#im HHHH

[justice-artblog]

Wait shut up, late night thought (For the Saiki×Mob Crossover)

Just the thought that one of his friends makes it into seasoning City for a day or two, either passing through or temporarily visiting family.

And just the thought that Saiki is so devestated by what happened that he literally decides to hide rather than face what happened, rather than face the people he left behind.

And Mob has to awkwardly turn them away like *No, you didnt see any pink haired kids around here named Saiki, no siree!*

And manages to successfully ward off the friend. So he goes to Saiki's hiding place, and for the briefest moment sees the barest hint of devestation on Saiki's face. Morphed in grief before it smooths out.

Saiki wants to go, but Mob convinces him to just sit and wait it out.

And wait they do.

Either that, or.

Or.

They visit at Reigen's workplace. Cause they hear he's the greatest Psychic in the 21st century.

So surely this man can find their best friend, right?

And it's like 4 of them, And Reigen fully expects Saiki to give him sass when the teen makes note of people entering the building.

He does NOT expect Saiki to dive behind his desk and hunker down.

Amd 4 of his friends walk on, sit down, have tea and finally go onto their spiel.

"We know you do exorcisms but-"

"Well, we were wondering if you could locate someone? Cause you're a Psychic and all."

"I'm sorry?" Reigen blinks, plassing down his teacup as the teens shuffle nervously, the purple haired kid with glasses giving him a painfully peircing stare.

"Our friend." The teen explains, and slides across a picture of a very familiar teen. "Kusuo Saiki, he just up and disappeared one day."

Dont tell them Anything, Saiki's voice filters in his head that Reigen forces himself to just bite down the sarcastic comment bubbling up.

If anything, Saiki sounded nervous.

I do not.

"I'm not sure i understand." Reigen opts to say, waving a hand at Shigeo, who seemed just as tense as he felt. "Me and Mob here, arent really search and rescue types. Shouldnt you go to the police for this?"

"We did," The brown haired girl pushed up her own glasses, fingers drumming nervously against his chest. "Look, Psychic's have Telepathy, don't they? And youre the greatest one out there so- so maybe you can reach out to him... For us?"

"Please," The smaller blue haired teen voice quivered, his strangely wrapped forearms clasped together in a begging position. "Even if you tell us he's okay, that's all that matters!"

The conflicting feelings rise in his chest, the urge to tell the kid's everything was strong but-

Please, don't.

"I'm sorry," The smile he gives is a nervous one, lips twitching at the corners of his mouth. "My Telepathy has a range, and even then, if i havent met him personally i wouldnt be able to find him like that."

The way each teen deflated broke something in him, the desperate want to see if their friend is okay was palpable.

"But," He held up the picture of Saiki, the kid was surrounded by other's, 4 of them sitting right in front of him and the rest possibly being his classmates. "I can do this."

His eyes slipped closed, the blinding flourescent light leaving his world a view of dark skin toned reds. He pretended to focus, pretending to pour all his energy into this one photo.

'Do you really not want to say anything?'

No.

'Saiki-'

Drop it, Reigen, just... Just drop it.

'I'm going to tell them you're okay.'

Don't you-

'I won't say where or how, just that you're okay. Okay?'

...

'Saiki?'

Okay.

His eyes slipped open, squinting slightly at the bright lights as the teens starred at him expectantly.

"He's okay." Reigen smiled, and handed back the photo to the first teen.

"How?" The last teen finally spoke, slightly taller than the rest and gray hair almost white with the indoor lights. "How do we know it's not a trick, how do we know you're telling the truth?"

Well-

"I'm using a form of Psychometry." Reigen explained gently, watching the teen's glare harden. "Using a Photo, i can tell the state of being of the occupant within. There's a lot of you in there, granted, but with your description and knowing who I was targeting, it was easy to narrow it down."

He waved a hand down and up, letting their eyes trace his hand movements as the words registered in their brain

You're such a scam.

'Quiet you.'

"I don't know where he is." Reigen grimaced, the lie burning at his tongue. "But i can at least tell you he's okay."

"This is a trick." The taller teen snapped. "This has to be."

"Your friend," Reigen paused, thinking slowly. "He loves sweets, doesn't he?"

As a unit, they froze. The bittersweet smile he shot to them wasn't for show, Reigen felt sick.

"I got that from the photo." He pointed a hand, and then pulled back. "Loves Sweets, seems to be a bit of a homebody, a very quiet demeanour, yes?"

"All that... Just from a photo?" The smaller teen seemed to tear up. "Is there anything else?"

Don't do it, Reigen.

"I think... He misses you as much as you miss him." Reigen smiled. "His feelings are harder to pin down through the photo, and i don't know if im getting that because of the photo or if it's what he's feeling. But I believe, he misses you all too."

The fear faded, leaving nothing behind but relieved looks.

It took a couple minutes to wrangle them outside, denying pay even if the taller teen seemed to be loaded.

When the door clicked shut, he paused. Listening to the sounds of Mob shuffling and the absent noises that Saiki seemed to make.

"Kid's not telling us something." Dimple's appearence wasn't a surprise.

"Shut it Dimple." the words weren't harsh, but pointed, even as the spirit rolled his eyes and moved towards Mob, floating behind the other esper. "They're gone Saiki."

Shigeo shot him a look, his normally blank face twosted into something regarding mild concern.

'I know.' And he could hear Saiki shuffle, as if he were oulling himself into a small ball. 'I know.'

--

Like- do you see my vision????

[collophora]

Do yourself a favor and go read the entire fanfic work of @fanfoolishness

(In order: Under sun and shade, Blind Side, and Breathless (patching up is one of my fav too, I just had no cool sketch idea for it)

[emilyjunk]

"Kevin isn't that bad it's not like he beats her, why does she need to kill him or fake her death, just get divorced" you are the point of the show, you are missing the crucial reveal. Allison sees Kevin in every single scene as she does their last scene together, but we as the audience aren't privy to that and we only see sitcom Kevin which is Kevin's self perception. He is not suddenly becoming scary and threatening to her. He was like that the whole time. We only see Allison's feelings about Kevin and the aftermath of her interactions with Kevin -- this is the ONLY time we see Kevin from her POV except for the brief initial breaking of the sitcom cam. Every other time we see Kevin on screen it's from Kevin's POV. Even after she cuts her hand we only see the bandage in her singular pov when she is away from kevin, but when it shifts back to sitcom Kevin it's gone.... We do not see the reality of her interactions with Kevin, that's the point of the show!!! Because when Kevin is on screen, it's Kevin's world! We only see Kevin from anyone else's lens in ONE scene at the end, which is when Allison decides to leave, so yes the sitcom cam "softens his abuse" but it also just fully acts as an unreliable narration because we never literally see Kevin from anyone else's POV until the series finale so every time Kevin is on screen it isn't even an accurate portrayal of what's happening, it's Kevin's perception of what's happening. Allison has viewed him like that the entire show, we as the audience just did not get to witness that POV until the end

[lil-vibes]

update so good i finally drew the goat

[citruslullabies]

Can you do one about Anya, like the Daisuke and Curly posts, please?🙏 They're very good!

Of course sweetheart!!

Anya Mouthwashing headcannons

Trigger warnings!! Miscarriage, Jimmy, obviously if you know the game I'm making subtle hints towards rape, etc etc. read with caution.

Romantic

Pre-crash Anya:

Anya is a very sweet girl honestly

She's not very big on affection - the occasional hug and kiss here and there but she's not very big on touch. Quality time is more her style

All she really needs is to sit next to you quietly, as long as you're there, she feels safe

Especially after what happened with Jimmy. She hates to be alone.

But at the same time she wants to distance herself more

And she hates it

Any time you go in for a hug, she'll flinch

It was any day in space, cold and bland like oatmeal left out on the table. But it felt better almost immediately after you saw her.. the love of your life, Anya. You smile like the sun and walk over, arms wide but.. you watch as she suddenly stops and stares at you. As if you had done something wrong.. her breathing even starts to get faster and she quickly brushes you off and leaves. Leaving you worried and confused.

You can try and try to ask her what's wrong but she isn't sure how you'd react

What if you thought she had cheated on you with her assaulter? She knew many people reacted like that sometimes

She loves you and trusts you, but she needs distance

Much to your dismay, she just suddenly keeps away from everyone one day. Even you.

You long for her little rambles about psychology and medicines

Her quiet humming as you two sit together

It hurts.

Post-crash Anya:

You knew how stressed she was

I mean, how couldn't she be? Everything has gone to shit. Their captain was mutilated on all ends.

And she seemed more afraid than ever.

She started to slowly warm back up to you, but still wouldn't tell you any explanation

No matter how much you begged or pleaded for one

But her time around you seemed different

She was more affectionate than ever before

It was almost like it was a goodbye

She'd always do small things like nudge your hand with hers and give you a weak smile every morning

Almost as if it was a silent goodbye in case she didn't make it through the day

And you finally understood why.

Platonic

Pre-crash Anya:

I imagine you two would be a bit more goofy

If she's not busy, you're just goofing around and making funny faces to make her giggle

You two probably talk about psychology a lot together and your hopes for your futures when you return home

Sometimes she'll let the occasional demented comment slip, but you never paid it much mind

She told you what happened and you were livid

But what could you do about it?? It's not like you could

You had no position of power over Jimmy, the one man who did didn't have enough of a spine to do anything to his friend

All you could do was comfort her

But she slowly but surely drifted further and further away from you, from everybody

And every day you could see her eyes more and more empty

You had noticed her feeling more and more nauseous, cramping more

She was paler

But you assumed it was due to the pregnancy. However you quickly discovered that she took enough painkillers to cause a miscarriage

You supported her and tried to comfort her

But she didn't let you

She wanted to be alone

Post-crash Anya:

After the crash, with responsibilities crashing down on her

She was tired. And you could tell

Her body barely had enough time to recover from her miscarriage before she started to take care of their captain

She was slowly killing herself at this rate

And you couldn't be any more correct.

She just got worse and worse

You swore sometimes you could see her eyes were dead but her body just barely moving

She didn't seem to care anymore

It broke your heart to find her with pills surrounding her.

Atleast your heart wouldn't stay broken for long

Thank you for requesting!!

[kitamars]

oh no! more ginhiji

[yummymuse]

The young Ithacan Siblings yapping about their crushes (they tell each other everything)

[turtleducsk]

fire lord zuko and ambassador katara were spotted out on their date night(?) 🧐

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[cherry-koi]

y'all ever just regress and become puppy

[collophora]

Archiving my hidden warm-up layers

[oceanreveuse]

maybe… maybe it’s a little controversial but as an aventurine kisser i gotta bring this up… but i don’t think aventurine would necessarily love bomb his partners with his money. treat you well? sure thing, he’ll spoil you now and then but i think aventurine himself would be very against sugar daddying the crap out of you as a love language like some people write him as :c

the ipc has essentially showered him in riches and expenses to dull out his trauma and his past, like hush-money and i think the last thing aventurine would do is use gift-giving completely as a love language. i think he might be more physical touch because he misses having that contact with his family and when he meets you, he’s suddenly reminded of the warmth he’d longed for and almost forgotten ♡

[blabberoo]

i just think that they..

[artingstarvist]

TGCF Vol 3 (eng), Chp. 43 - 44 (First "Kiss") Part 1 / 5 (next >)

First part of the comic is finally done! I chose this scene because I know the donghua/manhua will almost certainly censor it and also I feel like there's a lot of beautiful but also inaccurate depictions of this kiss and I just wanna do the full scene justice, including Xie Lian's reaction on the beach. I'm trying to stay as close to the novel as possible but some dialogue will be slightly altered to fit the flow of the comic. I should have planned it to be more vertically oriented to fit tumblr better but hell I don't actually know anything about making comics.

CW for those who don't know where this is going: The next part of this comic includes relatively non-consensual kissing. The purpose is the exchange of air & to keep the smoke spirit from entering, but Xie Lian does struggle against it in the beginning. If this might trigger or upset you, don't read any further.

A direct novel excerpt of this scene is under the cut.

[comic panel numbers] [1] It didn't take long before his throat itched, and that cloud of black smoke was retched back out! [2] Xie Lian covered his mouth with his sleeve, coughing nonstop and choked by tears. [3] His mind raced to find another countermeasure. Even after the cloud of black smoke was forcibly vomited out, it still swirled about and relentlessly clung to his body. [4] Xie Lian pushed himself onto the windowsill, raised himself up, and leapt into the lake outside. [5, 6] With a splash, Xie Lian plunged deep into the heart of the lake. [7] He held his breath, crossed his arms and legs, and assumed a meditative position, letting his body slowly sink to the bottom of that freezing lake. Once his heartbeat returned to normal, he looked up and could somewhat make out the black fog swirling above, blocking off the surface of the water. [8] Once he emerged, he'd have to gasp in a deep breath, and in doing so, he would surely suck the child spirit into his stomach. [9] A grown man with a fulsome baby bump wasn't the least bit funny to imagine. [10] However, his leap into the water had only been meant to give himself some time to think. It didn't take long for Xie Lian to come up with a counterattack. [11] So what if I swallow it? I'll just swallow Fangxin right after. [12] He'd learned that trick when performing on the streets. [13] Although it might hurt, whatever -- as long as the child spirit could be captured. [14] With his mind thus made up, Xie Lian released his arms and started swimming upward. [15, 16] A muffled sound of sloshing water came from above, and suddenly a vast expanse of burning, vivid crimson red flooded his vision. [17] A tangle of winding raven-black locks obscured his sight, though nothing could be seen through the splashing water and schools of air bubbles.

[poppy-metal]

miguel being so sexually repressed he's been too busy and heartbroken to indulge in self pleasure or the touch of a woman in years. sometimes he jerks off in the shower but its always mechanical, a means to an end. he doesn't take his time. doesn't relish in it. miguel who suddenly has so many sexual thoughts and desires bombarding him because you came into his life and his dick has a mind of its own out of nowhere. miguel who has to take matters into his own hands, literally, because he can't take it anymore and he takes time he never has before on his body all because of you. thinks about where your soft as he strokes a hand down the hard lines of his stomach, thinks about how much softer you'd be between your legs as he wraps a hand around his thick and leaking cock. twists one of his nipples cause he imagines you'd be a little brat who'd nip and paw at him as he pushed into your tight cunt, split you wide open on him. moans into the quiet of his room as his fist works over his hard flesh in languid strokes. squeezes his head to try and mimic the feeling of your plush hole enveloping him. has to spread his thighs, his toes curling into his sheets because hes so lost in the sensation, just from fucking his own hand like a mad man. his balls fat and heavy, bouncing against the bottom of his fist and the wet slap makes him think about the sloppy slide of your bodies meeting, and that makes him needier. the need to fuck, to fill, to breed has never been so prominent in his life as it is now and he kinda wants to bite your head off for it. he's no longer a sensible man. you've turned him into a beast, a pathetic panting man who can't be around you for a day without beating off into his cock fantasizing about punishing you for what hes become.

[mysterysnail]

What if they did a puzzle game news or. Idk i’d collapse on the floor probably