#and so does does the downward slanted eyes

[torawro]

y’all . . . . . .

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ vox + marking you

character: vox warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, marking/branding (carving something into the skin), blood, toxic relationship, extreme possessiveness, daddy kink, dacryphilia, fem!reader, minimal/no prep, dubcon if you squint, pet names, painful sex, reader doesn’t get to orgasm words: 1.8k notes: vox likes to mark what belongs to him. permanently. and, as always, that mark must be perfect.

He’s been at it for nearly half an hour now, a slow drag of his index claw downward, pressure concentrated on the very point of the talon, following the line of a perfect slant before sharply pivoting upward, velocity slowing as it works back toward your hips, tracing another slant perfectly parallel to the first. 

V. 

A split second of reprieve, a single instant where the metal leaves your skin only to find the origin of the wound and begin the process all over again. 

“V-Vox—”

“Don’t move, sweetheart,” he warns, his voice low and airy, so close and concentrated on his work that you can feel his breath wafting over the cut, cool and burning. 

Cyan pupils pulse as they expand, desperate to devour as much as they can, scouring every minute detail and honing their focus on the singular letter he’s painstakingly carving into your pubic bone.

He’s meticulous with it, of course, just as he is with everything else, every movement precise and perfect. It has to be done this way, he had told you at the start, when you had whined about the deliberately drawn-out drag of his talon. Slow and steady, so it will heal in sharp, neat lines, all raised and gorgeous. 

A permanent mark of ownership, scarred into your skin for the rest of eternity.

The tapered tip of the V is the worst part, the harsh, quick maneuver of his claw procuring a deep sting, a yelp sticking in your throat as you try to swallow against the sound, Vox’s immediate responding coo, always accompanied by the brush of his thumb over your hip in the gentlest caress, doing little to soothe the pain. 

“But it—it hurts,” you hiccup out, eyes squeezing shut tightly against the prick of tears. “How much longer?” 

“Just a few more times, baby, I promise,” he presses a chaste kiss to your inner thigh, glancing up at you. “You’re doing so well for me, lovebug, so well.”

But a few more times turns into another agonizing fifteen minutes with seemingly no end in sight, Vox lost in the repetitive actions, and the wound is starting to tingle, sticky crimson pooling in the flawlessly carved gouges, staining teal bright red. 

Tears have begun to leak from the corners of your eyes as they finally overflow, spilling past your lash line to stream down the sides of your temples in uneven little trails, vision gone blurry with a thick shield of water.

Your ribs stammer with half-stifled sobs, a soft hush distractedly falling from Vox’s lips with each minuscule jerk of your body, the hand on your hip tightening in warning. 

“Daddy’s almost done, darling,” he pacifies, a gentle threat sewn into his tone—don’t fucking move yet—we’re so close, don’t you dare mess this up. “Just a tiny bit longer, I swear.” 

“I can’t, I can’t, Daddy, it’s—it’s too much!” 

“Hey,” he looks up, a shock of sincerity slapped across his face, his voice ringing with painfully raw compassion. “I know you can handle just a few more for Daddy, can’t you? Don’t you want it to look pretty, too?”

Large eyes search your face with a rabid type of candour, hunting for validity. But your head is already nodding before he’s even finished speaking, motions becoming increasingly vigorous, an instinctual reaction, at this point—obedient as ever, desperate to please.

Of course you do—you want whatever he does, always. 

“Y-Yes,” you manage to sniffle out, the heels of your hands wiping messily at your lashes, smearing tears across your cheeks. “Yes, yes, Daddy.” 

His eyes soften, their usually bold glow dimmed with a sick sort of adoration, but his smile is barbed, stretching with something sinister. 

“There’s my good girl,” Vox purrs, pressing another tender kiss to the junction of your thigh and your hip. “Now, hold still while Daddy finishes.”

Another three traces through the routine—these last three harder and more purposeful than all those that came before them—and finally, he’s done, sitting back on his heels between your spread legs and gazing down at his masterpiece. 

Blood drips down his index finger in a thick dollop, his eyes shifting to watch with morbid fascination, the tip of his claw glazed with shimmering scarlet. Tilting it one way, then the other, he examines how it gleams in the low light of his bedroom—so pretty, he looks so pretty stained with you—then brings the talon to his lips, long tongue snaking from between his teeth to curl around it in a possessive embrace. 

He sucks it into the heat of his mouth, a low groan rumbling deep behind his sternum as his eyes slip shut, taking a moment to savour the taste of you. His lids snap back open a moment later, eyes drifting back to the freshly etched V, his free hand moving to rub at his cock, straining eagerly against his trousers. 

“F-Fuck,” he shudders out, the word soft as he stares at it, wide and unblinking, rolling the impressive bulge in his palm in lopsided little circles, then grinding the heel of his hand into it, his hips twitching up instinctively. “Daddy’s gonna fuck you now, okay, princess?” 

Your head is nodding, but you’re barely able to utter out an affirmative, because then he’s surging forward, a palm cupping your jaw as his fingers hook behind the hinge, pulling your face towards his and smashing your lips together. Bursts of copper explode on your tastebuds as he drags his tongue across yours—the slick muscle stronger, larger, wider as it shoves its way into your mouth, impelling your own tongue further into the hot, wet cavern. 

It’s sloppy and slippery and so, so sexy, his claws piercing your skin with superficial little pricks as he tries to yank you closer, your nose scrunched against his screen. Obscene squelching echoes throughout his bedroom as your lips glide and nip, copious amounts of drool, tinged pink with your blood, oozing from the corners of your conjoined mouths, leaving your chins shining with spit.

He overrides your senses, overwhelms your receptors and infuses your mind with nothing but him—his taste, smoky spice infused with metallic notes; his scent, sharp balsam and expensive cologne; his touch, still burning at the apex of your thighs, a constant reminder, an everlasting claim. 

A sharp gasp breaks the kiss as he forces his cock inside of you, forehead knocking against your own with a dark growl as his hips rock forward, burying himself in your cunt in a single, fluid motion.

Large hands curl around your hips, pinning them in place and keeping you from squirming away as he ruts into you, grinding his cockhead further into your cervix, ensuring he’s buried as deep as he possibly can be.

A singular moment, a breath shared between the two of you, oxygen sparse and dizzying as he takes time to revel in the feeling of filling you to the hilt, your sweet little hole spasming around him as it stretches and splits, eager to accommodate his girth, to gorge on his flesh.

Leaning back on his haunches, he drags your hips along with him, tailbone resting on his folded thighs, your knees thrown over either side of his hips. 

There’s no warning, no slow start or gradual build up, his cock slamming into you searing and sudden, fucking a gorgeous cry of his name from your throat. 

His chest heaves with ragged exhales as his hips pump, hard and fast and rough, voracious gaze swapping between your bouncing tits and the crisply engraved V glittering up at him on your pubic bone, still coloured with blood, drizzling past the scrupulously incised grooves with each vicious ram to stream down your skin, leaving tiny streaks of red.

The gash enchants him, pupils swollen as they soak up the sight, captivated by the way it quivers with every ruthless thrust into you, watching each drive of his cock as he sheathes himself in your cunt. The glistening arousal coating his shaft contrasts the blood so perfectly, the hands on your waist yanking downward with every jackhammer of his hips, forcing you to meet his motions. 

“Mine, mine, mine,” he’s snarling as he fucks you, the word punched from his chest with each plunging thrust. 

“Yours, Daddy,” you sob out with messy little nods, dainty fingers braceletting his wrists, nails sinking into thin skin as you cling to him. “Yours, yours!” 

“No one gets to have you like this,” he gasps out, voice gone hoarse. “No one, tell me.” 

“No one—No one gets to have me like this but you, Da-Daddy,” you nearly wail, staring up at him with such bright devotion it almost hurts, your gaze lacquered with tears. 

“Ah, fuck,” he whimpers, the curse shattering on his tongue, his eyes shutting tightly for a moment before springing back open, gaping and gluttonous. “Yeah, yeah, you’re goddamn right.”

His motions have turned downright brutal now, every pound of his cock more merciless than the last, the strike of his hips jostling your entire body up the mattress, just barely held in place by the grip of his claws, razored points puncturing your flesh and scraping, tiny trickles of blood oozing from the lacerations.

“Your mind, your cunt, your fucking soul—it all belongs to me,” digitized blood drips from the corner of his mouth, the glaring glow of his eyes so brilliant it’s hard to bear, casting a flare of red across your skin.

“Yes, yes, y-yes,” you’re babbling out, gone delirious with the heady intoxication of pain and pleasure, fingers digging into his flesh in a desperate attempt to pull him closer. “You own me, Vox.” 

“Oh, Christ—” 

The confirmation has him cumming quickly, hips pressed flush to your ass as his cock throbs violently, stuffing you full with copious amounts of thick, burning cum. His body stills, keeping his hips shoved up against you, almost as if he’s trying to plug you, to keep his seed inside of you, to claim you from the inside out. 

But it’s so much—too much—and you can feel it exuding past his shaft to dribble down your skin, leaving behind streams of pretty pearlescent strokes.  

Finally, he pulls out of you, another cracked curse falling from his lips as he watches with a sort of sordid obsession, his cock glazed with his cum and your blood, the tops of his thighs smeared with his own essence. 

“So beautiful,” he whispers to himself, claw reaching out to trace the V again, a hiss spit from between your teeth, body trembling with the effort to stay still, to resist flinching away from his stinging touch, to be good for him. “So fucking perfect.” 

Slinking down the bed, he wedges his head between your spread thighs to inspect the wound more thoroughly, teal tongue unfurling from his mouth to lave over the deep cut, mopping up excess blood as he follows the contours carefully once, twice, three times.  

“Mine,” he murmurs, planting a gentle kiss atop the wound, sealing the breathy claim into your flesh. “Mine, forever.”

“Yours,” you whisper, looking down at him as your finger outlines the V affectionately, a loving caress of what he’s gifted you. “Yours, forever.”

[sundayiminlove]

sleep, pretty darling [ dallas winston x f!reader ]

synopsis : you're overworking yourself with studying in preparation for exams, and dally isn't havin' it. contains : academic overachiever reader, whipped dallas winston, mostly just tooth-rotting fluff, notes : first writing post on here, kinda (very) nervous!! think i'm gonna make a point to write for each greaser in effort to shoehorn my way into outsiders tumblr?? yeah??? okay, GREAT. 99% chance i post something different for dal tho. just a messy, silly little drabble. ironically wrote after not sleeping for 32 hours. i'm sorry if he's a lil ooc y'all, this is my first dal fic in give or take a year!!! he'll get there, i promise! mwah mwah hope u enjoy warnings : not proofread, we die like dally

i.

PALE BLUE EYES slant sideways, casting a brief look at you.

Your nose is scrunched in concentration over the comically large textbook laid open in your lap. You're hunched over, tracing under each printed word with your finger, thumbing down when you stop to take a note.

Dallas is preemptively annoyed. He's been leaning expectantly against the doorframe circa ten seconds ago, and you're yet to notice him. He takes one last dramatic drag from his cigarette before begrudgingly discarding it on the outsole of his shoe. The creases on on your nose tighten as you catch a whiff of the wafting smoke. Though a vehement anti-smoker yourself, you've spent enough time around the gang to guarantee your lungs at least a permanent char. Despite this, you always just have to make a big song and dance of your distaste for them, and Dally does nothing to curb the quirk of his lips into a slight grin.

You have him, hook line and sinker.

"(Y/N)," he speaks at last. His tone is firm yet without underlying aggression; one exclusively for your ears.

You perk up.

Dallas' fingers splay against his lips as if holding a phantom cigarette. "What're you doin' over here so late, huh? Was out lookin' for you."

He watches as your gaze darts to the window. Nightfall has long since kissed the apex of Tulsa, yet you hadn't a clue. You'd been there for hours, crunching equations and fruitlessly jotting down formulas. The encroaching weight of finals week had rendered both your circadian rhythm and measure of passing time nugatory.

"Borrowin' one of Darry's old textbooks," you explain, the corners of your mouth tugging into a frown. "Not exactly a monastery but it beats that old Soc-infested library, long as Two stays gone, that is."

He crosses the Curtis' living room in four smooth strides, plopping down next to you on the couch. The flimsy cushion sinks beneath him, forcing you closer to him, and for once, Dally's grateful for the pathetic old thing's lack of structural integrity.

He lifts the textbook, ignoring your whimper of protest and sets it on the coffee table. He spins the silver band on his knuckle, averting his gaze downwards. "You know, sweetheart," he pauses, choosing his words. Dally wears his worry uniquely, sparingly. "I'm not particularly likin' all of these.. these books, and.." he trails off, thumb tracing your newly-formed eyebag as if he could swipe it clean. "When's the last time you got any sleep?"

Things are different. You're his girl now. And not just his pretty skirt for the night and until 7am after; no, this is serious. You're his girlfriend. His lover. It's foreign. It's enthralling.

No one had told poor Dallas that falling for you would unwind a deep vortex in his brain that noticed the trivial things, like how suspiciously little you blinked or how the vibrant pink in your cheeks had drained.

You lean into his touch with an exasperated sigh. "Dally, c'mon, don't you start this. I know it's nothin' to you, but it's finals week!" you huff. "I'll catch up on the sleep, swear it! I just, I got so much left to do here, and,"

Your defense falls on deaf ears. This has been it for weeks now; and the you-sized hole burning in his chest is only getting deeper. Dally's arms encircle your waist as he taps gently on the small of your back. "Don't give me that," he sighs. "God, baby, you're worryin' me, alright? Don't like seeing my girl so..." he fans his hand outwards.

As you tense and start to fly into another excuse, he shakes his head, mind already made. He's sparing no more of your attention. "You're comin' back to Buck's with me, alright?" His timbre leaves no room for argument, but you squirm regardless. His grip on you tightens. "And I'm making sure you get some goddamn rest."

You pout, looking over at your textbook as if it would personify and save you. "But," you start, only to be hastily shushed.

"But nothin', doll. C'mon, up ya go,"

With that, he scoops you up, one arm hooking around your legs. Your series of half-hearted protests are nullified as he secures you into Buck's old truck, movements careful yet hasty. You inevitably surrender, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you lean back into the torn leather.

BUCK MERRIL'S HOUSE is as quiet as Buck Merril's house is capable of being. You've never been to Buck Merril's house, so you don't find it very quiet at all.

Running his hands over the blanket, Dallas spreads it out on the floor, smoothening out the crinkles and corners. They reform almost immediately and he sighs heavily, airing it out on the pummeled mattress in defeat. If he would have know he'd be conducting a full-scale kidnapping for the sake of your rest, he might have better prepared. Might have.

So, here's the thing, right?"

There have been girls in Dallas Winston's bed before.

There have been quite a few girls in Dallas Winston's bed before.

There have been zero girls in Dallas Winston's bed that he didn't bring into it with meaningless sex on the horizons.

You're no snob and he knows this, but now, it's the principle. Dallas Winston may sleep on a mattress deficient of ample springs and no top sheet, but Dallas Winston's girl should never. In spite his hazy, rose-colored, Y/N-centric world created under this roof, he knows he has to step it up.

As soon as he hears the faucet cut off, he's off his feet. He flings himself onto the mattress, hitching one leg up as he awaits the slow creek of the door.

And there you stand.

Dallas wonders what karmic debt is being paid off for him to deserve to see you like this. His lips part as he drinks in the sight of you like a man dying of thirst. You, in his lightly wrinkled grey tee that scarcely conceals your bare thighs. Your face glistens with renew, a few stray droplets racing down your forehead and cheeks. Even trammeled by exhaustion, you knock the wind right out of him.

You wear the moonlight beautifully. It traces each feature so delicately as you sit beside him on the bed. "I'm—," you start, but pause to let a little yawn. He practically melts beside you.

"I'm sorry I gave you such a tough time, darlin'," you continue, situating under the blanket. "You were right, I'm proper beat."

He smirks, propping his head up to look down on you. "As always," he notes, tucking a fly-away hair behind your ears. You roll your eyes and give him a playful jab, to which he winces in mock affliction. "Some nerve," he hums, thumb tracing your cheek.

You look at him, lips parting gently. This isn't Dallas Winston; that infamous, no-good hoodlum from the wrong side of the tracks. This is your Dally, someone you alone have the absolute pleasure of knowing.

"That's it," he whispers as you surrender to his side, nuzzling his neck. Your eyes are heavy, faltering by the second, yet your grip on him is unyielding. He's never felt a thing like this before, and he's quickly becoming putty in your careful arms. He's content to lay awake all night, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as slumber claims you.

His gangly fingers trace idly on your back, and he knows. He will never be the same.

[whalesforhands]

it ends with you

no matter what, you’ll follow him to the ends of earth.

the aftermath of defecting with a jaded geto suguru.

part i

thank you for 1 year! this fic is my thank you to all my readers for sticking around.

“You know you don’t have to bow.” He’s far too amused at the way you’re choosing to greet him, your head tilted downwards towards the floor, knees tucked in and pulled against your chest as you sat upon your legs— An awfully ostentatious presentation just for him opening the sliding door.

Yet he swears his heart always skips a beat at the mere sight of you.

“I think it’s needed, Geto-sama.” Your legs are still folded so politely underneath you, hands now gingerly placed upon your lap as you smile up at him, playfully emphasizing the formal honorific with a face dusted with mischief and the joy of seeing your husband again.

He only chuckles, letting out a relieved sigh when he’s leaning downwards to kiss your nose in a sweet greeting, his limbs falling into a heap beneath him once your hands gently tug him downwards so that you can eagerly make yourself at home on his lap, to be able to wrap your arms around his neck and fully indulge in him. His scent of lavender and repressed citrus lures you in, much like a butterfly to flora.

It should be his fault that he’s so irresistible, no?

“Aren’t you having too much fun?” He murmurs it against your skin as you giggle at the brush of his lips against yours, the wisps of his love and the giddy excitement of your heart making you dizzy with romantic flurries.

He’s so lovely.

“You know how much I love you.” Too much so that it’s quite literally impossible for you to leave a man such as him alone. Who wouldn’t want to be adorning this beloved man in love steeped in such gentle adoration? To run your hands over his chest and to kiss up the column of his throat, to nip at the smooth skin of his neck and to—

“How dare I be frugal with my affection for you, Geto-sama?”

He laughs as he feels you steal another kiss from his lips, only pulling away briefly to push back a loose strand of his hair to better meet slanted eyes that fluttered open from tender noir lashes to admire you.

“And you look as beautiful as ever doing so, darling.”

And it makes you want to giggle, to laugh and blush and hide your face away from how your cheeks warm at his romanticism as you smack lightly at his chest.

You’re still affected by his charm, after all.

“6 years of saying that everyday must be tiring for you.”

“A beauty right in front of me who grows more beautiful with every passing second deserves it, nonetheless.” He kisses your hair, an intimate peck as he locks his eyes with you. “It would take too many lifetimes for me to finally be satisfied with admiring you.”

“How contrived you are, Geto Suguru.” You’re pouting at his teasing, noticing that no matter how much you think you can dish out; there truly is no winning with him as he finally captures your hand in his gentle grasp, twirling his fingers with yours and making the warmth of his palms envelop yours entirety.

“You love me for that too, don’t you, Geto (name)?” He makes sure to maintain direct eye contact with you as his lips flutter against the back of your hand; a fairytale like kiss to stir the flitter in your chest and the sparkle in your eye.

Ahh. Your silly husband never relents, does he? It almost makes you forget about the reminder you had—

“By the way,” Your smile never leaves your face as you cuddle against him, smoothing out his less and a hand curling around his waist as you close your eyes in cuddled bliss. “Satoru’s coming over today.”

Ah.

“Should we prepare dinner today, then?” You twirl a strand of his hair between your fingertips as you let him stew in his silent realization, letting him contemplate as your eyes meet his.

“Mmm… Knowing our Satoru, he’s probably going to bring over some takeout from a fancy place we’ve never heard of.” His hands continue to move and drift over your body as he talks, ever restless as they mess with the sleeve of your komon kimono, making the fabric slide off your shoulder and revealing just enough skin for his liking now that there was nary a monkey nor sorcerer in sight.

“When was the last time that stubborn man decided to pay us a visit, anyway?” You ignore his administrations, feeling his arm around your body as your obi is undone as you pout, leaving the fabric to drape around you lazily; a mere breeze away from uncovering your bare body beneath. “He always visits without even giving so much of a heads-up!”

“I believe he did drop by last week,” A hand cups your chin to tilt it upwards, the purr in his words and the dimmed seductiveness in his eyes making your cheeks light aflame. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have forgotten, darling.” His frown is playful and teasing, treading lightly upon alluring eroticism as a thumb trails over your lips.

He still hasn’t had enough yet.

“Perhaps we were spoiling you too much that day, after all.”

So you daringly lean-up with a grin, any slightest remnants of anger long dissipated when you’re pressing a kiss to his hovering lips and capturing them for your own. Your hands thread through his hair and to the back of his head to pull him in closer, tongues barely having the time to share intimacy before you’re teasingly pulling away, making him chase after your sweet kisses with a frown upon his pretty face.

“Maybe you just need to remind me?”

——

“You wound me. Am I not allowed to cuddle up to my own wife whenever I please?” A pout on his face and his arms around your waist are very apparent as you try to wash the dishes— Try.

Clean up is impossible around here when your twin daughters are off to one of their uncles homes and you have a clingy cult leader for a husband.

“Suguru— The door.” You have to push back against him as he hums so dismissively, mindlessly playing with your apron with wandering hands upon your thighs.

Less than appropriate when you’re having such a special guest over.

Dinner was prepared anyway. Knowing just how much someone like Satoru would appreciate home cooked meals over the far too fancy dishes he tends to bring.

(And you’ve both seen him gobble up practically anything handmade by the both of you in your younger years.)

Yet, you have to remind yourself that he was not the same boy as he was 6 years ago. Changed. Your Satoru has changed— Not just physically, but something else as well. Even if it was only the slightest bit. He’s quieter, broodier and much more serious than you’re used to. He doesn’t crack that many jokes, doesn’t indulge in carefree recklessness or that laid-back laziness that was so intertwined with his character.

And he never takes those bandages off.

So when you’re the one that’s pressing up against him, kneeling yourself so boldly in between his legs as he sits upon the living room couch and Suguru’s hands slowly unzipping his jacket—

He thinks the cold facade he’s meant to put up when with the ‘enemy’ feels like a much too herculean task.

“Mmm… If you’re looking at me like that, Satoru…” His face is slowly guided towards Suguru’s, a hand gently nudging at the bandages wrapped so securely around his face as you hear him audibly gulp.

“You want a kiss, right?” You continue the tease with soft giggles and feather light touches, resting an elbow on one of his knees as you watch the strongest sorcerer get seduced so easily; practically becoming putty that would slip through your fingers if you both hadn’t handled him with such intimate care.

“You know asking for things he wants is not his strong point, darling.” A seductive hum in your husband’s voice has ‘The Strongest’ twitching with uncertainly, a tremble through his body that you delight in as you brush against the very evident bulge in his already baggy pants.

He’s so cute when he struggles to not be honest with himself.

“No… I can’t— The old geezers threw another mission at me.” You can hear the pant in his throat as his much larger palm pushes against your face, covering your mouth as your eyes narrow at him before your tongue peeks out to lick at his salty skin.

The shiver he gives you is enough to stir you. But nothing is ever enough when it comes to him.

“You’re not just going to leave like that, right, Satoru?” Your husband practically purrs those words just as your hand wanders the taller man’s midriff, palm pressing lightly against his pec as your smouldering eyes stare so prettily up at him.

Like a siren luring him in.

“You don’t spend a lot of time with us anymore, you know? It makes us feel lonely…”

“She’s right, Satoru. It wouldn’t hurt to spend a night here, would it?” A cold hand makes its way underneath his shirt, groping and feeling up the musculature that twitched underneath his feathery touch.

You both were going to be the death of him. So can he really call it a sin when desire blossoms upon his skin, kisses decorating the length of his back with your bodies so warm against his own?

It felt like love, felt like the only thing that should matter when hands trail his skin and leave him wanting for more in their wake.

So when he’s staring up at the old ceiling with the both of you tucked under his arms on either side of him, he wonders if there was ever a chance he would have enough willpower to escape how tightly wound around the lovely fingers he was enraptured in.

Maybe there wasn’t, given the fact that he had relinquished control of himself so easily.

“Satoru…? Are you awake?” Your sleepy self taps against his abdomen, cheek squished against his pec as you listlessly start tracing incoherent shapes in your sleepy demeanour, as if testing the waters to truly see his state.

Sleep alludes him once again tonight too, it seems. You notice that throughout the years; no matter how much you can tire him out, how often you try to soothe his thoughts and pat his head—

He just can’t stay asleep for long.

“Hm~ You made Suguru too tired to even wake up.” Your voice slowly lilts, teasing him even when riddled with fatigue and drawled out in slow motions.

You’re… Still you, he notices. Just a bit different. Just the tiniest bit in the sense that you’re no longer shying away from affection, never hiding away behind the uncertain, self-conscious demeanor he had first met all those years ago.

It’s good, he thinks. To be mostly untouched by the time that passes by anyway, no matter how much he didn’t want it to.

“Maybe we should try some of the tea I bought tomorrow morning.” Your voice is whispered, tinged with that bit of tiredness from just waking up as you make light conversation to lull his thoughts into the meaningless, meandering everyday life.

“The ladies couldnt stop chatting about it. And I heard that it’s sweet too. We have sugar cubes if you want them—“

You stop.

“Oh. Suguru doesn’t know that I talked to— Non-sorcerers. So let’s just keep this a secret between the both of us, okay?” A quiet giggle before you continue your little chatter, even if it was mostly one-sided with only pretty blue stars paired with flowing, milky waves as evidence to your rambles.

It’s soothing. So much so, but—

There’s something in the way you talk, the way your voice starts to tremble ever so slightly that hammers in his undivided attention upon you. There’s something in your mindless chatter, something tugging at his heart and looming over the both of you that you choose not to mention.

“Are you… Okay?” The Six Eyes are useless when it comes to the affairs of the heart, Limitless unable to understand the extent of the human emotion.

So you know that it was entirely Satoru.

“I can’t seem to hide anything from you, huh?” A defeated laugh that seemed to tip over into awkwardness. “Will it be bad if I say that there’s nothing bothering me?”

“Yea.” He’s telling to stop being an idiot and tell him.

And when your eyes slowly meet his— He knows, confirms that there’s been something on your mind. Even when you giggle and kiss his nose, tapping a playful finger against it as you grin… He knows there’s something that’s been haunting your thoughts that he can’t dissuade you from.

“You know, Satoru,” A pat against his cheek as you stare at those blue eyes that took in the sight of you bathed in moonlight. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” It must be his regrets of not saying something like this sooner, but—

That makes you feel good. Makes your heart stutter at how fast he responds, makes your stomach swirl in familiar heart-stopping flips that you could imagine blushing like a school-girl confessing to her first love.

So you can tell him, tell him your thoughts with your guilty conscience, lay bare your tribulations for him to see— To take on for you.

Even if it was all too selfish.

“So if you die, I know we both won’t be able to take it.”

And that has his brows furrowing, turned on his side with his hand immediately grasping at yours as if he were afraid you were going somewhere too far for him to follow.

“What are you getting at?” It’s slightly raised, yet only enough to get across the anger in his tone and quiet enough so as to not disturb your sleeping husband.

“Satoru.” Your eyes are so soft as they look into his, a tender hand squeezing his cheek as you just smile with such a lack of tact. “When it comes to it,” Your voice is whispered, soft, like the sway of blades of grass upon a windy hill and as fragile as a petal fluttering in the breeze.

“Please kill me first.”

Because how long did you and Suguru both have left? How much longer will Satoru be able to frolick with the enemy? You, the villains who painted their stale beliefs with a darkened reality, a divulging path all too different from their own.

You’re well aware that you were dead men walking. No— You both were just fortunate enough to have the strongest so unabashedly in love with the both of you that he would go against official orders, go against his very moral beliefs; for love.

So you don’t even bat an eye at the blank disbelief on his face, the way his lines fell into a thin line and the way his eyes felt cold and biting as you languidly pat his cheek, tiredly smiling even at the way his expression had hardened into stone for even daring to say such a thing.

“No.” A beat barely even passes before he whispers his immediate rejection back to you, full of incredulous accusation and scalding admonishment.

You should’ve expected that. Alas, it wasn’t what you wanted, what you needed to hear.

“Why not?” It’s your turn to be incredulous, pouting at him with narrowed eyes as he squeezes your nose in retaliation.

“Don’t talk nonsense.” A kiss presses against your forehead right after he flicks a finger against it.

“I-It’s not— Agh…!” Another pinch to your cheek, making sure to stretch the skin as his fingers make quick work of shutting you up.

So mean.

But alas, you’re not selfless enough to ask for only a singular favour. Not at all.

“Don’t tell Suguru.” Your fingers graze across plains of his skin, careful with every touch against him as they trail up to hold his face. “Okay?”

“And if I do?” It comes out as a tired threat, the weight of the topic heavy and stale on his tongue as he holds your hand— Clenches your fingers between his so hard that you definitely think he was trying to merge himself with you.

You have to think for a long moment.

“I’ll hate you if you do.”

“Then hate me.” For he would never kill you, never dare to do any harm to you. How? How do you expect him to do it when he would rather kiss every last strand of your hair as if it were the most precious thing on this planet?

How do you expect him to live after that?

It makes you guilty.

“Satoru…” It comes out as a plead now, the desperation in your voice starting to show now that you hear his conviction. “I don’t think I would ever be able to bear seeing you both go before me, as selfish as it sounds…” You lean up to press a kiss to his nose.

“Please?”

“You’re being selfish,” He looks annoyed. He is annoyed; you can tell by that way he’s pulling at one of your cheeks and pinching the skin just enough to make you whine in protest. “And seriously dumb. You know I’m more than capable of saving you.”

Saving the both of you.

And you know. Know that he might be able to. He’s Gojo Satoru after all, despite everything, despite every change and diverge of paths. He alone stands at the end of every path, with every road leading to him in the very end.

So you chuckle dismissively, letting your fingers twirl and play with those now loose strands of shimmering white once you manage to loosen your slightly sore hand from his tight grip.

“Maybe you’re right, Satoru.”

“I am right.” You can’t doubt him. He’s Gojo Satoru. One of your only other lovers who was capable of anything, of everything. He can do it, he swears he can.

Even if you still think it’s a cause not worth saving.

“Don’t cherish me so much, Satoru.” Because just how many more times can he continue to do so? How many times can he continue to deny your wants even if you ask for the impossible?

It’s hopeless.

——

“The Night Parade of a 100 Demons.” Your husband stands within the rays of this moonlit night, painting him in the dull shimmers and surrounding him in a somber air.

“It will be beautiful, dear wife.” A hand against the glass pane, palm pressing against his cold reflection as glassy eyes stare out into this endless darkness. “Don’t you think so?”

4 years. That was all the time you had left to change your mind after that conversation— The countdown towards your imminent deaths.

It’s at these moments, the ones where his eyes glower with such an insanity unlike the gentle man you knew— That you think he really is too far gone.

How could you say to him that you wanted to change this fate? To potentially reroute this one-way path towards fated doom and destruction? To tell him that you don’t want things to end this way— Not for him who deserves so much more than this.

You can’t.

Because there was too much meaning to what he fought for, to his cause that he built for years despite how long you’ve been trying to foil or change his plans.

Hopeless.

“You’ll be evacuating with the twins and our other family, of course.” His steps feel far too heavy, resounding in your ears as he lifts your hand up to his lips, lightly kissing the skin with a tenderness that you take too much for granted.

Like a prince in an all too sappy fairytale. One that wouldn’t have such dire circumstances, such nuanced consequences.

“I would never put you in any danger.”

Sighing out with such a wistful, lovesick willfulness. “I love you too much.”

A tale that you can only long to have.

“You didn’t kill anyone.” He says it to you like it was the only truth in the world, caressing your face as he kisses your forehead, blots of blood upon your clothing that had been so hastily shed before he came up towards you.

He can’t even bear the thought of something like that coming into contact with him.

“You— You said that they were cursed users—Mmph—!” That they threatened his organization. You did it because you wanted to; and yet the consequences now lay heavy on your morals, pressing and squeezing until your mind is in complete disarray.

Why? Why did you do it? And why did you only regret it now? Is it really okay? Does the blood spilt onto your hands mean anything to you—

“Shhh… Monkeys aren’t people,” It’s said against your lips when he pulls away, the insanity in his eyes and the palpitating fear in your heart making you stagger in your thoughts, mind growing fuzzy with doubt and uncertainty.

Was this truly what you wanted?

“So don’t waste your precious time feeling guilty.”

But there’s a path you want to take too. Something independent of both their wishes, something that you set in stone solely for this day.

“I love you too, Suguru.”

It’s hopeless, after all. So you want to be as you are now, live as you are— Yet nothing is eternal other than the concept of ‘change’.

“I don’t want to change.”

Was what you once told him as your fingers threaded through his hair, sparkly suds of bubbly white mixing in with the snowflake strands of pearliness.

“But I know you can.” It’s your almost childish whisper into his ear as you playfully poke at his cheek, before your eyes averted to be giggling at how your husband was so peacefully asleep in the bathtub, light snores escaping him as his hands hung were draped along the edge.

Cults can be hard to manage. So you enjoy it when he’s finally grown a peace of mind and decides to rest, even if it’s in an unconventional situation when he had both his beautiful wife and lovely— Though unofficial husband present as well.

“Right, Satoru?”

Curse how cute that was. Even with ears tinted red and your hands on him— He simply averts his gaze as you hum in delight, continuing to wash his hair without a care in the world.

He didn’t respond to that. You don’t think he ever did.

So when you’re before him, weapon disintegrated into nothing and a weak smile on your face— There was almost no trace of the person he had first met on the day of spring, with the gentle breeze carrying the weight of sakura petals fluttering into the classroom as the pink of embarrassment dusted your cheeks in meek shyness.

Is this really your loss, though?

“I—“ A deep breath in as you look into those starlit comets. You steel yourself, a hand over your beating heart and an expression so practiced.

“I hate you, Gojo Satoru.”

You never endured this life, never thought that you had suffered through it. There was nothing you could’ve loved more than to be able to live so freely, so unafraid of what the future could possibly bring.

That’s why you can do it. Why he can still see that reminiscent determination in your eye, that look that was void of the fear and all too familiar to him.

He can’t convince you otherwise.

Even still— Won’t this world ever allow him to have wishes? To hear those quiet prayers muttered under shortened breaths, to grant him sanctity and peace of mind?

Your voice rings pleasantly in his ears like a chime of a bell. It’s so soft and sweet and stupidly kind even when you know what was going to happen. You never spoke in such a roundabout way, never spoke with such shaky conviction that it sounded like you were going to fall apart.

“I don’t want to see you again for the rest of this life.”

(“I’m sorry, Satoru.”)

He remains silent, dread creeping in his bones and his lips feeling far too dry. It’s in this moment that maybe he thinks he’s acquired too many sins; the sin of getting to hold the hands of three ones that the world wanted dead, the sin of trying to go through life with his beloveds by his side.

The sin of being born into this role of the world.

Why? Why must it be like this? The way your words sank into his ears and tore through his very soul like a torture he couldn’t bear.

“Satoru,” His skin feels cold, especially against the warmth that you emit that caresses his face and threatens to make his already waning heart drop to his stomach. “Don’t think about me.”

“Don’t even dream about me.”

(“Take care of yourself when I’m not around.”)

Because you still care, even if you were making him do the cruelest, most selfish thing in the world. Even if your last words to him were something that cut— That aimed to make him hate you. You didn’t want him to forget, but more so, you didn’t want him to neglect himself to mourn for someone so damned like you— Didn’t want him to be alone even when you’re gone.

Because you will care, forevermore.

“You have your whole life ahead of you.” Your shaky hands holding his face, the unevenness in your voice that made the words he wanted to shout get stuck in his throat.

“So forget about me— About all this… And get to know some people better, okay?”

(“Don’t try to shut people out when you need them.”)

So you can only smile as you feel him hug you tighter, his fingers clasped together as still as they were even when you’re certain that it trembled just ever so slightly. And when your lips inevitably meet for a kiss that drowned out your sorrows— You think you’ve made the right choice as you answer back, softly and sweetly adorning his with your own.

The worst liar he’s ever met. That’s what you are to him right now. So he’ll swallow them— All your lies that you wanted to continue to spout, all the misery that you ever had to bear up until now.

He’ll take it from here.

Gojo Satoru never knew hesitation, never knew regret. He didn’t know coiling hatred, didn’t know hopeless desire. But this cycle of only being able to save those who wanted to be saved repeats once more even as he still stands tall as the strongest.

And when you’re all just about gone, with his hand clenching so desperately that his nails drew blood against his pretty, pretty skin; you know that it was selfish despite your little spiel just moments ago. Yet you hope he thinks— Knows that you’ll continue to love him even when you’re no longer here. You’ll exist as a fading memory, a song that was played too many times, a flitter of sunlight through the leaves.

You’ll exist in the smallest things that he would miss with just a single blink.

So you hope that he would know as your eyes close and purple light flashes from behind your eyelids, an engulfing heat so hot, yet— It doesn’t sting, doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel like anything but the soft caress of the sun on your skin after the rain.

Gojo Satoru is merciful, so you hope he remembers your last words as you slip away, the whisper so haunting and beautiful that it makes him wish it were so. Makes him almost want to pray to a being to give you safe passage on your way.

Even if you didn’t say anything else, he will always understand, replaying it in his head over and over and over in the hopes that one day, your words will come true.

Because he knows his own wishes and prayers will never come to fruition.

(“We’ll meet again.”)

——

“The body,” A huff out of the cigarette as she tries to breathe in this frigid air tainted by death and guilt, the tobacco doing little to diminish the stress and loss in her voice. It’s croaked and bitter and everything that cursed this uncaring world with her hatred.

Yet she knows it would never be enough.

“Needs to be disposed of.” Her eyes are red, her flushed cheeks and the runny mascara streaming down a large contrast to the blank stare upon her pretty face.

Bitter acceptance.

It’s cold and biting; the way she stares into this dark alleyway that was shrouded in dreary darkness, full of damp hatred and scorching desolation as her cigar loses its flame.

Like a sick reminder from the ones above that you were no longer here. Because if you were, you’d tell her to stop smoking, right? Tell her that it was bad for her health, tell her that she should stop as you pout and gently snatch the stick away from her.

But you can’t. Not anymore.

“Go away, Shoko.” He thinks his hands are starting to tremble as he holds what was once the you who always smiled so softly at him in his arms, the way your body falls onto his chest in quiet movements, the way your head lolls onto his shoulder, the way your hair frames your face.

If he turned away, if he used your hands to cover these forsaken eyes of his— You would simply be sleeping peacefully.

So sleep. Sleep with the peace that you were out of his reach, rest with the thoughts of him in these moments where you could make pretend and return to a time where none of this matters.

Where none of this happened.

“Please.” Just for a little while longer, while your blood that he spilled was still warm, while it feels like this cruel time hasn’t fully passed—

Please.

KOFI extras

[wisteriagoesvroom]

Not the airport purgatory again!! So here's a prompt for you:

Carcar + the word "camera"

~Lo

Oscar’s never loved the cameras. They’ve taken some getting used to. The clicks now remind him of beetles rather than a forensic crime scene, but he’s never made peace with them. Not in the way the rest of the grid has.

And why he’s been shoved together with Carlos, two seats down from him in the press conference, he doesn’t really know.

Well. He does know. He’s not stupid, and the internet tells him, when Oscar is in fact stupid enough to go check, that people enjoy the on track argument radios between him and Sainz.

Oscar is frankly loathe to call it an argument. An argument would imply two people on an even keel having some kind of logical discussion. With Carlos, there is no debate. Just noise.

(And Oscar’s got to give it to the FIA. They’re well aware what they’re doing. So he and the FIA apparently have this in common, then.)

To his left, George is droning on, probably an extremely PR-approved response about Merc’s latest ailing results. Oscar has heard this about half a dozen times in just as many iterations, and Oscar is getting bored. But, necessary evils. For necessary ends.

“Question for Carlos and Oscar,” comes a voice from the back of the darkened room. And now, maybe things can get more interesting.

“Your radios have been making the rounds.” The journalist says. “Carlos, you seem very adamant that Oscar still acts like, and I quote, such a massive rookie. Did you mean what you said, or did you want to offer more commentary?”

Oscar glances at Carlos. Guan Yu, sandwiched between them, stares at both of them like this is a riveting tennis match.

Carlos makes a noncommittal noise into his mic. Oscar resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I don’t listen much to the radios after the race is done. It is all in the moment. Oscar drives well, but occasionally we are coming up against each other on the track.”

Oscar turns the sentences in his head as he considers his words. What was it that Mark said? It’s important to show your racecraft. Your commitment.

But what the public loves, more than anything, was a storyline.

Carlos has put his mic down. His gaze is admirably neutral.

Oscar scans the crowd for the journalist. Moustached guy, laptop open, waiting expectantly.

It’s Oscar’s cue. Step on the stage. Spotlight’s on.

“I mean. Nice for some people, isn’t it?” Oscar says.

He can picture the tweets already.

Across the couch, Carlos crosses his arms, brows slanting downwards.

Every hero’s journey needs an antihero, after all.

“What is?” Carlos asks.

Oscar shrugs. “Being able to switch your brain off. When you drive.”

[phoebe-delia]

Hello! I saw a post where you mention prompts. Idk if they are still open or what kind. 👉👈 but I’m humbly asking for Draco with dimples 🙈

When You Smile

@xx-thedarklord-xx Hi hello!! I am very Normal and Nonchalant about getting a prompt from you!! Not at ALL fangirling!! Nope, not one bit!! *screams into a pillow* *kicks feet*

ANYWAY! Here is what I've got. I hope it does your prompt justice. I am very sorry it's so late; I would not blame you if you forgot you even sent this. I am soooo bad at answering prompts in a timely fashion. (I do technically have prompts open indefinitely, of pretty much any kind, but I just cannot guarantee they will be done in a timely fashion. There are prompts in my ask box and drafts from literal years ago, but such is the life of a writer with ADHD, I guess, lol.)

I hope you enjoy!!! And thanks for the prompt!

"Potter, are you even listening to me?"

Harry is pulled from his daze, refocusing his eyes on Draco's now slightly frowning face. Draco glares at him, mouth slanted downward, and that simply won't do.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" Harry says as earnestly as he can, resting his arms next to the library books stacked on the table.

When Harry thought about it, he was fairly certain the first time he was conscious of the flutter in his stomach around Draco was also the first time he noticed—well, it. Draco had been grinning, laughing heartily at something Pansy'd said, and Harry'd seen the sweet, subtle dimple at the corner of his mouth.

That one tiny divot. A small quirk that could be coaxed from his cheek if you made him grin wide enough.

Since then, Harry knew he was a goner.

Now, Draco rolls his eyes, but his lips tick up, and Harry feels a jolt of triumph at seeing the dimple reappear in the corner of Draco's mouth.

"There it is," he whispers, eyes fixated on that precious little mark. He watches as it fades into smooth skin, blinks, and then looks up into confused gray eyes and a furrowed brow.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Draco reaches up and gently wipes at his cheek, frown deepening when his fingers come up dry. He looks back at Harry. "Well?"

Harry feels his cheeks heat. "Sorry. I got distracted."

"I could tell that much, though I'm not sure what entertainment you could have possibly found on my face. I do hope you had your fun," Draco says bitterly.

"No no, it's not—" Harry glances away, unable to look at Draco. "I just like your smile," he admits to the desk in front of him.

"My smile?"

"Yes." Harry forces himself to meet Draco's eyes. "When you smile, you get a little dimple right—" he reaches up and brushes the corner of Draco's lip with his thumb—"there."

He brushes the spot again, because he can't quite help himself, and pulls his hand away from Draco's shocked face. His palm feels cold.

"Oh," Draco whispers. "Well, I suppose that's alright then."

"Y-yeah?" Harry's breath catches.

Draco reaches across the table, slowly as though to let Harry pull away at any moment, and laces their fingers together.

"Yes," Draco says. And he smiles.

[impossiblesuitcase]

Hii , I would love to read something where Cinder and Kai interact with their two children, Peony and Rikan (according to that book about their marriage) and have a cute and comforting moment!! And just to complement your writing it's wonderful, I never tire of reading it <3

I was going to do this as just a few sentences but I recently reached 150k hits across my fandom accounts so I wanted to celebrate! 🎉 So here's a drabble. And also thank you!

Sleeping Soundly

“You did not!”

“What else was I supposed to do? The lizard was hanging out of her dress!”

Cinder threw her head back onto her pillow, laughing so hard her stomach burned like she had just done fifty crunches. “You-you could’ve at least”—she choked—“you could’ve thrown it back into the bushes!”

Kai had his elbow propped up on his pillow, his hair messy and his cheeks flushed. “I could have. But consider: her shriek was hilarious.”

Cinder rubbed at her eyes. Her temples were aching, informing her she would be crying right now if she could. It didn’t bother her. With the current grin plastered over her face, these tears would be the good kind.

The disastrous tale of Kai taking Queen Camilla and her entourage on a media tour of the Xishui National Forest was made even more entertaining by it being filmed and distributed live on every official newsfeed. Kai had presented the ageing queen with the lizard that had found a home in the folds of her skirt. Her scream had sent every bird in a ten-metre radius soaring. Even the medics had rushed over, fearing Her Majesty was suffering a heart attack.

Cinder sent her sincerest condolences to the queen via comm. Then she promptly cursed Kai out for pulling such a move when she wasn’t there to witness it.

Now, as they lay in bed late in the evening, Cinder could lay into him. “You know, you’ve set yourself up with this image of being so charming and polite, when you are the brattiest, most scheming prankster I know.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “And if you tell them that, they’ll never believe you; I’ve fooled them all.”

She poked his chest, rolling away from him. “This is what I’m talking about! Stars, I knew I shouldn’t have said no to coming.”

Kai shuffled across the sheets to her, settling his chin on her shoulder. “Come on, one of us needed to go Peony’s parent teacher conference.”

Cinder shrugged. “I’m not sure. It was just five minutes of ‘your daughter is perfectly on track with her grades and social skills, in fact, she’s taken it upon herself to be quite the classroom leader. Certainly an empress in the making.’” She dragged her palm down her face. “The teacher couldn’t even find anything for her to improve on. Peony was so smug about it, too.”

“Mhmm. The good grades are from me, and the smugness is from you.”

“Hey!”

Kai wrapped his arms around her, trying to pull her to his chest as she resisted, laughing. But when he seized her chin and stilled it, fondness and mirth in his eyes, she put up no fight as he leaned down to her lips.

His nose was already slanted against hers when she paused. Kai blinked in surprise as she ducked her head away, listening. Sensing.

“Rikan,” she called after a moment. “You can come in.”

Pattering footsteps trod the carpet. Kai disentangled himself from her as their five-year-old son hesitantly peered at them as he clutched the doorframe. His melting-chocolate brown eyes were wide and doe-like; his bioelectricity crackled with apprehension.

“You okay, bǎo bao?” she asked softly.

He shook his head.

Cinder turned down the covers and patted the bed. “Come here.”

He needed no further prompting. Rikan barrelled over, jumping up to the bed and inserting himself in the space between his parents. Kai helped him settle onto a pillow as Cinder pulled the blanket up to his chin.

“What happened?” Kai asked softly as he stroked his hair.

Rikan bit his lip, trembling. “‘Had a nigh’mare.”

His parents exchanged a look.

Cinder cupped his cheek. “Do you want to tell us about it?”

He looked downwards, eyes glassy and afraid. “Not really,” he murmured.

“That’s okay, buddy,” Kai reassured. “Mama and I get nightmares too. You don’t have to tell us about it now.”

Rikan nodded, snuggling closer to them.

Just as Cinder and Kai were laying down beside him, more footsteps floated down the hallway—these noticeably more assertive.

Nine-year-old Peony welcomed herself into the room, holding her baby sister on her hip. For every bit as hesitant Rikan had been, Little Miss Princess was a thousand times more forthright. She looked on them with her nose turned up judgmentally. “What’s going on?”

Kai laughed. “What’s going on with you, sweetheart? Why have you got your sister?”

“She was—uh—crying. I brought her for you to check on.”

“Peony, we have a baby monitor in here,” her mother said. “We know she wasn’t crying.”

“Well...she’ll probably start crying soon.”

Cinder raised her eyebrows. “Is that why you brought her?”

She faltered, darting her gaze down to her foot as she rubbed it in circles in the carpet. The baby slept soundly, secure in her big sister’s arms. “No...I…just didn’t want us to be left out.”

Rikan sat up, frowning. “Why can’t I be with mum and dad alone, Pe-ah?”

She stuck out her tongue at him.

“Okay gremlins,” Kai warned, hands bracing in a calm down. “It’s past bedtime for all of you anyway. Peony, are you joining us or not?”

Peony grinned and bounded over.

“Slow down!” both adults shouted.

She had the decency to look a little guilty as she skidded to a halt and clutched her sister tighter.

Cinder and Kai mutually exhaled and shuffled to make room. With their three babies sandwiched between them, Kai dimmed the lights.

Rikan whimpered.

“What’s wrong with you?” Peony interrogated.

“Peony, be gentle,” Cinder scolded. “Rikan had a nightmare earlier. He’s just a little scared at the moment.”

Her flippant nature softened into sympathy. “Sorry, Ri. What was it about?”

“He doesn’t have to—”

“School,” Rikan meekly replied.

Surprise bloomed in Cinder’s chest. They were all quiet as Rikan recounted his nightmare of the other boys at school turning into evil wolfen soldiers and stealing his lunch. It was only his first year and he wasn’t quite adjusted to the new routine yet. Cinder suspected that would be the focus of his parent-teacher conference next week.

And of course, for as much as they squabbled, Peony would be the one to draw this out of him.

He was sniffling as he concluded, but was smiling as they all hugged him—except for the oblivious sleeping baby, of course. Cinder felt his bioelectricity calm into a gentle wave lapping the shore.

After this, Peony had to tell them her dream of dad buying an octopus and hiding it in the pantry for mum to terrifyingly discover. Then Kai regaled them with the tale of Queen Camilla and the devious lizard. The giggles took several minutes of shushing to finally subside.

When Kai finally called an official lights out, Cinder laid back on her pillow, yawning as she heard the little breaths beside her even out in sleep. It had been so chaotic today, as it had been the day before and the day before that. Between being an empress, a mother, a part-time palace mechanic and, well, just Cinder, she didn’t think she’d had a proper sleep since she was in the suspension tank in Scarlet’s underground bunker. 

Just as the tendrils of rest were tugging her away, she felt a creak of movement in the bed and soft lips against hers. His “goodnight” danced across through the kiss. 

As he was pulling away, she reached out, pulled him back and whispered “love you,” in her own kiss.

She felt his smile.

In only an hour, the baby would wake, Kai would carry Rikan and Peony to bed while she fed her. Then she and Kai would collapse together, limbs entangled, hair strewn and clothes rumpled in sleep-deprived exhaustion. But for now, with the heavy blanket and thump of five heartbeats and warmth around her, she would sleep more soundly than she ever had.

Notes

And my obligatory disclaimer - I don't personally think Cinder and Kai would give their children the names Peony and Rikan as first names, only as middle names. However for the consistency within the fandom, I've used those names here.

You guys need this fluff with the next tlc fic I have coming 🙃 Also I realised I haven't written an actual kaider fic in like a year. Whoops. Here you go.

[teejaystumbles]

oh I MUST beg a Good Intentions snippet!

of course! I hope you saw the earlier one I posted? here As much as I have planned this thing out I am stunned how little I have written so far. It's bits and pieces that I need to stitch together. Here's another dramatic one I rather like :3 It happens sometime after the original drabble I wrote.

Hob dreams of the arena. He dreams of looking up towards Dream who is standing there gazing out over the pit with a bored look on his face.  Hob knows he was free, that he escaped this place, and yet, here he is, captured again. He calls Dream’s name but the wizard does not hear him. When Hob calls out again he is pulled roughly by the chain around his throat, cutting off his voice. Dream turns his head and looks down at him. His eyes blaze with blue fire and his mouth is turned downwards in a cruel slant. Hob feels a searing pain on the back of his left shoulder, where Dream’s sigil is. He cries out in pain and stumbles forward, pulled by the chain. Dream’s gaze is cold and merciless, he looks away again and Hob gasps as the pain stops. No, he thinks, I want you to look at me! See me! But it will hurt, Dream’s deep voice echoes in his head. Then hurt me. But don’t leave me here, Hob pleads, don’t leave me here! He wakes with a startled gasp, half shouting Dream’s name before he realises he’s awake. “Hob?” the wizard’s voice comes in surprise from across from him. Hob stares wide-eyed at the man, sitting cross-legged only a metre away from him at the fire. In this moment Hob resents Dream. He hates himself for having made the wizard give him his sigil, and that Dream agreed. It was the only logical solution at the time but now Hob feels keenly how he has put himself into Dream’s hands.

Oooh wait I think I drew something for this as well! Might as well share it too!!

[ushiwhacka]

AI & GOJO SATORU + SIP AND PAINT

satoru looms over the easel, back slightly bent to compensate for his height, tongue peeking out between pink lips and his eyes narrowed in concentration. his hands are covered in paint, specks of red and black splattered all the way up to his wrist. the champagne glass that sits next to his station is in a similar state - colourful fingerprints cover the stem and the bottom of the flute. 

he’s taking this sip and pain class a little too seriously, turning his canvas away from you every time you try to get a look. 

“satoru,” you whine, “just let me see your painting.”

“no.” he’s adamant. “you just want to copy me.”

“you’re being such a child.” 

“just get your own ideas.” 

“we’re all supposed to be painting the same thing.” but he still won’t let you take a look. “idiot.”

“meanie.”

you turn to give him a sour look, but you’re only met with a big, toothy grin and flushed cheeks. and maybe he’s more cute than he is annoying, so you drop it. 

the painting you’re supposed to recreate is simple, a warm sunset dripping in pinks and oranges reflected in the sea below. but, honestly, watching gojo spray paint everywhere and drink too much champagne is more interesting than any work of art.

his cheeks turn more pink with each sip, and every once in a while he will rub his paint-covered thumb over your cheekbone and whisper something to himself. 

it all makes sense when he shows you his masterpiece, as he would describe it. 

“i painted you,” and the hopeful look in his eyes melts away any criticism you might have for his artistic abilities, “look.” 

you suppose it looks a bit like you. he’s drawn little hearts in your eyes and those slanted lines on your cheeks to make it look like you’re blushing, curved your lips downwards in a little pout. and it might not be the most realistic of paintings but it does strangely look like you. and you stand in front of him with wet eyes, your shoulders dropped, bottom lip jutting out, trying your hardest not to burst into tears. 

“do you hate it?”

“i love it.” you circle your arms around his waist, squeezing too tightly as you nuzzle your face into his chest. “we should frame it.” 

“i love you.” he drapes over you, he’s heavy and too warm but it’s ok because he gives got a little kiss on the crown of your head.

“i love you more.”

“no, i love you more.”

“don’t start.”

valentine's day special for @gojoest <3

[bbraefairy]

𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑, jean kirstein

WARNINGS fem!reader, morning sex, oral n rough sex, spit kink, 18+ characters

word count 2.7k

a/n wrote this in 2021, n wanted to share :) enjoy

✭ .

PART ONE

“Jean,” you laughed as he nuzzled his nose into the crevice of your neck. “That tickles!” you squealed.

“That’s the point, ain’t it? Gosh, your laugh is just as beautiful as you are.”

Jean moves his lips to yours, meshes both together. He traces his tongue along the design of your mouth, his tongue massages yours. His slightly calloused hands trace underneath your tank top, on the flesh of your skin. He feels around your sides, stomach, any expanse of skin he can find; those of which he committed to memory.

Fresh, morning daylight seeped through the windows, the colors and warmth from the sun pooled on the walls of the room. A transparent, crisp wind wafts through the room, making the curtains dance. Additionally, the light carved shadows behind furniture. The linen was downy, the pillowy cotton wrapped in an authentic, comforting scent.

You grabbed a pillow, playfully pushing it against Jean’s face.

“Oh, that’s the game you wanna play?” he’s quick to grab a pillow for himself, thuds you softly.

You chuckled as he hit you with the cushion, “You switch characters so fast.” 

“It’s your fault.” he dodges one of your hits, then lets the pillow bounce on your head.

You both play wrestle for a small while, laughter and fond phases attached. Your body ends up horizontally across the bed, and Jean is on top.

You slide your body off the bed a bit, leading it towards the ground.

He grins softly at you, “Where you goin’, babe?”

“On the floor.”

“Alright, then I’m coming, too.” he slides off the bed with you, and you both gently arrive floor level.

You bring his mouth to clasp with yours once again. His flavor was a subtle salt with fresh breath. Your fingers coil in his ash blond, lush hair. He pulls your thigh up a bit, dragging his hand on the apex of your smooth thigh. 

His lips grace old love marks he stained on your neck, while he creates new ones. He nips, he suckles, he bruises. He pecks under the slant of your jaw, and the firm of your collarbones. He chuckles a loving phrase to you, and your stomach creases in delight. You kiss his forehead, his nose, and you ruffle his hair, which softens his heart.

His kisses develop fervor and sensation. He touches you, running out of places to touch. Like a spool of thread running empty. No matter how much he got of you, he wanted more.

“Hey, are you in the mood?” he husks, his voice hoarse from kissing.

“In the mood for…”

“Sex.”

“On the floor, Jean? We should go back up on the bed—”

“I didn’t know pleasing you was limited to one place.” he says this with a smug, sensual smile.

His once brown, gentle eyes now lingered with a contrast of desire.

You smirk, “Yeah, okay, bossman.”

“Seriously though, can I?” he consents gently.

You assert, “Of course you can. Are you sure you want to do this, too? I want you just as comfortable as I am.”

“I’m good, babe, I’m all good.”

Jean descends, hiking up your shirt. He intersperses affectionate, devoted kisses on your sides. You released a satisfied sound between a laugh and a gasp. He lines patterns down your stomach, taking note of every slope, curve, and blemish your body presents to him. 

Jean kisses the arch of your thighs, then journeys his lips to the inside of them. He scrapes his teeth lightly on your dermis tinting carnal patches of love into your flesh. He feels you writhe slightly, and his low laugh rocks your core.

Then, he catches the fabric of your underwear in between his teeth, drags it downwards. While he does so, he keeps his eyes locked on yours. 

You were flustered.

The underwear is tossed to the side, and Jean doesn’t hesitate to take in your secrecy.

He makes sure you’re looking at him when he speaks.

“I love you like this. Raw, uncovered. Naked, showing me parts of you the world hasn’t seen,” he lightly wraps his fingers around your neck, “You’re absolutely beautiful, do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s my good girl,” he kisses you before releasing his hold around your neck.

“Here, a pillow, so you’re comfy.” he tucks a pillow under your head.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Spread them for me.” 

You allow him to open your legs, the cool breeze grazing your wet flesh.

“This one’s gonna be rough, but good, nonetheless.” Jean’s voice is dense with passion.

He angles his face towards your heat, giving your damp folds an exasperatingly slow stroke with his tongue. You whimper in protest, your hand nestling in his hair. His tongue brushes against your labias, a moderately rough paired with a fragile tenderness.

One stroke, your body tenses. Two, your breathing changes. Three, your thoughts get frenzied. You lose count of how many times he’s licked you, and now he begins to suck. To him you are like a mango, soft, ripe flesh with a delectable taste. 

“You are the first thing I’ve tasted this morning. No need for breakfast now,” Jean chuckles whimsically, “God, I should do this more often.”

You were warm, honeyed, and damn well addicting… just the way Jean loved you.

“Jean— You’re so good. I want everything you can give me.” your voice goes in and out as you talk.

“You’re gonna get me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He pulls your hips down harder, his tongue situates in a different angle. While he eats you out, he busies his hands on the length of your thigh. His hand stretches to your mouth, he strokes his thumb on the corner of it, then slips his finger inside of it briefly; allowing you to suck.

“Closer, baby.” you request, and he obeys.

His tongue delves deeper inside of you. He goes in with more pressure and passion with each gesture. Your walls contract, your pupils dilate from the sexual force. He extracts senseless babbles and cut- off moans from you. Your body is saturated in sweat, and every nerve in your nervous system is feeling for Jean.

Your eyes flutter shut due to all of the sensations Jean is installing into you.

“Keep your eyes on me.” he orders, and when you open your eyes, you both get a second of eye contact.

“Perfect. You taste so sweet, I could eat you out for days on end.”

Jean hits a sore spot, which sends a shiver up your spine. You swallow down a noise, biting down on your finger.

To add to it, Jean slides his index finger inside of your heat. He feels around the spongy extent, making sure it was wet enough for his next task. He thrusts in gently, withdraws with a bit more strength. His thumb orients on your swelling clitoris, and your head sinks into the pillow. He finds a pace to both of your liking, then keeps his finger in that rhythm. 

“J-Jean,” you hold down another noise, but he draws it right out of you, “That’s it, just like that. You always know what spots to hit— oh, fuck.”

He puts his tongue back to work, making your nerves overheat. You pull lightly at his hair, your legs close slightly, but he shoves them back open.

Jean encourages, “Let it go, just for me.” 

Your back curves into an acute bend, and the lip between your teeth could have bled if this went on any longer.

“Come on, baby, do it.”

He sits up a bit, kissing you softly while keeping his finger and thumb at work. You grunt into his mouth, and his other available hand intertwines in yours. 

You feel trails of fire in your abdomen. Your pelvis locks, and each and every one of your thoughts and words are smothered by Jean’s pleasure.

You release an inarticulate, impassioned sound in Jean’s mouth, and he kisses you a little rougher through your release.

“There it is, you did so good.” he whispers into your lips, strokes your cheek.

He took his fingers out of you, and tasted you slowly while he gazed in your eyes. He glides a wet finger into your mouth, and though you found it weird tasting yourself, you indulged in the idea. He drags his finger down your bottom lip, parting a gap.

“Open,” you do as he says, then he shoots a small wad of spit into your mouth, then another.

He closes your lips, then seals them with a soft kiss.

“Swallow it, every drop.” 

You gulp down what he gave you with a smile.

Jean can’t find any words to say to you, this always happened after a sexual act. He just stared at you, simply admiring you. He always tried to know what to say, but he never did. Perhaps, that was how it was meant to be.

“Okay, are you up for a shower?” you ease away, but Jean pins you right back in place.

“Not yet. Turn around, bend over, all the way over.”

✭

PART TWO

“Is there anything such as an arch kink? ’Cuz I think I have one.”

He put a blanket under your knees, so you wouldn’t press into the hardness of the floor.

Jean let his fingers trail across the small of your bent back. He pulls down his boxers, puts on a condom. He spits on your wet flesh before getting in position.

“If there isn’t you can make it one. Just between you and I.” you reply with a soft smile.

“You’re precious, I adore you. We’re set for round two, correct?”

“Sure thing, you better rail me sore, Jean.”

“Don’t plan on doing otherwise,”

He turns your body, so you face the sliding mirror closet door in front of the both of you.

“Do me a favor. While I do you, you keep your eyes on us, alright?” he lifts your chin gently to the reflection, and a small shock crosses your expression.

“Are we clear on that?” he repeats.

You respond, “Crystal.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He runs his palms over your ass, affectionately smacks and grabs it, which causes you to squeak lightly. He lets out a deep sigh as he enters your sex from behind. 

You slant your back more into him, so he could get a better leverage. He fits right into you, his hardened strength couples flawlessly with your soft saturation. It was so fresh and your walls were so chaft, you could feel every ridge in his length.

Jean pulls back slowly, and lets out a sharp grunt as he pushes forward. Your flavor is still settling on his tongue, and he is still savoring you. His sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell are all focused on you. 

He gives another lunge, and with each one, he goes in an inch further. His hands trace lazy designs on your back and sides as he goes. The swears, delighted groans, and dirty talk leaking through his clenched teeth makes your mouth run dry. 

You demand, “Rougher.”

He says between strained breaths, “Every time we do this, you get looser, and I like that.”

He directs his tip into a different angle, attempting to get every piece of you that he can. His steady strokes lose pace as he begins to get swept up in lust. His hips rock the perfect force that your sensitive warmth needed. His body ached for your peak, and you throbbed for his breaking point.

A thin film of sweat glistens on his forehead and neck as he puts the work in. Your fingers twine tightly around the blanket beneath you, and you hold a grip so hard, your hands tremble ever so slightly.

You failed at swallowing back a moan, “Jean, you’re really, really deep.”

Your eyes close, and your head tilts back a small degree.

“Your eyes,” he angles your chin to the mirror again, “On us.”

The reflection blurs, as tears of pleasure brim in your eyes. You were not only able to feel your sensual gratification, but Jean let you taste it.

Rough, but good, like he said.

“Damn it, you’re so good in this position. Look at you.” Jean’s gaze catches yours in the mirror.

“Not as good as you,” you rasp, turning your face to him with a teasing facial expression. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, your mouth is bent into a dangerous smirk. “You’re hitting it, and you’re hitting it right where I need you to be.”

“Don’t look at me like that, you fuckin’ tease. Didn’t I tell you to keep your eyes on the mirror?” he roughly (but in no way to harm you, mostly gently), pushes your head back to where he wants it.

You manage to say before your voice breaks into another moan, “You’re cutest when you’re sexually frustrated.”  

He huffs in denial, “Shut up.”

Jean was stubborn, like always, and you loved it.

Jean strikes your best sore area, and he knows by the way you hiss his name.

“Mhmm… right there is where it is.” He concentrates his pressure on your most sensitive spot, thrusting each time with more love.

“Jean, I can’t—I can’t hold it in anymore.”

He whispers with a graveled voice, “I didn’t say you had to, baby. Now, watch yourself as you cum.”

His thumb and index finger play around your mouth once again, tracing the outline of your mouth, and rolling against your tongue.

Your stomach crunches as the orgasm precipitates. The words leaving your mouth are broken syllables, and your mind shatters.

“Shit, Jean.” your face crinkles as you let out your orgasm.

“Atta girl, you look so pretty when you do that.”

Not long after, you feel Jean warm inside of you, and he releases with a low, guttural curse, and a hoarse pronunciation of your name.

“Mine, no one else’s.” he pulls out slowly, then your walls expand and recede in his absence.  

You feel pained, both from Jean, and the fact that he was no longer inside of you.

He decorates your lower back with hot-blooded, but pure kisses. He guides the kisses to the nape of your neck, the slant of your shoulder, the patch of skin behind your ear.

You face him, his half-lidded eyes were always a sign that what you both did, was worth it. His thumb brushes your cheek, his brows knit in confusion.

“You were crying?” he asked gently.

You scoffed, “Tears of pleasure, don’t get cocky.”

“Damn, I got you good. You deserve it, anyway.”

he kisses your cheek and lips sweetly, then smiles at you.

“Spit, right here.” you open your mouth for Jean.

“Again? Nasty.”

He chuckles, and does what you ask of him. He curls his fingers around your throat,  lets one string drip slowly into your mouth. With his eyes set on yours, he loads another mass into your mouth. The way he looked at you made your thoughts nothing but a cluster of black scribbles.

“Let me see,” he presses his thumb on your tongue lightly, over the spit. He rubs the spit on your tongue, then lets you suck his finger as he withdraws. “You have the best mouth to spit in, I swear.” 

You respond, “I know.”

You swallow proudly, and kiss him again.

“Aftercare?” he recommends, kissing your neck tenderly.

“Yup, let’s go.” 

You and Jean get up from the floor, and begin your aftercare routine.

✭ .

available on ao3

[raccoonfallsharder]

cicatrix .⋆☁︎:･꧂

chapter seventeen. keyframe. [new 7/26] ✩

18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 17/30+ | wip | word count: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | chapter seventeen. keyframe. ART: portrait of pearl | pearl & rocket's bunk chapter one. nemotia. art by @/frostedwitch

a raccoon, a girl, and a kylosian walk into a throneroom. see below for warnings & notes.

“I don’t want to adopt an abilisk,” she reasons quietly. “I just don’t want them to die out.” She chews her lip and eyes the Kylosian nervously. She’s not sure how much he’s inferring from any of these conversations, or how careful she needs to be — but then, she’s always tried so hard not to underestimate people the way the High Evolutionary does. So instead, she just offers Rocket a pleading little half-shrug, and she looks out at the stars, wondering how far the herd still is. The distant celestial bodies glow and shimmer, studding the expanse of space with patterns that are simultaneously familiar and new. Eucleia. Penthus. Elpis.  Adrestia. Dice. The words unfurl on her tongue like a blossom, petal-sweet, before she’d even known they were growing there. “I hate to think of us all here, just playing out the roles we were assigned.” She slants her eyes downward to her beloved survivor. “Don’t you?” His eyes widen, molten sunsets and bonfires. She sees his chest hitch on an uncertain, startled breath — and then those same eyes narrow.  “You’re the second-worst frickin’ thing that’s ever happened to me.” She feels her smile wobble. “I know.” “Who assigns these roles?” Drax asks.  “The first-worst that’s ever happened to me,” Rocket answers dryly. He rolls his eyes and leans on the cascabel. “Okay, kitten. I hope this idea of yours is a frickin’ good one.”

read more on ao3 | masterlist, notes, & moodboard

holy shit i wrote plot!!! but it seemed way better when i drafted it and revised it 27 times than when i just edited/posted it so uhmmmm thanks for bearing with me.

a story about scars. two survivors learn about themselves, each other, hope, and the universe.a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.

WARNINGS for this chapter: brief glimpses into rocket’s typically-filthy thoughts, pearl’s anxiety, and wyndham’s dickishness.

fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬

banners & rose dividers by @/saradika-graphics pearl dividers by @/thecutestgrotto taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

[ednaeflowers]

@unwaveringblade : "What did you just say?" ( hello there! )

STARTER PROMPTS  /  accepting!

she squints at him, a discreet sneer in the way her eyes crinkle and her lips slant downward.

❛  i said,  ❜ she begins, twirling her umbrella handle with much boredom, ❛  that you have some audacity to trespass on my mountain without any offerings for me.  ❜ do humans ever realize that a seraph of the earth does a lot for the planet? no. no, they never do. then again, this one can apparently see her, so she cannot quite say what his intentions are just yet. ❛  or are you just here on a nature walk, boy?  ❜

[sakumasmut]

Mao x Anzu

tags/warnings: femdom, collar and leash, petplay, clothed sex, frottage

Happy birthday Mao! Rushed to finish this in time and technically made it. Sadly had to cut out my usual breeding to make it short but I’m still happy with how it turned out! hope my fellow mao fuckers enjoy

ao3

Anzu’s birthday gift for him is a collar. The black leather is high quality—from somewhere in Italy, according to the paper that was in the box. Anzu slides the metal prong through one of the notches, the first time being a bit too loose and the second a bit too tight, but being exactly what Mao wanted. The smooth material rubs against his neck when he turns his head round in circles to test, its presence obvious from the light pressure on his Adam’s apple even when it’s in his blind spot. When he gives an affirmative nod that signals she doesn’t have to readjust it, Anzu smiles and cups his cheek with her hand.

“Such a good boy.” She whispers softly, only audible because it’s just the two of them in the room. His dick throbs.

“Sit.”

He gets into a kneeling position, thankful that the floor is carpeted so that his bare legs don’t ache when he puts his weight on them. Anzu has the leash, his leash in one hand, but there’s no need to hold it tight when her pet is behaving, so she wears the loop like a giant bracelet to fold up the sleeves of her sweater.

Her hands start at his head, fingers threading through his magenta hair like it’s fur, nails gently scratching his scalp. Without the usual hair clip holding up his bangs, they fall over his eyes after only a few scratches, making him look like an ungroomed animal. He hums in appreciation, raising his head to peer at Anzu, who’s still standing above him. She smiles at him again, and moves one of her hands to scratch the bottom of his chin. She doesn’t dig her nails deep when she does so, only raking her fingertips lightly over his skin, but the effect is still the same, and Mao makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a purr.

Anzu pets him carefully, her hands roaming every inch of his skin. After his head, she moves to his shoulders, broad and slanted downwards. She occasionally gropes the muscles on his arm, and especially pays attention to his chest, giving the firm muscles squeezes and admiring how different they are from hers. Mao blushes deeper the further down she goes, but lets her continue to explore. Her fingers are gently caressing and pressing down on every bit of skin on his arms, chest, and back. Everything except his cock. The ache grows, but he obediently keeps his hands glued to his knees.

She isn’t ignorant of his arousal, much like she isn’t ignoring her own. But the fun was in taking her time, so she rubs and kisses his shoulders, and when his cock twitches with every other passing second he swears that he can feel her smile against his skin. After a few minutes of feeling up his body, Anzu finally tugs on the leash. It’s just a light pull, to grab his attention, then she sits on the bed and gestures for him to sit down. He stands up and moves to join her on the mattress.

“Lay down.”

He obeys, head hitting the pillows with an airy thump. He lays flat on his back with only his cock refusing to do the same, begging for attention. Mao looks at her eagerly as she hikes up her skirt, showing white panties, and positions her legs on either side of him. Anzu lowers her crotch down just enough that his leaking tip is pressing against her clothed entrance, and she gasps softly at how warm it feels. He really wishes his cock could be enveloped by her warm folds, but for now he has to settle with her rubbing her panties against it instead.

Leash still in hand, Anzu presses her palms flat against his chest as she begins grinding against his cock oh so slowly. Since her skirt is blocking the view, she has to get a feel for how far forward can push herself to keep his cockhead still in contact with her panties, slowly gyrating her hips back and forth along his length. Her pace is a clear indicator of her inexperience, but Mao still pants happily at the friction. If his tongue was longer it’d be lolling out in excitement.

He tries to keep his hips mostly still, but he can’t help but encourage her to speed up by lifting his hips up slightly to meet her movements. He’s so, so close, but at the same time too far away. Mao wants to climb higher, to the peak of his pleasure, and Anzu’s steady pace just isn’t enough. He whines loudly, displeasure apparent, and in a moment of weakness his hands move to her hips, wanting to guide them down.

She tugs on his leash, hard. He winces in pain as his neck is jerked upward, and sees her flushed face looking down at him with surprise, maybe at both of their actions. She remembers what she’s supposed to be doing the next second and puts on her best “I’m disappointed in you” look.

“Bad dog. Down.”

His hands retreat back to the sheets, and he looks off to the side—embarrassed not at his actions, but at how the blood rushed to his crotch at her words. She stops grinding against him entirely as punishment, and though the pressure against his cock still feels good, the high he was close to had quickly retreated. He whimpers sadly.

“Do you want to cum, Mao?”

He nods.

“Only good boys get to do that. Will you behave for me?”

He nods again, more frantically this time. Anzu composes herself and begins to grind against him again, and though she starts off painfully slow, he’s learnt his lesson and just grips the sheets tightly instead of voicing a complaint. The reward for his patience comes soon enough, and Anzu hides her moans with clenched teeth as she begins to pick up the pace. Her panties are soaked with her own juices, her cunt wanting to clench around the warmth that the fabric is blocking. But she has a pet to please, so for now she satisfies herself with rubbing her folds against his length. Mao begins to growl, the same feeling from before wanting to be released. Still, he waits for permission, green eyes wide and pleading as they catch Anzu’s when she opens them.

“You can—hah, c-cum anytime you want.” She bites her lip to stifle her noises, but Mao bucks his hips up and she lets them slip as she’s busy steadying herself. The sound of her enjoying herself is so pretty, he can’t help but moan loudly himself as his cum spurts all over the inside of her thighs and skirt, soaking her already wet panties even more. He breathes heavily as Anzu climbs off him and takes off her skirt. The inside is dripping with seed as expected, and she tosses it aside. She presses a finger to the middle of her underwear, and when it comes back glistening with a mixture of their arousal it seems beyond saving.

“Well, these are ruined.” She sighs, sliding them off her legs and tossing them to the floor to join her skirt.

“Sorry.” Mao groans out, speaking for the first time since they started. “I’ll clean it all uP?!” His eyes widen as a sudden tug on his leash makes him look at her. She doesn’t seem upset like he thought, rather there’s a look in her eye that he recognizes from the last time they spent a night together.

“What makes you think we’re done? I haven’t even gotten to cum.”

The leash is still pulled taut as Anzu climbs back onto him, her now bare folds pressing against his cock, which wasn’t staying soft for long.

“Will you be a good boy and help me?”

[sunnythegyarufreak]

Misconceptions about gyaru

Hey guys! I know that I said I was done for today but I couldn't resist making one final post tonight. Don't worry! I've already finished the post I promised you guys and it is scheduled to post at noon tomorrow. But for now let's get into the topic of this post.

There are many misconceptions about gyaru and I'm here to sort of clear up some of these! So let's get startedddd

"Gyaru was never inspired by black people. It was inspired by bay watch"

This is VERY untrue. If you watch Haruka on tiktok or youtube you would know she has a mom who used to be a gyaru. And in a video with Haruka's mom she stated that gyaru was never inspired by bay watch and most of the inspiration was from black people and their style. There is even a gyaru substyle called "B-Kei" that is DIRECTLY inspired by protective hairstyles, hip hop and rap music, and street fashion.

(The picture below is Haruka!! Her tiktok username is otknoharuka and her and her mom were on cybr.grl’s channel!)

"Only Japanese people can do gyaru"

A lot of non gals say this but this is incorrect. Everyone can be gyaru! I stated this in my first post but anyone of any gender, size, and race can be gyaru. One very popular gyarusa 'Black Diamond' is known for their big group and how they impacted the gyaru style and how others saw gyaru. One of their main goals was expanding gyaru to different countries! Many members have said that anyone can be gyaru. Their whole thing was basically "world domination" because they wanted to spread the message of gal and wanted others to embrace and join this unique style.

"Gyaru is asian fishing"

SOOOO many people assume that gyaru is asian fishing because it's a Japanese fashion subculture. Asian fishing is where someone pretends to be asian and does makeup to make themselves look asian. Gyaru ISNT this. There is a difference between asian fishing makeup and gyaru makeup. With gyaru makeup, if there's a droop the droop goes down and extends downwards. With asian fishing makeup the eyeliner extends the eye outwards and makes the person appear to have slanted and small eyes. As you can see in the image below the asian fishing makeup elongates and slants the eye while dolly makeup widens the eye and makes it appear bigger.

"Anything besides Yamanba isn't gyaru"

This could never be so far from the truth. In fact during the 90's when gyaru first started Yamanbas and Manbas weren't even considered gyarus by other gals at the time. It was later in the 2000's when people started to call Yamanbas gyarus and now Yamanba/Manba is a gyaru substyle. People will automatically assume that anyone who isn't wearing big lashes and white makeup on their eyelids isn't gyaru. But many gyaru substyles require soft dolly makeup such as Agejo and Himegyaru/Himekaji where the focus is more on the clothes and hair than the makeup. Unlike styles like Kurogyaru, Manba, Yamanba, Ganguro, and Gonguro where the main focus of the style is the dramatic makeup and deep tans.

"If you don't tan you aren't gyaru"

While many gyaru substyles do require tanning many other substyles don't require tanning! And some styles like Yamanba/Manba which heavily rely on the tan and makeup have substyles specifically for people who don't want to or can't tan but still wear Yamanba makeup. Not tanning doesn't make you any less gyaru :)

That's it for today lovelies! Atleast until my next post lol. But i hope this blog post helped clear up any confusion about gyaru! If you guys still have any questions I would be happy to answer them :D For now I shall bid you gals farewell. This is Sunny signing off!!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Do you think people in twst can tell apart Leech brothers only by their hair and this eye shape thing for players executively?

I’m pretty certain that the twins’ eyes are like that in-universe, not just “for the benefit of the player”. It’s one of their distinguishing physical traits. The twins are always depicted like that across all forms of TWST media, even if it’s not an interactive medium (as in, the “player” themselves is not present) like the game (ie in trailers, in the manga, etc).

For as much as other characters comment that Jade and Floyd “have the same face”, that comment feels more like the initial reaction others have upon seeing them for the first time rather than “they look exactly alike to me” after actually knowing them for a while. When Yuu and co. see the twins for the first time in episode 1, Grim remarks about their faces being the same (and it carries over to episode 3 when the twins play significantly bigger roles). In Endless Halloween Night, Riddle also mentions that when he didn’t know Jade that well, it was difficult for him to tell Floyd and Jade apart. I would liken this to when you see someone at a first glance, you’ll notice the big picture before you begin to take in the details (think of a camera zooming in) rather than focusing on one detail before pulling out to reveal the big picture.

The direction of the hair stripe is but one visual indicator of the differences between the twins. Floyd’s stripe curls in from his right, and Jade’s curls in from his left (which forms a “J”, something he tells Riddle as a hint to remember him). Their earrings are also on the same side as their black hair stripes.

There have been a number of other references to the differences in how the twins physically present themselves, such as when Floyd complains about Jade having to do his bowtie for him, but Floyd eventually always undoing it anyway. This pertains to Floyd’s more lax and sloppy way of dressing, whereas Jade is neat and dresses more conservative. Floyd has also demonstrated more of an interest in fashion, as he’s always browsing footwear and expresses that he wants to dress in a style that is unique to himself (since merpeople don’t usually wear clothes).

In terms of the eyes, Jade’s unique magic incantation (shown in episode 4) specifically has him mentioning to “look into [his] left eye”--the golden one. Floyd’s golden eye is the one on his right, though his unique magic does not involve eye contact at all.

I don’t believe there are many lines which reference their eye shape other than in vague terms, like saying that Jade “looks calm” or something. The closest thing we get to a remark on eye shape is when Eliza (in Ghost Marriage) described Floyd as “[having] kind eyes” while describing Jade as “[having] a pleasant smile”. It could be that Eliza is talking about the feeling behind those eyes rather than the shape, but I’m inclined to believe she’s talking about the shape because 1) the slanted downward eyes Floyd has are known as a cute or a moe trait in Japanese media and 2) I don’t think Eliza would judge that Floyd’s character is kind just because of how he looks; she has used mainly physical descriptors when talking about the other boys (ie Leona is “wild” and has “.

Since Eliza used different traits for each of the twins, it implies that she notices different standout traits about them, so it’s also likely that Jade and Floyd’s eye shapes are notable or distinctive in some way in-universe. It’s just not something that’s often remarked on because (I assume) it’s not really relevant or as noticeable unless you’re intently or regularly staring at them (and given their scary reputation, why would you??). Like... I assume that we also don’t regularly comment on other people’s eye shapes irl, so why would the characters comment on it in-universe unless it was specifically for something fashion or maybe vision related???? There’s no reason for it to really come up.

[sxnyarostova]

grishaverse rarepair exchange for @foxhanbin!!!

prompt: Zoya/Alina, s1 rivals to lovers instead? so canon divergence, maybe whatever happens differently due to them falling in love?

hello! thank you so much for this wonderful request i sank my teeth into this one and it was such a joy to write this canon-divergent piece. i have a whole au regarding this fic so I'll just do a very quick plot summary. basically, zoya overhears a conversation between baghra and the darling regarding the latter's intent/manipulation of alina and rushes to warn her, but catches her fleeing the little palace. knowing that alina will most definitely not survive on her own (and consequently die, leaving the country without hope), zoya runs away with alina and the two of them hide out in the ravkan woods for a while as they try to get across the fold (they need to get out of ravka so that alina can train and stuff before she wrecks the fold). they eventually bump into nikolai, who offers to help them, and the rest of it is pretty much the same (except some divulgences as the whole amplifier debacle plays out differently). please enjoy this snippet of the beginning of this au! <3

She has got to get out of here.

There is nothing but trouble at the Little Palace, nothing but daggers carefully veiled and tucked away in the smiles of the people around her. The very thought of her being wielded as a blade by the very man she’d trusted– by the man she’d poured her trust into like water into a jug– manages to chill her to the bone despite the woolly kefta wrapped around her shoulders. The biting wind seems to spread from Alina’s insides, threatening to freeze her blood if she isn’t careful. She shivers despite herself and finds her gaze shifting downwards. 

Spread out beneath her dangling feet is one of many gardens within the Little Palace’s sprawling structure; from the second-storey window she’s currently leaning out of, everything looks miniature; as if it’s part of an ant colony. She despises everything right now and wishes that Mal had never been drafted to go on that sandskiff, but now is not the time for hindsight and wishful thinking. 

“It’s all in perspective,” she whispers, slowly inching off the ledge. Trust is what has driven her to desperation; desperation is what’s currently driving her to climb out of this stupid window, fear seizing her rabbiting heart. Shifting her weight so that she’s free to take a ginger step onto the roof shingles, she tries her hardest not to scrabble as she slides down the brickwork, one meticulously placed step at a time.

Alina has never been great at climbing: she guesses that’s why she loses her footing and all but scrabbles down the slanted surface, hands desperately clawing at the brickwork. She’s going to die here, she thinks, with hardly a single friend left in the world; she’s going to fall from this roof, break her neck, and–

She has never believed in miracles. Alina had learned a long, long time ago that hoping and believing and praying would never work in her favour: the Saints weren’t real, and the only… thing that she could rely on was her pluck. That’s why she decides that what happens then is not a miracle; it’s an act of goodwill from a person, not a Saint. A living, breathing person with a kefta of blue, her hands pushing a cushioning gust of wind upwards.

Landing in an undignified heap on the ground, Alina does not dare look up. She doesn’t want to see Zoya’s blazing eyes, her curled lip: Alina Starkov wants with all her heart to leave and never look back at the Little Palace. Fold be damned, she thinks: there is nothing left for her here. But life and fate have never been particularly kind to her, and Alina braces for the worst when Zoya opens her mouth.

“Well? Where’s my thank-you, Starkov?”

Alina blinks, and her eyes narrow. “I’m sorry?”

“I just saved you from certain death,” Zoya says slowly. “I think that deserves a thank-you of some kind; don’t you?”

“You’re not going to ask–?”

Zoya exhales and gives her hair a toss. Her outfit for the fete is nothing short of a feast for the eyes; dressed in a lightning-blue kefta trimmed with mink fur, Zoya looks like a queen. Something in Alina tells her to genuflect in some way: it takes everything in her not to crumble on the spot.

“I heard something,” Zoya admits, wringing her hands together. She glances over both her shoulders, and as if she’s letting Alina in on the darkest secret in the world, leans in and says, “The Darkling– he’s not what–”

“I know. He’s been—” Alina hesitates because it’s not real unless she says it aloud: nothing is. She takes a deep breath. “He’s been using me.” 

“Oh, but you don’t know; not all of it, at least. Do you really think Baghra would've told you the whole truth?”

“No, but I’ve got to work with what I’ve got, don’t I?”

Zoya bites her lip and does another scan of her surroundings. “Have you a clue of where you’re going, Alina, or what you’re going to do?” A pause. “Don’t look at me like that. Tell me, before I make the mistake of sending the only hope this country has to her death.”

“I’m not–”

“You are. Don’t stand there with sunlight threaded in your hair and tell me that you’re not the lone candle in the rippling dark, Alina.”

“And so what if I am?” Alina exclaims. “It’s not like anyone else– they all see me as nothing but a weapon, Zoya, and since when did you stop thinking like that?” 

“I never thought of you as a weapon,” Zoya says quietly. “Jealousy is a monstrous creature, Alina: I hope you never have to brush heads with it.”

It’s a funny idea to entertain, the thought of Zoya Nazyalensky being jealous of her. Animosity is a concept easier to understand; jealousy, on the other hand, is notched with nuance and partiality, a grey area that Alina doesn’t quite know how to navigate. She has been jealous of many people in her life; being the seed and origin of the feeling, however, is novel to her.  

“You keep dodging my questions,” Zoya observes suddenly, before stating quite frankly, “You don’t have a plan.”

“I’m adaptable,” Alina argues. The beads of sand are rollicking down the hourglass, each one sliding downwards faster than the one before, and she needs to go; she won’t be able to breathe properly and rest her fraying nerves until an ocean separates her from Ravkan soil. “Zoya, if you’ve got something to say– let it out.”

“I’m coming with you: you’d be as good as dead, going off alone.”

Alina wants to be offended, but she feels more relieved than anything. Zoya is, to Alina’s chagrin, clairvoyant in her predictions. The two of them will be okay together; Alina’s never acknowledged miracles or saints, but what she does believe in is fate, and strings the colour of trickling blood. 

“All right,” Alina finds herself saying. “All right.”

(A storm ravages through Ravka that night, one of fantastical proportions. Later, there are rumours of daylight gracing the darkest evening sky– some dismiss them as searchlights angled in the wrong direction, or shooting stars that’ve strayed from their trajectories. Others believe it to be the second coming of the Sun Saint, the one that the Darkling claims to be mourning. 

Somewhere, the woods are aglow with the mingling brilliance of thunder and sunlight.)