenty-foot tall dragon.

-You kept your wings and horns, just parts of yourself that you thought to be enchanting.

-the Winter King spoke to you, a little shocked at your sudden shift. You were wearing clothes, what other mortal customs had you missed?

"Well, *ahem* it is my honor to meet a celestial being such as yourself! If I may ask, why choose this planet?"

-You explained that it was the nearest habitable planet, and that it didn't matter too much.

-You didn't think too highly of yourself, as you were quite low on the god-scale. Only a minor universal god, instead of being a multiversal god.

-If that made any sense.

-You politely asked Winter King if you could regain your strength in his kingdom.

"Oh, why of course! A- anything for someone such as yourself!" -His pale blue skin flushed in a pinkish tone, and his voice faltered ever so slightly.

-You tended to have that effect on people.

-However, he seemed to be handling your presence quite well, so part of you wondered if he were somewhat immortal, or was just a magic user in general.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

-You stayed for a little less than two weeks, learning quite a bit as you took refuge.

-You were quite uneducated when it came to planets like Ooo, embarrassingly so, at times.

-But it felt nice to have Winter King explain things to you.

-He seemed so respectful, yet so interested in everything you did or said.

-It turned out he was an astronomy nerd, and stories of you were his favorite.

-He wrote down practically everything you said, but as time went on, it seemed less like worship and more like interactions between friends.

-You preferred it that way, to be honest.

-You learned not only much about Ooo, but also much about the Winter Kingdom as well.

-Whenever it snowed softly, you would always spend time outside, sometimes dragging Winter along with you.

-You did everything from nap, to play in the snow.

-It seemed childish, but the two of you had quite a bit of fun.

-Not to mention the food there was absolutely phenomenal.

-You swore that you would return the generous favor of the Winter King.

-When it eventually came time for you to leave the planet, the both of you were quite sad.

-However, you knew if you stayed longer, you'd never leave. And that wasn't good.

-You were out on the terrace, having said your goodbyes to Winter and the citizens, ready to shift to your ethereal form to take flight.

-However, you felt something nagging at you to stay for a few more moments.

-You were correct to wait.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Winter called your name, looking to have run all the way up here. He placed his hands on his knees and took a few deep breaths.

"Winter..? I thought you already said goodbye?" Winter cleared his throat and stood up, placing his hands behind his back. He'd regained his composure so quickly it was shocking. He cleared his throat once again.

"It just occurred to me that I never asked for that return favor.." You brought your hand up to your lips, ashamed you forgot your promise.

"I- Oh my word, I apologize. I forgot."

Winter assured you that it was no big deal, and that his favor was only a small one. He stepped towards you, almost shyly.

"Well, rest assured, I can do almost anything. There is a grey area in which I'm unable to give, but otherwise, I will do anything in my power to grant you what you seek."

Winter blushed, his gaze transfixed on the ground. He seemed to be at a loss for words. Your large wings twitched, and after a few moments, Winter seemed to have figured out what he wanted.

"If it's not too much to ask, I'd like to request..."

He looked up at you with the sweetest of smiles.

"A kiss."

You were taken aback for just a moment, but regained your composure as quickly as you lost it. You took a step towards Winter, returning his warm smile.

"Well, if that's all you seek, I would be more than happy to give you what you so desire."

Winter shifted in place with an almost giddy expression, and looking up at you, you could tell he had wanted this for quite some time.

You'd be a liar if you said you hadn't thought about it prior to today.

"I would much appreciate that."

He said simply. So making sure not to waste any more of your time, you bent down to Winter's height. Despite being in your smaller form, you were still quite a bit taller than anyone else.

You caught his lips in yours, holding the embrace for a few moments. His lips felt cold, and it was all you could have hoped for.

When you separated, you gently held his face in your clawed hands.

"I have truly cherished this time with you, and I wish I could have stayed longer. However, my higher duties must not be ignored."

Winter nodded in understanding, placing his small hand atop yours.

"I promise I will think of you often, and will call on you if I'm ever passing through this side of your galaxy. That I will swear." "But until then, my dear."

The only thing Winter could remember of that moment, was the feeling of your lips in his forehead, and the silhouette of your ethereal form, fading out of the atmosphere.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

your complimentary art ^^ (gumlee edition!!)

Sorry bout the whole hiatus thing, I had been sobbing for two hours straight. Anyway, rq's are open!

reblogs >>> likes

[yuanology]

You write for jjk right? So tender/soft sex w Gojo ,like imaging him actually having scars yknow with this “I’ll kiss all the scars on your skin” ,I’m down bad for that man ,like he is secretly begging for someone to praise him in the way he deserves yknow ,that man needs someone to love the weak and hurt gojo behind his facade of the strongest 😩😩😩 im going insane 🐸

yes, i do write for jjk and yes, i do write for gojo satoru and yes, i am going fucking feral

gojo satoru who finds his scars to be a sign of his failure as the strongest, a reminder of all of the people whom he failed to protect. he treats each scar not as a trophy of his survival but rather as a sign of weakness. a foolish thought, truly, but even the strongest has his faults at times.

( and there is a reason, after all as you so often joke, why he is called the strongest and not the wisest )

it's rare that you have the time to simply exist together and so, you both try and take as much advantage of it as possible. on the times when you can linger, you always do. even as he begs for you to go faster, tells you over and over again that he can take whatever you give him, that he won't break, but you still go slow. you ensure that he stays still — not that it takes much convincing; all you have to do is ask and he's eager to be your good boy. wanna be your good boy. am i your good boy, yet? — and that he feels every inch of you all over him.

this is one of the rare occasions in which satoru is self-conscious of himself, and you're more than aware of that. so, you ease him into it. first, you keep yourself quiet — easier to be agreed to if you don't give anything to rebuke — choosing instead to focus all your attention on kissing him all over. his throat, his lips, his cheek, his eyelids, his chest, his tits, his stomach, his thighs, his calves, everything. satoru, ever the perfect, pliant boy that he is for you, never tries to stop you. his muscles strain from his efforts to keep still, to take everything you give him, but he's so good at it that you barely even notice. you're too busy peppering kisses all over, hands on his skin so that you can feel more of him.

only once he's calmed down, used to the feeling of your mouth on him, do you begin to talk. you've learned a long time ago that a man like gojo satoru may preen under the attention, but the lonely boy in satoru will always shy away from honest compliments. so, you have to find another way to appreciate him without having him shrink away from you.

so, you kiss his hips, turning a blind eye on the way his breath hitches as your thumb brushes along a dent on his skin there, and you softly murmur, "you're so pretty." right against his skin.

so, you kiss the scar over his chest, right above where his heartbeat echoes through his ribs, ignoring the way he squirms and his gaze averts from you, and you tell him, "your heart's pounding, baby."

so, you kiss at the inside of his thigh, pretending not to feel the way his thighs tremble when you press a little too hard on an old jagged mark on his skin there, and you whisper, "you're so damn perfect." and you forget to tell him that you don't mean it in the way that he's the strongest, but because he's your satoru, but you know that he understands it all the same.

so, you kiss the most recent scar on his throat, the one from one close call or another, and you catch his chin in your hand and force him to meet your gaze so that he listens when you say, "i'm glad you came home."

sex with satoru after that is never the rough, harsh tumble that you would often do when you're chasing after time and desperate to have each other one last time. it's never just a good fuck, one with greedy hands and very little devouring mouths.

sex with satoru after that is always slow, tender, as if you're trying to meld your bones with each other until your entire existence becomes one and the same. it's always nails digging into your back, satoru's low sobs echoing in your ears, and your mouth peppering kisses and gentle worship against his skin.

the world can have tough, perfect gojo "the strongest" satoru.

but you?

you'll have scarred, beautiful, vulnerable satoru, and that is all the more precious.

[cod-thoughts]

Day 2 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 1.8k

Relationships: 141 as family, platonic.

Tags: Found family, hurt/comfort.

Ghost had always been larger than life. It was part of the legend. The towering figure draped in black, the mask concealing everything but his eyes—eyes that never flinched, never gave anything away. His reputation was enough to make most men shrink back, and that suited him just fine. He'd long since made peace with being the one others feared. It was easier that way. Except lately, it hadn't been so easy. OR Ghost realises maybe he doesn't need to be Ghost all the time

Keep reading under the read more or on AO3

Ghost had always been larger than life. It was part of the legend. The towering figure draped in black, the mask concealing everything but his eyes—eyes that never flinched, never gave anything away. His reputation was enough to make most men shrink back, and that suited him just fine. He'd long since made peace with being the one others feared. It was easier that way.

Except lately, it hadn't been so easy.

The air hung heavy as the 141 sat in debrief, the remnants of a successful mission still buzzing in the background. Soap cracked a joke, and Gaz snickered, but Ghost barely heard it. His mind was elsewhere, hazy and distant. He felt the weight of his body in the chair, the same old weight that had become far too familiar. Heavy. Too big.

He glanced around the room, taking in his team—his family, though he’d never say it out loud. They were laughing, decompressing in the way soldiers did after a hard day's work, the subtle camaraderie that came after surviving another round of chaos. Ghost watched them from his usual vantage point, just slightly apart. He always was.

Lately, though, he’d begun to feel the separation a bit too keenly. And more than that, the burden of it all, the weight of always being the one people relied on, the unflinching wall, the impenetrable force—had become something else. Something uncomfortable.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. Just another mission, just another day.

But it didn’t escape his notice how the others had started treating him. It had begun a few weeks ago, after a close call in the field. He hadn’t been hurt, not really. But when Soap had hauled him back into the evac zone, his grip tight on Ghost’s arm, something had changed. It was like they had all seen something Ghost didn’t realise he’d been hiding.

Since then, the shift had been subtle, but undeniable. Price seemed to give him more room to rest, nudging Ghost to take a step back after a mission, to breathe. Gaz had started checking in on him more often, asking if he needed anything, grabbing him a cup of tea before Ghost could protest. And Soap... Soap was the most obvious. He’d taken to helping Ghost with things he never used to touch. His gear, his weapons—things Ghost handled himself.

And it was starting to irritate him.

He didn’t need to be coddled.

But today, it had come to a head. After the mission, as the team was winding down and unloading their gear, Soap had sidled up to Ghost, offering to take some of his kit. Ghost had stared at him for a moment, trying to hold back the surge of frustration. “I got it,” he said, his voice sharp.

Soap raised his hands in mock surrender. “A’right, big man, just tryin’ to help.”

Ghost’s teeth clenched behind his mask. Big man. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He was always the big man. The one who stood tall, took on the hardest tasks, never flinched under the pressure. But wasn’t he allowed a moment of reprieve? A second to just... be small? The thought twisted in his chest, uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

It hadn’t been enough to let the moment go, though. Soap’s little offer was just the latest in a string of similar gestures. Too many times lately, the team had been acting like he was made of something fragile. And the worst part was, a part of him liked it. Wanted it. Wanted to be taken care of for once, without having to be the one who held everyone else up.

And that was the part that made him angry. ---

The next morning, Ghost found himself in the armoury, silently inspecting his rifle. Soap strolled in, as he always did, with that easy swagger that Ghost both respected and found mildly annoying at times.

“Morning,” Soap said, too cheerful for Ghost’s taste.

Ghost grunted in response, focusing on the weapon in his hands, though his mind was far from it.

Soap watched him for a moment, then made his way over to the bench where Ghost sat. He picked up Ghost’s sidearm without asking, checking the magazine. Ghost’s shoulders tensed, his grip tightening on the rifle.

“I said I got it,” Ghost muttered, his tone edged with irritation.

Soap paused, glancing at him. “Aye, I know. Just thought I’d lend a hand.”

“I don’t need your help, MacTavish.” Ghost’s voice was flat, but underneath, there was a simmer of frustration that had been building for days.

Soap gave him a look, then slowly placed the sidearm back down. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes, mate.”

Ghost said nothing, his gaze fixed on the rifle in his hands. His silence was as sharp as the blade he kept at his hip, but Soap didn’t move.

“Look,” Soap said after a moment, his voice softer, “we’re just lookin’ out for ya. You’ve been pushin’ hard lately, and it’s not a crime to let us take the weight off a bit.”

Ghost finally lifted his eyes, his expression unreadable behind the mask. “I don’t need to be taken care of.”

Soap sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aye, I know. But sometimes it’s nice to let someone else carry the load, yeah?”

Ghost bristled at the implication. He wasn’t fragile. He wasn’t someone who needed to be looked after. He was Ghost. The legend. The man who stood taller, fought harder, and didn’t break under pressure. He couldn’t break.

But that nagging feeling, the one that had been sitting in his chest for weeks, only deepened. He pushed past Soap, his voice rough. “I don’t need your help, and I don’t need to be coddled. Back off.”

He left the armoury before Soap could say anything else, the weight of his own words hanging heavy in the air. ---

It wasn’t long after that incident that everything came to a head. The mission had been brutal—a firefight that left them running low on ammunition, with Ghost and Soap pinned down behind a crumbling wall while Price and Gaz held the line elsewhere. It was chaos, the kind of mission that would have Ghost standing tall, leading the charge. But something felt off today. He wasn’t slow, but the weight of everything—the gear, the constant pressure, the expectations—it felt heavier than usual.

A bullet clipped the wall near his head, and for a split second, Ghost felt the world narrow. His chest tightened, breath shallow as he forced himself to keep moving, but it was harder today. Harder to stay the unflinching legend.

Soap’s hand grabbed his arm, pulling him to cover, and for once, Ghost didn’t fight it. They crouched behind the rubble, Soap yelling into the comms for support, but all Ghost could hear was the thudding of his own heart, louder than the gunfire.

“You alright, big man?” Soap’s voice cut through the noise, concerned, but Ghost shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he growled, but even to his own ears, it sounded strained.

Soap didn’t push him this time. Instead, he moved to cover Ghost’s blind side, firing at the enemy as they waited for Price and Gaz to regroup. It was instinct, Ghost knew—Soap wasn’t trying to baby him, but it still grated on his nerves. He should be the one leading this fight, the one pulling everyone else to safety, not the other way around.

But despite himself, he was relieved when Price’s voice crackled through the comms, announcing their exit strategy. The team moved quickly, and Ghost forced his body to keep up, even as the weight of everything pressed down on him like a vice.

---

They made it back to base in one piece, but Ghost was simmering with frustration by the time they hit the debrief room. His mask was back in place—emotionally, at least—but the tension was obvious.

The team sat down, and Price, as usual, started the debrief. Ghost barely listened, his mind still stuck on the battlefield, on the way his legs had felt heavier than they should’ve. On the way Soap had grabbed him, pulled him to safety. The way they’d all been watching him lately, like he needed protecting.

The debrief ended, and as the team began to file out, Ghost stayed seated. Price lingered, watching him with that knowing gaze he always seemed to have.

“Something on your mind?” Price asked.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how to. But the words came out before he could stop them. “Why’ve you been treating me like I’m about to break?”

Price raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but curious. “We’re not.”

“Feels like it,” Ghost muttered. “You, Gaz, Soap... it’s like you’re all waiting for me to fall apart.”

Price sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We’re just looking out for you, Ghost. You’ve been carrying a lot for a long time. No harm in letting someone else take some of that weight.”

“I don’t need to be coddled,” Ghost snapped, his frustration boiling over. “I’m not weak.”

“No one’s saying you are,” Price said evenly. “But you don’t have to be the biggest man in the room all the time. You don’t have to be invincible.”

Ghost stared at him, the words sinking in. He didn’t know how to respond because some part of him—the part he’d buried for years—knew Price was right. But it wasn’t easy to accept that. It wasn’t easy to let go of the need to always be the one others relied on.

“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are,” Price continued, his voice softer. “But maybe it’s okay to let us take care of you for once.”

Ghost’s hands clenched into fists in his lap. The truth was, he did want that. He wanted to feel smaller, to not always be the one who carried the heaviest load. But it felt... wrong. Weak.

“I don’t know how,” Ghost admitted, the words barely above a whisper.

Price smiled, just a little. “You don’t have to know how. Just let us do it.” ---

That night, Ghost found himself sitting with the team around a fire. It was quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that only came after the chaos of battle. Soap was talking about something—Ghost wasn’t really listening—but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to fill the space with his presence.

He leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him, the weight of his gear set aside for the moment. As the conversation drifted around him, he felt something soft land across his shoulders. A blanket, tossed there by Gaz, who didn’t say a word.

Ghost stiffened for a moment, his instinct to reject the gesture almost overpowering. But then, he let it go. He let the warmth of the blanket settle over him, and for once, he didn’t feel like he had to be the biggest man in the room.

He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t fragile.

He was just... human. And for now, that was enough.

[augustinewrites]

for @missmeinyourbones bcs you always say kind things to me!! thank you <3

back when dabi was still touya, he loved watching romantic comedies. 

whenever her shitbag husband was out on an overnight mission, rei would put them on after she’d tucked them all into bed. …or at least she thought she did. because he and fuyumi would sneak out of bed, peeking into the living room from the hall anyway.

once in a while he thinks about it. thinks about the way his mother would let them sit with her, and the way he and fuyumi would giggle when the couple on the screen kissed, and no one reached around to cover their eyes. (but thinking about this brings back that dull ache between his ribs, which is why he doesn’t do it often.)

what he does think about often are the couples on the screen. about the awful clichés and predictable plots. the lovesick schmuck in a suit that’s fresh off a boring 9 to 5, flowers in hand to take his love interest to dinner. 

(thinking back, there was probably a reason for the genre his mom chose, but unpacking all of that would require the help of a shrink he didn’t have the dough to see).

he’s only been thinking about these couples often because of, well, you. if this were a movie, he’d say it was fate that led him to get stabbed and promptly pass out in an alley close to your hospital. you’d nurse him back to health in your cute apartment, saving his life and domesticating him in the process. 

but this wasn’t a movie. and even though you’d saved his life, all he'd done to repay you was bleed all over your rug and steal the change on your counter before jumping out the window. 

and you must have been all kinds of desperate, because when he put his hands into his coat pocket he'd found your number written on a slip of paper.

just in case, you'd written.

he stole a burner phone the next day and, like the couples on the tv say, the rest was history.

you were like a bad habit, because he swore every night he went to see you was supposed to be his last. you were so damn annoying, asking him shit like how his day went and if he'd eaten. offering to wash his clothes like some sort of pervert.

but then he’d tell you he was exhausted and starving from all the felonies he’d committed and you’d let him sleep on your couch. then he’d dip out the next morning with his clothes smelling like freesia or some shit he’d rather die than admit he kinda liked.

and eventually…he was okay with it. okay with you and this stupid love you’d dragged him into. you let him come and go as he pleased, the latch on your window always unlocked just for him, cause no matter what, he always came back. 

but everything is fucked. this city is fucked and this country is fucked, and dabi’s hiding out on the fire escape when you join him.

your shoulder brushes his as you sit next to him on the step, and he doesn’t have to look to know you’ve got that big frown downturning your lips. it’s far from the first fight the two of you have had since starting this…relationship, but it’s the first time he can safely say he’s not sure you’ll bother wanting to salvage it. 

(he thinks that after every fight, actually. but you seem to have this endless patience for him that he doesn’t understand nor deserve.)

hugging your knees to your chest, you ask, “are you going to leave?”

“yeah.” 

“are you coming back this time?” you ask quietly. 

“don’t know,” he shrugs.

you don’t say anything for a long while and neither does dabi. he should just leave, ditch you out on your fire escape and fuck off somewhere into the city. maybe he’d get shitfaced enough to crash at the league’s hideout, or maybe he’d blackmail birdbrain into letting him get shitfaced at his place then crash on his ridiculously expensive couch. he’ll figure it out later.

it’d certainly be easier to leave and figure it out if you yelled and swore, maybe even slapped him a little. 

you don’t do any of those things though, because anger isn’t embedded in your dna like it is in his. instead you give him a look that’s half-pity, half-disappointment, and it stings all the same.

“you always do this,” you sigh, staring straight ahead at the flickering city lights. “whenever this happens, you refuse to talk about it after. and– and when i try to give you space to figure your stuff out…you run.” 

you don’t say it angrily, like you’d be within your right to be. you say it…softly. tiredly. you’re not trying to antagonize him, just stating a fact, and it makes him feel shittier.

“well, ‘s not like ya need me around anyway,” he shrugs. 

you look at him this time, “of course i don’t need you.” 

dabi had said it first, but hearing you say it hurt, strangely. like a faint touch upon a fresh bruise. 

but you’re not done, listing things off on your fingers. “you don’t pay rent, you eat all my groceries, you track your dirty boots through my living room, and i don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but you are a wanted criminal, you know.” 

he chuckles at that. it’s only very slightly, but it makes you break into a smile. “jeez, babe. you sure know how to pick ‘em.” 

“i know,” you hum, nudging his knee with yours. “but that’s my point. i don’t need you. but we– i want you anyway.” 

you offer him your hand, palm upturned, and for a second he doesn’t want to run. he wants to take your hand and let you guide him back inside. wants to cuddle with you in your too-soft bed with all your blankets and the stuffed animals he'd stolen for you.

then he sees the recently patched up burn on your wrist and he’s reminded that he’s stupid. stupid for thinking he could ever have anything past…this with you. 

you follow his gaze, pulling your sleeve down quickly as you murmur, “it was an accident.” 

he’d been running hot. hot like he always did when you fought. then you’d turned away and he’d reached for you, forgetting.

it was an accident, yeah, but you don’t deserve it. 

you want him. but you deserve the schmuck in the suit  who can help you pay rent and buy groceries. 

so he decides that this is the last night. he lets you guide him to bed, and once you’ve fallen asleep, he eases his arm out from under your head to pull the covers up to your chin.  

sometimes his heart is so big that he can’t stand it. he’s letting you go. you’re better off without him—

but you catch his hand as he’s about to slip out of bed, unflinching as your thumb brushes across cool metal. 

“stay,” you murmur, eyes slowly blinking open to peer at him in the darkness. 

“i can’t,” he mutters, averting his gaze from yours.

“stay,” you say a little more firmly this time. “or i swear to god i’m going to call your mother.”

he rolls his eyes, choosing to indulge you one last time (he does not take your threat lightly, either). he lets you plant kisses up the column of his throat and rest you he’d on his chest. but it’s just until he’s sure your out cold, then he’s definitely gone. he’ll be out the window and out of your hair—

“i love you, touya,” you whisper. 

“yeah, whatever, you brat,” he grunts, but he places his hand over yours, turning his head to the side to press a kiss to your forehead before murmuring the words against your skin.

[emma23]

Desert heat:

Duke Leto astreides x reader

————————————————————————

It was the scorching midday on Arrakis, and the palace was abuzz with preparations for another meeting. House Atreides was barely settling in, trying to handle the political mess that came with managing the planet, and you? Well, you were barely handling him—Duke Leto Atreides.

The man was infuriating. Calm, stoic, always watching you with that piercing gaze of his, like he knew something you didn’t. Worse, you couldn’t stand the way he seemed so… perfect. You hated perfect. You made bad decisions and lived with them. It was your thing. Why couldn’t he be a little flawed? It would make everything easier.

As the newly appointed liaison for the Fremen, your job was to help establish some kind of trust between the desert-dwellers and House Atreides. But working closely with Leto meant constant tension. Not the good kind of tension—the "this man is driving me up the wall" kind.

You found yourself, once again, pacing back and forth in front of his office. The thick desert heat seeped into every corner of the stone palace, but that was nothing compared to the burning irritation inside you.

“I can’t do this,” you muttered under your breath. “I can’t keep staring at him like some… some—ugh!”

You had been stuck in this “professional relationship” for months now, full of polite exchanges, subtle insults, and long, silent stares. Slow burn? This was the driest burn in the history of slow burns. And nothing was happening. Nothing.

A door opened, and Leto himself stepped out of his office, his regal posture making you want to scream.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, his voice deep and steady, laced with that annoying charm. “I was wondering if you were planning to continue pacing outside all day.”

Your jaw clenched. Of course, he noticed. “I wasn’t pacing.”

“Really? Looked like pacing.”

“Really, I wasn’t.”

His lips twitched slightly, like he was trying not to smile, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. This was not the time for banter.

“Are you coming in or not?” he asked, stepping aside and motioning toward the doorway.

You sighed and strode past him, ignoring the way your skin prickled when you brushed by him. Leto’s office was, unsurprisingly, neat and organized—just like him. Everything in its place. Unlike your thoughts, which were currently a jumbled mess.

He closed the door behind you and gestured toward a chair, but you stayed standing, arms crossed.

“So,” he said, moving to stand in front of his desk, “what’s on your mind?”

“Why do you always do that?” you blurted out, the words slipping before you could stop them.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Do what?”

“That,” you gestured vaguely in his direction. “Be so… calm. Collected. Like nothing ever rattles you.”

Leto’s expression softened, and he tilted his head slightly. “You think nothing rattles me?”

“Well, does it?” you challenged, narrowing your eyes.

His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink. His gaze was intense, searching, like he was peeling away layers you didn’t even know you had.

“I am rattled more often than you think,” he said quietly, taking a step closer.

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t the direction you were expecting the conversation to go. You quickly diverted.

“I don’t buy it,” you said, attempting to sound nonchalant. “You walk around like some stoic warrior-prince. You’ve probably never made a bad decision in your life.”

Leto chuckled softly, the sound warm and rich. “You clearly don’t know me very well.”

Your heart did an annoying little flip. Stop that, you scolded yourself internally. You were supposed to be irritated with him, not—whatever this was.

“Fine,” you said, crossing your arms tighter. “Tell me about one bad decision you’ve made.”

Leto’s eyes darkened slightly as he regarded you. “There have been many,” he said, his voice suddenly heavier. “But one stands out.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious despite yourself. “Oh?”

He took another step closer, the distance between you shrinking rapidly. “Not telling you sooner.”

Your mind went blank. Wait, what? Did he just—?

“I’ve been… careful,” he continued, his voice low and serious, “because I thought that’s what was needed. But now, I’m not so sure.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. “Leto…”

“I’ve been watching you,” he admitted, his eyes holding yours captive, “wondering what it would take for you to see me. Not as Duke Leto, but as a man.”

Heat flushed your cheeks. This cannot be happening. The man who had irritated you to no end for months was now staring at you like he’d been waiting for this moment the entire time. And suddenly, you realized just how close he was.

“You didn’t think to mention this earlier?” you asked, voice trembling slightly.

He smirked. “Like you said, I’m calm. Collected.”

You blinked up at him, incredulous. “You’re impossible.”

He moved closer, now just inches from you, and the air between you crackled with unspoken tension. “Perhaps,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your skin. “But I’m not impossible to love.”

The words sent a shockwave through you, and before you could respond, his lips were on yours—firm, warm, and utterly consuming. It was like the months of pent-up tension between you finally ignited in one perfect, burning moment.

You kissed him back, your hands sliding up to grip his shoulders, and for once, you didn’t care about making the wrong decision. This felt right. You deepened the kiss, letting the heat of the moment take over, and before you knew it, you were backed up against his desk.

Leto broke the kiss just long enough to search your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse with restraint.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you whispered.

And then there was no going back. His hands moved to your waist, lifting you onto the desk as his mouth claimed yours again with renewed intensity. Every touch, every kiss felt like the culmination of months of slow-burn torture, finally reaching its boiling point.

Clothes were discarded hastily, the urgency between you growing with every second. Leto’s hands roamed your body with a mix of reverence and hunger, and when he finally entered you, it felt like the world around you melted away.

Time ceased to exist as you lost yourself in the heat of the moment, his whispered name on your lips, your hands tangled in his hair. Every movement, every breath was electric, drawing you deeper into each other until you were both left breathless, clinging to the remnants of the passion that had built for so long.

Afterward, you lay tangled together on the floor, the cool stone against your heated skin. Leto’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, you broke the silence. “So… this was about 95% slow burn and 5% sudden explosion, huh?”

Leto chuckled, pulling you closer. “I’d say it was worth the wait.”

You grinned, resting your head on his chest. “Yeah, I suppose it was.”

He kissed the top of your head, and you sighed contentedly, feeling more at peace than you had in months.

And just as you were drifting into a comfortable silence, you couldn’t resist adding, “You know, if you’d kissed me months ago, we could’ve saved ourselves a lot of time.”

Leto laughed softly. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

[cult-of-a-buttercup]

Headcanons of the Old Faith: Narinder’s Faith

Darkwood

Anura

Anchordeep

Silk Cradle

CW: Mentions of cannibalism (Rituals Paragraph) and self mutilation (Worshipping Paragraph)

Festivals:

Narinder didn’t hold many festivals during his time in the Old Faith. His cult was a somber place, so any attempts at celebrating were often marked as tasteless by the rest of his siblings- sometimes even mocked by the likes of Kallamar and Leshy.

It was one of the first things he changed when he decided to finally create his own Faith. When his following picked up, he started celebrating spring, summer, fall and winter, when crops bloomed and when a follower caught more fish than usual- for any reason, since any excuse was good if it meant having what was once prohibited to him.

At first his followers were nervous and didn’t seem too keen on celebrating every little thing, but with enough sermons it became the celebration of life. Since now death was an option rather than an assured event, being alive and being happy to be alive seemed easier.

Rituals:

In the Old Faith, he had a tight set of rituals he could do as he pleased: sacrifices, gluttony of cannibals and the ascending of followers. And blood moon rituals, whenever the time to hold them came by.

Sacrifices of the flesh were the most common once, often requested by followers who had already spent enough time with the god of death to consider it a peaceful end. Sometimes it weighed heavily on him, since his following seemed to only shrink whenever the rest of the Old Faith was doing well in matters of birth rate.

The Gluttony of Cannibals has held whenever he found dissenters- of course his own followers were often too weak to tear through another person's flesh, so instead he made trips to Darkwood or Anura and watched Leshy and Heket’s followers do so. It was a way to pass the time for him, and a fun little trip with his few followers- sometimes the sickly and weak of the other lands left with him, too.

Ascending rituals were less often, because of Narinder’s own choice. When a follower showed to be especially useful, despite weakness or illness, he couldn’t help but get a soft spot for them. He knew it would all end with what he himself represented, but if he could make it a little easier for the small mortals, perhaps it was worth doing.

During blood moons, Narinder would let spirits from his realm run loose and do whatever they wanted. Sometimes they destroyed things, other times they’d make offerings or reunite with their loved ones- he liked the slight chaos of it. Leshy would sometimes join, but the rest of the bishops disliked it due to it being a sort of corruption of the natural order. Alas, Shamura allowed it- Narinder deserved some slack every year after being restricted by their own rules, they said.

Funerals in his land were the most common- and the most beautiful as well. Each follower was mourned individually, personally by the god of death to assure an easy passing to the afterlife. Decorated with camellias and spider silk in his temples, personalized coffins made out of hardwood and gems and a carefully crafted speech, he held each funeral up to his personal standards. Any follower who held a relative's funeral there could assure it was a beautiful ceremony.

But of course since funerals were so common, weddings were simply not held. Not because he didn’t want to, but rather because he wasn’t allowed to. Shamura dictated it was a celebration of life, and since he was death, it’d be contradictory to hold such a ceremony in his cult. Narinder had tried to argue this many times, but with each try Shamura just seemed to ignore him more- so, instead of holding marriages, he did something similar to Heket and gave his followers enough gold and some time to hold their wedding in Anchordeep.

Those five rituals were still the main staple of Narinder’s cult once he left the Old Faith, but of course he also held as many different rituals as he wanted as long as he had bones for it.

Worshipping:

The worship of death is usually made with life or flesh- self mutilation, when done carefully, was something highly praised by Narinder, since bones or blood from a being who still live have more power than bones from a corpse. Same with a dedicated follower- their devotion is much stronger, and a follower who praised death for all its life was usually granted an ascension once their days were nearing their end.

Once he was out of the Old Faith though, he accepted anything that came his way as long as it was worthy- be it crafted items, food, gems or rare relics, he was happy as long as his followers gave away something that seemed important to them. This time, worshiping didn’t come from a wish to make passing easier, but rather an ambition to live longer, so death couldn’t stop life so early.

Of course, eternal life is only appealing for some people- those who wished to go to the heavens could request so with the same kind of worship as someone who wished to live for longer. For those, a simple ritual of ascension is held, whenever the followers choose to have it: it can be held as soon as they want to, or as late as they want to. As long as they’re alive for the settled date, of course.

Clothing:

Before leaving the Old Faith, followers of Narinder wore mourning clothing. Mostly black, with veils to cover their faces. Golden accessories, such as necklaces and rings, are used often as a way to accentuate the black clothing, though not used by workers such as farmers or material gatherers. Gems are also a common thing, mainly rubies, though they are usually on display only during rituals or during the travels the cult does to neighboring lands.

After that though, Narinder started wearing more white- and so did most of his followers. With his cult gaining more variety following though, it became harder to pinpoint one color or style for all followers. But it was common for everyone to have at least a small hint of red.

Amongst cultists:

Before Narinder abandoned the Old Faith, his followers consisted of people who were sickly or weak- people who feared death, so if they could get on his good side perhaps whatever came next wouldn’t be so bad. His following was also filled with ex-followers of Kallamar- mainly the ones whose sicknesses couldn’t be cured.

Due to the very nature of his following, his cult was the sort of place the rest of followers of the Old Faith would come by to appreciate what they have. A place to pity, and be glad to not be in. Which of course only fueled Narinder’s wishes of something greater, even though admitting the gossiping of mortals affected him would be something that would get him a few snarky remarks by his siblings.

Once he finally tore away from them though, his following became greater than he could’ve ever hoped- now instead of sickly and pitiful followers he had everything- devoted followers from Darkwood, hard workers from Anura, merchants from Anchordeep and warriors from Silk Cradle. His cult became the place to be if you wanted to succeed, almost to the point of being considered a paradise. Until what was left the Old Faith tore it down from its grace.

After that, those who refused to turn back on their god were killed, being considered heretics amongst the Old Faith, and those who returned were still frowned upon by the followers who stayed with their respective bishops. Some others often asked them what the heretical cult was like, out of pure curiosity.