#tried a little different style with them ^ ^

[kingofthecotas]

more like a relapse | ao3

aka the bmw sex fic (e) | 3.2k

inspired by this post and its tags everyone say thank u @certainstarfishllama

——

In Valentino’s defence, he’d told them it was too much. 

——

They unveil the car in Jerez with him there, and they’ve done a good job, he has to admit: deep midnight blue, and only the trim, the wheel spokes, the threads of the interior, carry his yellow. The art of subtlety seems to have been lost, however, when it came to stencilling his number over the rear doors. A horrible reminder of his age, more than his racing.

Whatever. It’s a good-looking car. 

They’d insisted, all of them, BMW and WRT and MotoGP, now that he’s as close to a BMW factory driver as he can get. They’d insisted, and he may be Valentino Rossi but even he is not always able to escape the demands on his time, attention, and commercial indulgence. 

He saves his gripes for Uccio, both of them hiding in the blessed privacy of his motorhome with cups of the only decent coffee to be found at the circuit.

“It’s, ah, ostentatious,” he says over his second espresso. It’s mostly a complaint. Partly a boast. 

“It could have been yellow,” Uccio retorts. “I suppose they have to make sure that whoever wins it actually wants it.”

“Yes, probably.” A sip. “Who do you think will?”

Uccio lets out a snort. “The way he is going? Márquez, probably.”

And—oh. Valentino hadn’t even—well, he’s considering it now: Marc settling into the leather seat, framed in yellow, Vale’s yellow, victorious and satisfied; his big hands curled around the wheel, yellow stitching beneath his palms—

Uccio snaps his fingers. Valentino blinks. 

“Don’t,” his friend warns. “He only ever wanted to fuck you, and then fuck you over. Both of which he managed, by the way.” 

“Mm.” And Marc had been very good at fucking him. Just a little too good at fucking him over, too. 

——

Marc doesn’t get pole in Jerez.

It’s a good lap by Fabio. Even Marc thinks so, from the crinkle in the corner of his eyes; he’s always known Fabio is better than what his bike allows him to be.

Marc doesn’t get pole in Le Mans, and it—Vale looks sideways at that one, but Fabio is at home, on form, on a bike that seems to be coming to him, and again, it was a good fucking lap. 

Silverstone makes it three, and Valentino shouldn’t care this much, he shouldn’t, and Pecco has been complaining constantly about the fucking front end, and he has to take it seriously now because Diggia is saying the same. He shouldn’t care this much, but it chafes.

He doesn’t mention it to Uccio. It wouldn’t be the first time he accused Marc of doing something on purpose.

——

They give him the keys in Mugello for a couple of media laps, and it’s too easy to slip them into his pocket afterwards, solid and warm through his shorts. Suzi is laughing—good, he likes Suzi—swiping hair away from her face and the cameras follow that instead of the quick movement of his hand. The producer has another set, will be able to drive it back to its spot in the paddock; he might even get away with it, which sends a mischievous thrill up his spine. If not—ah, well, an easy mistake to make. He’s sure he will be forgiven. 

——

Pecco gets pole on Saturday; his first of the year, impossibly, and not entirely unexpected, but it rubs something raw in Vale when Marc pulls in behind the second-place board. It’s ridiculous, this hurt that’s pistoning in his chest, but it’s there all the same, so. Nothing to do but muscle through it, Márquez-style, and pretend it isn’t entirely self-inflicted. 

Catching Marc in the midday light, between motorhome shadows, is a little too easy, and Marc waits for him. He waits, head tilted with that terrible arrogance as he waits for Valentino to speak.

There was a time Marc made him nothing but angry. Not so much, anymore: time and age and a different kind of heat that curls his chest into a breathless knot. 

“You are slipping, eh?” He tries for familiar, light, teasing. Familiarity breeds contempt, however, because Marc snorts, dangerous like a bull. 

“Perhaps you do not believe in Pecco as much as you pretend to.” Straight for the jugular, then. 

“Ah.” Vale manages to laugh. “It is the bike, we both know this. He likes it here. Maybe you will even let him win tomorrow.”

“Let,” Marc echoes, an old Spanish slant to the words that Vale had thought he’d lost. “I do not let anybody win.” And that really was the problem, in the end. 

“No,” Vale agrees. The car keys burn like a brand in his pocket. “You might let someone else get pole, though.” 

And Marc smiles, flat. Ivory blade on a knife edge. “Why would I do that?” 

He looks good in red; it deepens the tan in his skin, and teases his eyes into something a little less black. Es tu color, Valentino doesn’t say. He does shrug though, unbothered, and flash a lazy smile before turning his back. 

Marc’s gaze scorches into him every step he takes. 

——

Marc does not let Pecco win. It’s close, though, closer than Qatar, but that’s no consolation when second place is second place, and five points is five points. Perhaps it’s a good thing Vale won’t be in Assen, a country and a twenty-four-hour race away.

Just like Saturday, Vale has no trouble finding Marc, this time in the seldom-trespassed space between the garages and the service road that passes under the track on the run to Arrabbiata. The producer had left the car here on Thursday, on display, not far from the motorhomes.

“See, I said,” Marc says—initiating now, and Vale wonders when they got here, how they got here, “I said I do not let anybody win.”

“Just pole position, then.”

Marc shrugs, self-assured again and easy with it. “No points for pole.”

“Ah, but look.” Vale reaches into his pocket, finds what he’s been carrying since Thursday afternoon. “At the end of the year, you would get a car.” He dangles the keys between two fingers, noting the hypnotic way Marc’s gaze follows it.

“I have enough cars.”

“Maybe you would like a test drive?”

“No.” But Marc is closer than when they started talking, a step or so; Vale catalogues it greedily. That, and the most words they’ve exchanged in a decade. 

“I am a professional racing driver, you know. Might be fun.” 

Head angled, and another step forward. He has Marc on a string here, and Marc has him too. Neither of them could turn and leave if they tried. “What, you are giving me a sales pitch?”

“If you want.” And Vale wants. He wants.

“Show me, then.” Haughty, like he’s doing Valentino a favour. 

So Vale does, beckoning with a hand outstretched, letting Marc follow him around the corner to the car, already unlocked. The blue seems darker now, less vibrant next to Marc’s red as he opens the driver’s door and slips in, every movement a carefully calculated execution of muscle and sinew. Aim, set, fire. 

Marc traces a finger over the neon yellow stitching on the seat, the leather steering wheel. “Tasteful.”

“I didn’t design it.”

“No?” Marc says. “You would have had more yellow?”

“Maybe,” Vale says, horribly delighted at this strange game they’ve found themselves playing; Marc leans across the driver’s seat, one leg pulled up to his chest, to inspect the gearstick.  

Vale wants him so badly his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. Marc knows this, of course he does, so he lets his other leg hang out of the open door, smooth skin paler than usual in the dark, shorts riding up his thigh. 

Silence. Valentino waits. 

“How does it drive?” Marc says eventually, just a glance over his shoulder.  

Vale lets himself smile. 

——

Valentino knows Mugello well enough, a second, third, fourth home, and the roads around it are second nature. He’s a lazy driver too, left hand on the wheel, right elbow on the centre console, taking the curves in the road easy. 

“This is how you drive your racecars?” Marc asks, almost this side of mean, and Vale pushes down a gear just to make the engine growl, just so Marc’s sharp cut of teeth slides into something more satisfied. 

He had allowed himself to imagine, sometimes, Marc in a passenger seat beside him. If not for the gearstick being something for his right hand to hold—well, Marc looks at him with those almost-black eyes that shouldn’t carry as much feeling as they do—and normally they don’t, not if Marc doesn’t want them to. Vale’s fingers twitch. 

One swing of the wheel, and they’re on a dirt road that leads to nowhere, too fast, tyres crunching loose stone as he pulls to a sharp stop. 

Marc huffs out a sharp laugh. “I thought we were driving.” And before Valentino can fire back, he’s out of the door, cool air ballooning into the space where he had been. He’s getting better at doing that, taking Vale by surprise, as if he’s practised the willing twenty-one-year-old out of himself.

His lip curls, despite himself, and Vale can’t decide if it’s humour or scorn, so he presses the ignition into silence and opens his own door, praying that the evening breeze brings some sense with it.

It doesn’t. Marc has slipped into the backseat, door wide open, inspecting something that doesn’t seem as important as catching Valentino’s eye in the rearview mirror, and it hasn’t been so long spent apart that they don’t understand each other in their silences—no amount of time would be long enough, Vale thinks, for that—so he’s pulled on a string out of his seat, drifting, marionette, around the front of the car and to the open rear door, his own number a dull shadow. Marc shuffles further in; Vale braces himself on the doorframe, a familiar heat simmering low in his stomach. 

It’s been a long time, ten bloody years of dug-in trench warfare between now and the last time they meant this. Not so long that Vale isn’t already half-hard. Not so long that Marc has to do anything more than tilt his head in invitation, and Valentino crawls into the backseat.

“Very graceful,” he mutters, a protective wall of self-deprecation, but Marc’s answering laugh isn’t mean—or Vale doesn’t think so, at least. It’s been a long time.

One hand finds itself on Marc’s ankle, his leg crooked just so. The other lands on the inside of his smooth thigh, gentle thumb drawing a circle. 

Marc swallows; his throat clicks, loud in the silence. Those same dark eyes, now carefully shuttered, wait for Vale to make his next move, and at least if it’s away then his shields are up. No perceived sunk cost. 

How like Marc to shrink into his own defences now, like he can’t—like he doesn’t know—

“Yes?” Valentino asks, unable to get anything more coherent out, but Jesus Christ, it’s important.

“Yes,” Marc hisses, headstrong and demanding and everything Vale taught himself to hate. Wanting, too: a crack in the shield wall, so he presses his advantage, sliding one hand under Ducati-red armour just to feel Marc’s skin again. 

Trainers shaken off, rolled somewhere beneath the front seat, Vale tries to keep hold of Marc—a desperate greedy thing, really, and one he can’t explain to himself; his free hand struggles with the button on his shorts, and then pulling them down without bumping his head against the glass roof. Marc, leopard-lithe, has no such problems, his own shorts kicked free and discarded. Shirts, too, a black-and-red pool of them to be distilled apart later, a reversible reaction. 

Marc gets there first, counter-strike, and gets his whole hand around Valentino’s dick, hot through his boxers. He’s hard too, beneath his red underwear. Superstitious idiot. Vale makes a noise he hasn’t for years, arousal cut through with ungainly humour. 

As if that was a personal challenge—and it probably was—Marc slips the same hand, right hand, past Vale’s waistband, light enough to tease down the length of him but unbearably scorching, so it seems only fair to return the favour. Marc is heavy in his palm when Vale works it free, and he shudders, sliding further down until he’s beneath Vale’s chest.

It’s uncomfortable, even on the wide seats, and Vale has to readjust, then shift again, before realising, “I don’t have any—”

“Side door compartment,” Marc says, and smirks. Jesus. Vale had cameras in this car on Thursday. 

Valentino could decide he’s been engineered here, manoeuvred to Marc’s whims instead of the other way around. He decides he’s enjoying it. Decides that Marc wanted this too. 

He reaches past Marc’s head as directed, muscle-stretch burning his shoulders, and pinches a packet between two fingers, imagines Marc carrying them around with him, slipping them into the car when no one was looking. He nearly slices the pad of his thumb on the sharp foil edge trying to get the lube on his fingers. 

“Easier in a bed,” he says, mostly to see if Marc will laugh again, and he does, bright and loud, shifting so Vale can get between his legs.

He does, pushing a finger in, leaning down close to Marc as he does, feeling more than hearing the hitched breath, and presses in, reining himself back because—careful, careful. Marc is squirming now, demanding more, but Marc is never careful, not with himself. 

“Come on,” hissed somewhere in Vale’s neck, fang-sharp.

“So impatient,” Vale purrs, and it is a purr despite the desperate want clawing at his throat. 

“You have been—fuck.” Marc throws his head back, skin taut in his jaw. Still got it, then. “You have been staring at me since Jerez.”

Maybe. Maybe Vale had been staring for longer than that, and Jerez was when Marc began to look back. 

Second finger in, and gentle is an effort now, but age has taught Vale that some things are worth the wait. 

Another short breath. Marc tilts his head up, catching Vale’s earring with his teeth. Vale wonders for a moment if he might rip it out, but Marc moans hot against his earlobe instead. Ten minutes ago, Vale would have chalked that little victory towards his total. Now, the giddy triumph is a silver thread drawing him in closer, closer. Third finger. 

Marc whines this time, releasing the earring with a final tug, his hands reaching down until they find the back of Valentino’s bent legs—what are they doing, Vale wonders hysterically, crouched and tangled in the backseat of a car like a couple of teenagers. If teenagers’ knees protested when they did this, that is. 

“Please,” Marc pants when Vale twists his fingers, spreading just to be sure. “It’s—I can—”

“Yeah—yeah.” 

“Vale—”

“Yes,” Vale soothes, and pulls his hand away to wrap it around his dick. A long time, since Marc has said his name like that, since he’s been inside Marc like this. 

One smooth movement, and he groans through it, Marc’s satisfied noise catching behind his teeth. Then he twitches, a breath before Vale gets all the way in, and clenches—Vale has to throw one hand out to brace himself, hits the window with a dull thud that makes them both jump. His fingers leave an unmistakably sweaty mark.

“Ah—shit,” Marc says, and laughs without restraint. Vale watches, motionless, warmed to the very root of him. 

Then he moves. 

Marc gasps, his eyes going wide, mouth open in a way Valentino hasn’t seen in a long time—normally so tight, jaw set, cheeks stiff unless he has to smile, but this—

This is all Vale’s. 

One knee slips towards the edge of the seat when he tries to drive in further, a swoop that sends him closer to Marc’s slack mouth, only their breath between them. He finds purchase somewhere in the footwell and when he readjusts, slants his hips up, he swallows Marc’s filthy answering moan down his own throat. 

Hands clutch him, only hesitating for a second before settling just where Valentino likes them, back of his ribcage, big and warm against his skin. Tip of a nail pressed into the divot of his spine. 

Vale follows the pressure, curls his torso down, cobra-like, thrusts again. Marc pants scalding against him, and everything in Valentino’s awareness is Marc, Marc, Marc: skin, breath, their bodies. 

It’s easy to forget, like this. When they’re like this. 

Everything is hot with Marc, scorching, a cacophony of red and orange and the heat of him against Vale’s skin, around his cock. They’ll burn out, though, they always do, and not with a gentle fizzle, not in embers. Supernovas. Heat death.

Not for the first time, Vale wishes—

But they are. They are. They couldn’t be anybody else. 

Marc tilts his hips, breath coming ragged now, and Vale meets him there, their rhythm broken, frantic; white-knuckling, both of them searching for leverage to push impossibly closer. 

“Marc,” is all he can say, “Marc—” and he’s lost every other word in every language he knows. 

Marc gasps, forces out, “Fuck—Vale—” before he buries his face in the crook of Valentino’s elbow as he comes, and that’s all Vale needs to follow him, arms shaking, pelvis twitching. 

He pants hard and ugly through his mouth. Stares. Lucidity is an unwelcome companion, everything cool and sticky now, the breeze brushing his bare legs like gentle fingers. Marc turns his head, loose, sated, but closed away again, guarded, as Vale pulls out. 

The thing with Marc is—he’s excellent at evaluating the danger after the crash. It’s how he is, riding past the limit to find it, looking back to pinpoint where he could have avoided it all, if he’d been a little more careful. If he hadn’t charged headfirst towards the highside. 

“Sorry,” Marc says, then before Valentino’s stomach can truly start churning, “You will have to pay for someone to deep clean it, I think.”

The fucking car. “Or you could make sure that you win it.” 

“It is, ah, growing on me.” 

“Oh, yes?” Vale asks, light, as if it matters nothing. Inconsequential. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“It will remind you of me, a little bit.”

“Of this?” And Marc’s smile is impish; Vale can’t help but give him one back.

This—this is what he hates about Marc: how good they are together, and what a wrench it is when they inevitably end. Because they can’t—they don’t work. 

“We should…” Valentino sighs through his nose; reluctance tugs at his tongue. “We should get this back, I think.” He goes to reach for his shorts, the keys; stopped by a tentative hand on his wrist.

Marc’s eyes glint, sparks of the dashboard lights. “This is still your car, no? For now?

“It is,” Vale agrees, slow. Understanding is swift, when it’s Marc looking at him like that. “Ah, well, I suppose they will not miss it for a while longer.” 

A flash of teeth. In the dark, inching down his palm, Marc’s fingers lace with his.

[blush-and-books]

rant about jenny and buffy incoming!!!!

i just rewatched surprise (2x13) and innocence (2x14) because rhonda wilcox wrote a particular essay about those episodes, and i wanted the content fresh in my mind for it. but it REEEEEEEALLY got me thinking harder about the buffy and jenny dynamic, because it's such a rich and somehow highly tense relationship even though they seldom have many direct interactions before the reveal about jenny's character happens.

what i love about their relationship (or lack thereof) is that it isn't one of disdain, but it's a little awkward and uncomfortable. let me explain.

now, as we see in the beginning of season two, buffy IS encouraging of giles pursuing jenny. she's not overly excited about it, but she does her best to advise him on how to ask jenny out. at this beginning of the jenny/giles relationship story, she's very much an entity that exists outside of the scoobies and giles' work as a watcher.

while joyce summers is obviously fondly remembered for everything she's done for her daughters and her love for them, the beginning of the series is way more focused on how cut off she is from buffy's life. buffy cannot share really anything with joyce, and hank is uninvolved following the divorce. giles has started to become a paternal figure, and this is emphasized in how he navigates the news that buffy and angel had sex - buffy is distressed that he's disappointed in her actions, and giles only voices his support, which buffy has not received in honesty from a parental figure in a long time.

even though joyce is detached from buffy at this time, jenny is hardly a maternal figure or role model for buffy, despite her involvement with buffy's new father figure. jenny is caught at the crossroads of representing youth, vitality, and newness (her expertise in computers), but she often aligns with adult ideology in the way she treats the scoobies (ex. in 2x14 when she scolds rupert for panicking in front of "the kids," as she refers to them).

where i think she could have been a really interesting conduit for helping giles understand what buffy is going through, and she DEFINITELY could infer that buffy and angel had sex right before he lost his soul, we don't see jenny comforting or supporting buffy in any way. i wish we did, because i think it would have been golden, but it also speaks volumes to me about how jenny and buffy are so detached from each other, too. jenny is probably a little bit afraid of buffy - afraid of how giles prioritizes her, afraid of the power that buffy has.

additionally, buffy doesn't know how to feel about jenny because she's probably like a weird stepmom to buffy. will she distract giles from his responsibility as buffy's watcher? how will she handle magic and demons? buffy appears to be unsure of jenny's authority in various situations, and has very little to connect with jenny over. out of the scoobies, jenny has the best relationship with willow, because they share passions in computer tech and magic; while buffy is more aligned with giles in literature (we learn later how buffy enjoys poetry) and fight strategy. buffy also loves shopping, which the fashion-challenged willow definitely is not passionate about at this time, and jenny, being romani and likely a traveler/nomadic type, is deliberately outfitted to re-wear the same staple pieces in different styles.

when jenny's omission of the truth has been revealed, buffy blames it almost entirely on jenny. which is understandable. but her and jenny have zero closeness, so buffy's anger is easy!!! if her and jenny were tight, this would have been more of an emotional conflict, and buffy probably would NOT have tried to choke jenny out against her desk (this is one of my favorite scenes ever btw it's so crazy). there was always a tension between buffy and jenny, so when this reveal occurs, rage is a no-brainer!!! buffy is ready to say "see!! i was right in not opening up to her!!" and cut jenny out completely, an act in which giles follows suit and buffy does not gaf if it hurts him, too, because her father figure chooses her over his girlfriend.

i would also like to say that i LOVE how jenny does not bow to buffy's power in this scene where buffy confronts her. jenny does not beg for forgiveness or cry or plead, because she's not that girl. she's that bitch. between jenny, buffy, and giles, they ALL have been unwillingly forced into a position to uphold ancient generational powers/responsibilities. and jenny tells buffy as such - and straight-up says she can't fix it. she owns up to her lie, but is brutally honest about her position, and i LOVE THAT-

because jenny still tries to fix it, she understands in this moment how her mission is flawed, and takes agency to restore the relationships that she cares about. and buffy does not truly appreciate jenny until she is gone.

while i obviously bitch on this app every day about how brilliant jenny's character could have been if she'd only been kept in the series long-term, i really mourn the loss of watching a dynamic develop with buffy. in the same way that buffy inevitably accepts tara as family, i believe that she would have done the same with jenny, and that jenny would step into a role of comforting and supporting buffy in situations where giles was not equipped to do so, especially after joyce dies.

if you made it to the end of this rant i am giving you the biggest kiss ever

[honeyrotsoul]

so, i was thinking about adult Natalie’s hair last night. (weird, i know, but walk with me.) the reason i was thinking about it is because i own a lot of wigs and was thinking of cutting one into a bob until my own hair recovers but that’s beside the point. WHEN I WAS THINKING ABOUT IT, i realized that this is the shortest we see natalie’s hair in the series. her hair in her arrest photo is closer to her original style, and we know that it grows out in the wilderness (obviously.) and i know that not every style choice means something. like it could just be as simple as not messing with juliette’s own hair that much. but i was wondering if nat’s hair could be another symbol of rejecting the wilderness and the past. visually, it looks kind of close to what we would expect from nat stylistically. there’s the layers and the messiness, but no bangs and no length - not even the length she preferred. it’s like simultaneously reaching for the past while rejecting the part of her that lived in the wilderness. (and still not letting go of it that same time, e.g. no bangs) she wants to move forward. she wants to forget who she was and what she did, so she can be the person Coach Ben thought she was. but she ultimately fails. she reverts back to her younger self, just when she thought she was finally getting better. it’s a relapse, but a different kind. because Natalie thinks she’s moving forward, she thinks she’s got everything under control and no longer relates to that version of herself, but she’s actually trapped. she’s still stuck in the in between somewhere, and she doesn’t even realize it until it’s all over. her mannerisms stay the same. who she is internally stay the same. it is only the physical aspect that she rejects.

and that got me thinking about how ALL of the girls’ hair as adults kind of reflects who they are and where they are in their journey.

tai’s hair is closer to where it was pre-crash. (specifically in that classroom scene.) she chides van for being stuck in the past, but in this way, she’s also reaching for it. it’s longer than it was in the past, so she’s trying to grow, but she also isn’t. wilderness tai cut her hair, and adult tai wants to appear normal so she goes the complete opposite. she runs. time and time again, we see that tai wants to be a leader. she wants to be in control. but when things get too much for her, when they don’t go her way, she runs. she likes to think that she fights for what she wants, but, really, she only fights enough to say she tried. (see: simone and sammy. she made a few attempts, and then she went back to van. yes, this was other tai, but other tai is still tai - she just doesn’t want to accept that, because other tai is a reflection of who she truly is. the deepest parts of her, the things she actually wants in life, etc.) this is why tai never got the chance to be captain in spite of being the best player on the team (the latter part being a fact which is canon - tai was the star player) when it comes to stepping up, tai puts in effort, but somehow, someway, she falls short. with simone, with van, with being a captain. (Allie is a good indicator of this. jackie was the captain because she cared about all of them and every angle. tai couldn’t be captain because she was ruthless. she cared about some of them, but not the weak link. jackie saw vulnerability as something to be nurtured, whereas tai saw it as something that needed to be cut out. she expects everyone to live up to the same amount of pressure she puts on herself. tai wants to be a star, and if you can’t shine as brightly as she does, you have to go.) that is why, when it comes to emulating herself, tai falls just a little short. hair is a little too long, the outfit she put on to go home is just a little bit off, etc.

on the flip side of that, van’s hair is pretty much unchanged. similar length to where it was pre-crash, sort of in between the two. she hasn’t changed it much. it’s comforting, familiar, and right where she wants to be. van doesn’t consciously embrace the wilderness, but she doesn’t consciously reject it either. she’s willing to fall back into those old patterns if you nudge her just the right way. van’s hair shows that she’s stuck in the past in ways that even she doesn’t realize. everyone else grew up and moved on. she stayed there, and she’s still waiting for everyone else to come home.

shauna’s hair is closer to where it was pre-crash, but not exactly. it’s a similar length, similar styling, but not always exact. some episodes it’s perfect, sometimes it’s too wavy, too straight, appears shorter, etc. she’s trying to be good girl shauna in the hope that it will erase her sins, even if she doesn’t exactly remember what it looks like. (even the theory of ghost jackie’s hair changing could add to this point - shauna is reaching for her past but forgetting what it actually looked like.)

lottie’s hair mimics pre-crash the least. while nat has rejected her wilderness image, lottie embraces it. she’s still there. she keeps the length, the choice to not cut it again because she feels closer to it that way. she knows she wouldn’t have been able to cut it in the wilderness, so she doesn’t cut it now either so that it knows she’s still faithful. still loyal even though it cut her off. she even keeps the middle part. the most noticeable attribute to this is her bangs. pre-crash lottie had a full fringe. wilderness lottie’s bangs grew out, but if you look closely you can see remnants on the sides. meanwhile, adult lottie has curtain bangs. versatile enough where she can blend them like wilderness lottie, or leave them on show like pre-crash lottie. like she tried, but not hard enough because she no longer sees anything pre-wilderness as a reflection of herself.

misty’s hair is the most different, but also so similar. she hasn’t touched the color, but she’s chopped off the extra length and her curls are more manageable. this is because Misty wants to be seen as in control. she wanted to be a leader, someone others could depend on, but was always rejected. this way, she blends. she looks normal and tame, like she has her shit together even though, deep down, she knows she’s unhinged. but you wouldn’t know that from looking at her, because that’s exactly the point. she wants to look ordinary so people will like her, but they’ll also underestimate her. and her hair also nods towards one of her favorite people, Natalie, because both have changed their appearance in favor of something shorter. (albeit for different reasons.) who better to emulate, if she wants to be liked, than her best friend and the coolest person she knows? adult misty neither rejects nor accepts her part in the wilderness. she just accepts helped for she is, and that includes every part of - past, present, and future. adult misty has learned to adapt, like a chameleon.

and lastly, just like nat, adult Travis has rejected the wilderness completely. he cut his hair shorter than ever, so short you can barely see the waves. he ignores the fact that his destructive tendencies and addiction are a reflection of wilderness Travis, because he wants to believe that he’s evolved. that he’s better than that. keeping his hair short and neat emulates the most respectable person he knows - his father. he wants to be a man that his father would have respected, not realizing that that idea is already out of reach.

oh, and a bonus: melissa. melissa has barely changed. her hair is a similar length and color, if not a little warmer and a little thinner. she’s tamed herself down, tried to be normal, but this reflection of herself is still slightly off and, deep down, she knows it. same hat, same style, same mannerisms and ways of dressing. she tried to be boring. not because shauna said she was, but because boring felt safer. except this life she tried to build is all a lie. she is not the woman she’s trying to reflect, and that’s why you see it in her appearance. she judges shauna for her behavior, but they are two sides of the same coin. shauna learned how to fake it, but she is still wilderness shauna. melissa learned how to fake it too, but she is also still wilderness melissa. except this time, she’s not going to pull punches and back down. melissa never grew. she wants to believe she did but, just like Van, she’s still there. still waiting for everyone else to come back. wilderness melissa never left, she just got stronger.

in conclusion, yes, this is a reach. however, in black culture and many others, there is the theory that hair holds memories. so, this is me reaching into that. just for funsies. i love my yellowjackets.

[awyanno]

Redesign of the Zvahl family!

Caleb: I think i actually changed Caleb's colors the most bc he's a literal baby. He has this halloween vibe about him that I think stands out a bit against Laurence & Cadenza. I know he's suppose to be similar to Laurence with the stripes so I kept that but changed the coloring to match Laurence's colors and made the pillow/blanket of the carrier to be Cadenza's colors since she's the one who usually takes care of him.

Laurence: Oh boy where do I start? Lets start with the younger one. I made him "grunge." If I were to put him next to the other shadow knights, Laurence (and subsequently Vlyad) would be the least scene/grunge out of them all. It's supposed to show that they don't really fit in. I still put eye shadow on him because I think he would find it cool and Cadenza would say that it goes with his look. Young Laurence also has the hair of cadenza bc they dyed it to "be real siblings." Plus i think it would be an "act of Rebellion" to grow his hair out so long. I also gave him a self cut shirt bc I think it fits and I think Laurence would start his more flirty arc as a freshman. He chose the number 26 bc reasons (he originally shows in episode 26 of diaries) and so sasha or whomever made Laurence's shadow knight shirt with that number on it.

Older Laurence's colors are a little different. They're bluer toned because it signifies him growing as a person (plus he has blue jacket + green sword thingy in diaries, idk). He's growing away from Cadenza but still holds onto that familial attachment through the green undertones. I also like to think that as Laurence drops the semi-macho attitude, he would wear more and more stripped shirts. The stripes show he's silly but can also be taken seriously if it comes down to it because bro styles his outfits so good (it becomes more bisexual coded as the series continues). It also fits Laurence well because he's Cadenza's brother. The girl knows how to make an outfit look good so he's also gotta understand fashion a bit. I feel like Dante/Vylad would be the one to just not understand fashion (Vylad just doesn't care whereas Dante tries but fails).

Cadenza: I gave Cadenza a more princessy look because she's the adopted daughter of a lord in diaries. And yeah, i know that their parents are farmers in mystreet, but whatever, they're rich farmers. New head cannon. I view Cadenza similar to that of Gen 1 Clawdeen. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty, but she's gonna look fabulous as fuck while doing so. I toned down the orangy colors used in her outfits bc it clashes too much with her hair. So I went more brown/darker gold to offset that. And even then, i didn't use a lot of it. Cadenza has a weird fall color scheme often assigned to her and so I wanted to shift away from that and bring out more of the green as the color stands out more on her. I also gave her the Yelena makeup because I honestly don't know much about it and it was the only makeup style i drew the worked with the outfit/her downturned eyes. Instead of Yelena's blue I gave her green!

Family: We know for a fact that Laurence and Cadenza are adopted siblings so they're not going to look alike. So I gave them different head shapes (ovally for Laurence & guitar pickish for cadenza), skin tones, nose shapes and eye shapes. I figured they would at least act a lot more similar though. I gave the both of them confident poses (less of young Laurence) because they're both fairly confident young adults. Caleb is harder to do something for because he's literally a baby. I figured he could give sassy vibes like younger Laurence tho lol. I gave them all a greener color scheme overall bc they kinda have green as their main colors.

I wanted to differentiate between Laurence and Vylad bc they kinda have the same color of green as "theirs" so I made Vylad browner/earth vibes while Cadenza and Laurence have a more vibrant, grasser green.

[cleameur]

thinking about how clea’s perfectionism must have started off as mere juvenile curiosity, this overly inquisitive nature, innate from a young age. a precocious girl that constantly awed the adults around her with how clever beyond her years she was. just one of those children that wanted to know everything about everything, absorbing any and all knowledge she could get her hands on. i can see her sneaking into aline’s atelier and watching her work in secret so she could memorise her techniques, way before she ever picked up a brush herself.

it doesn’t stop at painting though. she wants to do it all, know it all, voraciously so. an undeniable hunger for greatness. it’s not just art, but the world at large that she draws inspiration from, using each and every single new discovery and imbuing it into her craft. she genuinely loves nothing more than broadening her horizons at any given moment. and then, verso comes along and all she wants to do is share it with him. a very young clea being so incredibly excited to teach her little brother everything she’s learned so far, from painting, to sculpting, to music and beyond. i just know she was delivering university style lectures to verso when he was only a toddler. "no, you can’t play right now, you have to listen to me, this is important!!"

but something shifts the more she grows up and matures. this perfectionism twists, its novelty sours. it suddenly becomes more of a hindrance than anything else. there’s this palpable race against time, that brings with it a slew of self-imposed pressures to maintain the standards she’d established for herself. because how is she supposed to achieve everything she’d set her mind to, when her lifespan is only a blip in the universe? the realization of her own mortality is sobering, but not because of any fear regarding death, but rather the fear of failure. the vastness of human creativity and the impossibility that comes with trying to consume it all. so much beauty and art that will forever remain unknown to her, despite her every wish to collect, document and immortalise it within her own work. because at the end of the day, she is just one person and no matter how hard she tries, it will never be enough.

a huge misconception about gifted children or young prodigies as a whole, is that it all comes naturally to them, that their talent alone can elevate them in whichever field they’re pursuing. while that might be true for some, i don’t think it is for most and it certainly isn’t for clea. she works so incredibly hard and she doesn’t ever do things by halves. not even in the midst of a war does she allow herself to create anything subpar. her nevrons are deadly, yes, but also beautiful in a monstrous way. they showcase a level of care and thoughtfulness not only towards her craft, but perhaps also towards the memory of her brother and everything they made together. i might be reading too much into this, but the fact that her nevrons are created to match and complement each of the different biomes of the continent is rather poignant to me. there’s no function over form with her. she does both, always.

[abandonedquishe]

I want in on the REAL Susie analysis 🙏

YOU DID THIS. IT'LL BE THE HOLY GRAIL OF YAPS.

Little Tw for child neglect, abuse and self-destructive behaviours

Susie is a very different character from most young monsters in Deltarune. Just from her outer appearance, you can tell she's messy, defensive, and careless. This is a great contrast from the average kid; even Kris, who's considered an outcast, has a more childlike aura than her.

Noelle is a good comparison model of what a child of her age should look like:

Hair: Both Noelle and Susie have the same length of hair. However, Noelle's is visibly more taken care of; she has it trimmed in layers, brushed, and out of her face. Susie, on the other hand, has hair with a bunch of flyaways that is obviously not styled with just the slightest trace of a past haircut, which she has already overgrown by the look of her bangs.

Clothes: Noelle has new, colourful clothes. They are formal and match, not to mention they're her size. Susie has baggy, dull clothes that have obviously gone through some wear and tear. Her shoes, too, are slightly too big and feel out of place if we consider the rest of the outfit.

Stance: Noelle has a visibly relaxed stance. Her head stands tall, her hands rest peacefully by her sides, and she's smiling. Susie's head hangs low, her hands are clenched into fists, and she has a serious expression on her face.

Interaction with others: Noelle is respectful, positive, and demure with her interactions. She's happy to interact and be vulnerable with others. Susie is satirical, cynical, and often uses foul language around people. She's used to roughhousing, even when she wants to express affection (as seen in chapter 2 when Ralsei shows her the room he made for her) and refuses to accept help despite needing it, reaching extremes such as becoming violent to keep others away (this is also shown in chapter 2 when she falls from the trash pile and Ralsei tries to help her, she's clearly in bad terms with the idea of being seen as weak).

These are her most noticeable traits, and the ones most people know her by. They all can be justified with a root problem, and oh boy, do I love the theory I'm about to show you. What I think of Susie is this: she comes from an abusive, neglectful household, which gave her violence and pain as her only defence and coping mechanisms. Her traits and other small cues can be justified with this theory:

Hair: Susie’s unkempt and overgrown hair suggests a lack of basic grooming, which children usually don’t manage on their own. Her parents either had bigger priorities or didn't classify a haircut as a need, so they left it unattended. This is a possible sign of child neglect, or lack of care by her parents. In my opinion, it’s not about fashion. it's about being forgotten or ignored.

Clothes: Susie may wear hand-me-downs, donation center finds, or simply clothing she’s outgrown but never replaced. The fact that her clothes are baggy, worn and dull suggests she either doesn’t get new clothes often or intentionally dresses in a way that’s meant to intimidate and deflect attention. This could reflect neglect neglect since no one is providing her with fresh clothes, poverty in case she isn’t able to afford them or emotional self-defence from trying to look unapproachable or keep a low profile.

Interaction with others: Susie lashes out quickly, uses sarcasm or intimidation as her first reaction, and doesn’t allow others to help her easily. This is classic trauma-based behaviour, especially in children who’ve learned that vulnerability leads to pain or deception. Her rough shows of affection like nudging Ralsei hard when he's kind to her are a result of not knowing how to express care gently. She might have grown up in an environment where emotional expression was punished or simply never modeled. Her sense of affection is physical, brash, and awkward because she’s never been shown how to do it safely.

This is connected with the last point, but lines like:

"Now I can stab myself during the night. Finally, some convenience."

"When I see a big pit, all I want to do is jump in."

"If it weren’t for the spikes, I would've impaled myself."

are very concerning to me. These kinds of behaviours often show a lack of care for safety or self-destructive tendencies in a person, and seeing them in someone so young is alarming, especially because they’re often learned.

Another point I want to touch is the fact Susie probably has PICA. She’s caught eating chalk outside of her class in chapter one, something Alphys says she’s repeatedly done before. The psychological disorder I‘m talking about makes individuals consume non-food substances. In children, pica is often associated with malnutrition, stress, trauma or poor supervision of parents. Other instances in which this is evidenced is how she eats moss with Kris and tree sap with Lancer (he is also a confirmed abused kid who could’ve developed similar coping mechanisms due to the poor diet his father provided for him btw, which could be the reason Susie bonded so fast with him).

We could also take the fact she’s never had a room of her own to justify the theory her parents have neglected her. She’s never had something that was truly hers; no belongings, no space of her own, not even an ounce of love or positive attention. I think this is one of the most important aspects to take in consideration.

If you take all of these points in consideration, Susie isn’t a childish bully, but a traumatised child who’s trying to survive after experiencing a very shitty childhood. I’m not justifying her actions, but I believe she targeted others to project the trauma she’s been through as a way to process it all. This is also probably why she’s chosen Kris to torment, their withdrawn attitude could remind her of the shy, quiet and surrendered personality of the little kid she once was.

[sailornymph]

Hey queen 🫶🏼 do you by chance write threesomes? I absolutely love your writing styles but one of my favorite things to read about is orgies😵‍💫 like Neji, Itachi, kakashi, jiraiya, etc. Just all of them sharing f!reader, double penetrating, and overstim

If you don’t like writing about that stuff I totally get it but if you are open to it and need any inspo!!

kunai and kisses; jiraiya & kakashi hatake x reader

synopsis — once cherished by konoha, now rogue, the ninja lived a life on the run, on her own path, until one of the powerful sannin and great copy cat ninja stop her, on orders that she return to the village

content warning — threesome, age gap, slight size kink, manhandling, breeding

a/n — of course, i love a delectable threesome 😋 i am really against writing requests that don’t give a summary, but this has never been requested, so i had to see if i could achieve this

the folder’s old — thick, discolored, tucked beneath a stack of forgotten reports in the bottom of a locked drawer. tsunade only finds it because she’s drunk, irritated, and going through everything the old man left behind.

her eyes skim the file. her grip tightens. she stops reading. then she starts again from the top, slower.

“y/n,” she mutters under her breath. “jonin, specialty infiltration and seduction, high passing rate, class of—damn, that long ago?”

there’s a picture paper-clipped to the side. you’re barely twenty in it, smirking like you know a secret no one else in the room is smart enough to ask about. your hair’s windswept, your uniform fitted, and you’re crouched low on a rooftop in the rain, kunai loose in your grip. a little wild. dangerously beautiful. impossible to control. tsunade flips the page. there’s a red mark stamped diagonally across your name.

rogue shinobi — active status.

“…what the hell?” she mutters, flipping again.

mission classified.

death of y/n’s only brother — chunin retrieval unit.

request to retrieve body: denied.

authorization: hiruzen sarutobi.

tsunade slams the folder shut.

“what a load of shit.”

“lady tsunade?” shizune appears behind her, holding tea. “is everything alright?”

“no.” she leans back in her chair. “everything is not alright. when the hell were we letting shinobi with this kind of skill walk away? look at this.” she tosses the folder across the desk. “read the reason she left.”

shizune skims. her lips part slightly. “it’s been over two years…”

“two years and nobody thought to question this?”

“she went rogue.”

“no,” tsunade snaps. “she was abandoned. there’s a difference.” the room goes quiet.

tsunade downs the rest of her tea like it’s alcohol.

“i want her found,” she says flatly. “alive. unharmed. and if she agrees to return, i’ll clear the rogue status myself.”

shizune hesitates. “who are you going to send?”

tsunade already knows.

kakashi reads the file in silence.

jiraiya, on the other hand, lets out a low whistle.

“y/n,” he hums. “didn’t think i’d hear that name again.”

“you knew her?” tsunade raises an eyebrow.

“knew her?” he chuckles. “tsunade, she nearly broke my nose when i tried to flirt with her. hell of a right hook. and a mouth worse than yours.”

“hm. sounds like she hasn’t changed.” kakashi stays quiet. his visible eye lingers too long on your photo — tsunade notices.

“you trained with her?”

“briefly.”

“you trust her?”

“…i did.”

tsunade leans forward. “then you’ll bring her back.” he nods once.

“and what if she runs?” jiraiya asks. “what if she really is rogue?”

“then make sure you’re faster than her,” tsunade says, “and remind her what she left behind.”

the tracking is easy. you haven’t exactly been hiding — just avoiding major villages, drifting from town to town, occasionally working odd jobs under different names. the chakra trail is faint, but jiraiya and kakashi are both veterans at this.

“she’s not masking it on purpose,” kakashi says, crouched near a set of fresh footprints by a creek. “this is either a trap… or she’s tired of running.”

“or she thinks she doesn’t have to anymore,” jiraiya adds. “you think she’s mellowed out?”

“no,” kakashi answers immediately. “she’s waiting for us.” he looks up.

“and we’re walking right into her hands.”

you’re already watching them. from the trees, feet balanced perfectly on the branch, your chakra suppressed to the bare minimum, you squint through the sunlight at the two men you haven’t seen in years.

kakashi looks the same. older. calmer. still hiding behind that mask. you hate how it still kind of makes your chest ache and jiraiya — the old perv. you smirk.

they’ve come for you. you knew they would, eventually. you just didn’t think it would be on a tuesday.

“i can feel her,” jiraiya mutters, hand inching toward his scroll. “she’s watching.”

“let her watch,” kakashi says, still walking forward. “let her know we’re not leaving without her.”

from the branch above, you raise a brow, cross your arms over your chest, and mutter to yourself:

“yeah? we’ll see about that.” you wait until they’re in the clearing.

kakashi steps first, calm and aware like he always is — his posture lazy, but his senses sharp. jiraiya is louder, broader, cracking his knuckles and whistling like he’s not in enemy territory. they’re expecting you to run. you smirk, then drop down behind them like a ghost.

“looking for someone?” your voice slices through the silence. jiraiya spins. kakashi doesn’t flinch.

“there she is,” jiraiya grins. “and just like that, my day gets better.”

“took you long enough,” you quip, fingers twitching at your sides.

“we were enjoying the view,” kakashi says.

“mm. i’m flattered.”

“you should be,” jiraiya adds, eyeing you up and down. “not every day a woman with your bounty lets us get this close without throwing a kunai.”

you tilt your head. “who says i haven’t?”

a split second later, three kunai embed into the bark just inches from their feet.

kakashi blinks. “ah. there it is.”

“you always were impatient,” jiraiya mutters, reaching for his scroll.

“you always were slow,” you shoot back — and then you vanish.

it starts fast — you dart between trees like a shadow, chakra focused in your legs, leaving afterimages behind you. kakashi follows first — silent and sharp — and he’s on you within seconds, his kunai clashing against yours midair.

“you’ve gotten better,” he murmurs, breathing steady.

you parry, twisting away. “i was always better.”

“you left.”

“you let me.”

he falters for a second — just enough for you to drive your heel into his stomach and launch him back. he hits the tree hard.

you don’t wait. you vanish again. jiraiya intercepts you next, arms crossed, grin lazy.

“thought i’d be your favorite,” he says.

“you talk too much.”

“and you miss me.” you lunge.

he dodges with ease, grabbing your wrist mid-strike, spinning you around and locking your arm behind your back. your breath catches — not from pain, but from the feel of his grip, his body heat pressed up behind you.

“still fast,” he whispers near your ear, “but i’m faster.”

“no,” you smirk, “you’re cocky.” you slam your head back. it connects, he stumbles.

you flip over him and land like a cat on the ground — but kakashi’s already there, body low, sharingan exposed.

“enough.” his voice is quieter than you remember. deeper. you stare at him.

“why are you really here?”

he doesn’t blink. “to bring you home.”

“konaha isn’t my home.”

“then come anyway.”

you scoff. “why would i?”

“because tsunade’s giving you a chance. because we know what happened. because we know you didn’t leave — you were forced out.”your jaw tenses.

you want to fight back — want to snarl that they’re lying, that konaha never cared, that you don’t need saving. but the chakra in your gut betrays you. your heart skips. you blink too long.

and that’s when they close in.

kakashi grabs your arm. you twist — elbow to his ribs — but he barely flinches. jiraiya steps forward, sealing tags already wrapped around his fingers.

you fight.

you fight harder than you have in months — your chakra flaring bright and violent, wind rushing from your heels as you leap and clash and disappear and reappear — but it’s two against one, and they’re not holding back anymore.

a well-aimed smoke bomb. a paralyzing seal. a flash of chakra at your neck. your knees buckle. you hit the ground, breathing ragged, body aching. mind spinning.

“that wasn’t bad,” jiraiya huffs, crouching next to you. “for someone running on emotion.”

you glare up at him. “kiss my ass.”

“gladly. but maybe after we get you back to the safehouse.”

kakashi kneels beside you next, his mask unreadable.

“you okay?” you don’t answer.

he adjusts the seal on your wrist gently, brushing his fingers down your forearm before stepping back.

“you’ll thank us later.”

you snort. “don’t bet on it.”

they lift you easily — kakashi supporting your back, jiraiya your legs — and you hate how natural it feels. how warm their hands are. how the scent of fresh rain and metal and them still gets under your skin. you close your eyes as they carry you.

pretend your heart isn’t racing. pretend you don’t want to look back. pretend this doesn’t feel like coming home.

you’re not sure what pisses you off more — the fact that you lost, or the fact that you’re tied to a chair like some captured war bride while jiraiya lounges on the couch across from you, grinning like he’s already undressed you in his head. kakashi leans silently against the far wall, arms crossed, mask still on, one eye watching you like he’s already reading your thoughts — the filthy ones, the angry ones, all of it.

“so,” jiraiya drawls, voice as smug as ever, “this is the infamous y/n. gotta admit, you live up to the legend.”

you narrow your eyes. “legend says you’re washed up and past your prime.”

his grin grows. “ah, but see, i’m still fast enough to catch you.”

you roll your eyes, shifting against the ropes, fully aware of how your chest subtly rises with every irritated breath. you’re sweating from the chase. from the fight. from the fact that they’re both just standing there — breathing, watching, waiting.

“can we get this over with?” you mutter. “you’ve brought me to your little shack in the woods. now what? gonna bore me to death with your ugly faces?”

jiraiya’s already kneeling in front of you by the time you finish, hands on your knees, eyes sliding slowly up your body like he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve beneath your clothes.

“not unless you beg for it,” he says lowly.

kakashi finally speaks. his voice is calm, deceptively so. “you’re not in a position to negotiate, y/n.”

you tilt your head. “then why am i still dressed?”

“because,” jiraiya says, fingers already tugging at the knots on your bindings, “we prefer a slow burn.”

your mouth opens — to spit back something smart — but the ropes fall, and suddenly you’re free, and yet neither of them moves.

“what, now you trust me?” you ask.

kakashi’s eye narrows just slightly. “we trust that if you try to bolt again, you’ll lose.”

you smirk. “maybe i like losing.”

jiraiya chuckles. “you’re gonna love what comes next, then.”

you don’t resist when he pulls you to your feet. his hands are rough, sure. he’s all wide palms and teasing thumbs brushing your hips as he guides you closer to the couch. kakashi follows, silent and shadow-like, the air around him still, charged.

“we could’ve killed you, you know,” jiraiya says casually, pulling your shirt over your head. “but tsunade wants you back in the village. personally, i think konoha’s never needed a smart-mouthed little hellcat more.”

kakashi steps in behind you. you don’t hear him, you feel him — the sudden press of warmth at your back, his gloved fingers brushing the hem of your pants, slow and deliberate.

“she’s more than mouth,” kakashi murmurs.

“yeah,” jiraiya breathes, eyes locked on your breasts, now bare. “she’s gorgeous.”

you’re flushed, not from embarrassment — you don’t get embarrassed — but from the heat curling in your gut, the way their hands begin to explore you like they’ve been imagining this for days. kakashi slips his hand into your pants, knuckles grazing where you’re already warm and slick.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you like being caught, don’t you?”

“depends who’s doing the catching,” you shoot back, voice a little breathier than before.

jiraiya’s mouth is on your chest before you can get out another word, tongue tracing lazy circles around your nipple while his other hand squeezes your ass like he owns it.

they make a good team — you’ll give them that. kakashi is quiet, methodical, fingers dipping into you with a slow curl that makes your knees buckle, while jiraiya is all heat and tongue and praise. filthy praise.

“look at you,” he murmurs against your skin, “such a perfect little body. strong, stubborn… fuck, you were made to be ruined.”

you gasp, the pressure inside you mounting as kakashi adds another finger, curling them with ruthless precision. you rock into him, grinding shamelessly as jiraiya bites softly at your breast.

“you like this?” kakashi whispers against your neck. “two of us taking you apart?”

“gonna make you come so many times,” jiraiya adds, licking down your stomach. “you won’t remember why you ever left konoha.”

“i didn’t leave for this,” you breathe, barely coherent.

“but you’re staying for it,” kakashi says, voice dark.

they guide you down to the couch like they’re lowering a prize. you’re spread across it, legs parted, panting, their eyes devouring you.

“can’t decide who should fuck you first,” jiraiya muses. “what do you think, sweetheart? wanna ride the pervy sage, or let kakashi wreck you first?”

your answer is a low growl. “who said you’re getting to fuck me at all?”

“your pussy,” kakashi says bluntly, stripping off his gloves. “she’s soaking.”

“traitorous bitch,” you mutter, thighs twitching. they laugh — kakashi low and husky, jiraiya loud and delighted.

you choose kakashi first. not with words, but with the way you yank his waistband down and pull him over you, legs wrapping tight around his waist.

“no foreplay?” he asks.

“what do you call the last ten minutes?”

he slides in slow, too slow, dragging a groan from your lips that you try and fail to bite back. he’s thick, stretching you open in a way that makes your breath stutter.

“shit,” you whisper. “fuck—”

kakashi doesn’t speak again — he just fucks you. deep, hard, unrelenting. one hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding you in place. grounding you.

jiraiya kneels beside you, stroking himself lazily. “gorgeous view. you take him so well, y/n. maybe i’ll knock you up after he’s done.”

“you’d like that,” you gasp, body rocking.

“damn right,” he smirks. “make you swell with my brat. make you behave.” kakashi groans, low and sharp, hips snapping harder.

“she’d never behave,” he says, panting now. “and i wouldn’t want her to.”

you can feel it building, sharp and bright — the edge right there, ready to tip.

“fuck— i’m—”

“let go,” kakashi murmurs, eyes burning. “come on my cock.”

you do. you fall.

and they catch you.

you barely have time to come down. kakashi’s fingers are still slick between your thighs, and you’re catching your breath, legs trembling around his wrist when you feel someone behind you. jiraiya’s presence is unmistakable—warm, cocky, hungry. his hand smooths up your back, the pads of his fingers dragging down the ridge of your spine like he’s testing how much more you can take.

“already falling apart, sweetheart?” he drawls, voice honeyed and wicked. “and we haven’t even gotten to the fun part.”

“you’re all talk,” you murmur, breathless and smart-mouthed, but you don’t stop him when he presses his hips against your ass and lets you feel what’s waiting.

his laugh ghosts against your ear. “we’ll see if you’re still talking once i’m inside you.”

kakashi shifts beside you, pulling his fingers from your pussy with a wet pop, and you flinch. you’re still sensitive, your skin flushed and shimmering in sweat, but the way the two of them move—unhurried, synchronized—makes you feel like prey again. well-fed prey. spoiled prey.

you’re rolled to your stomach before you can think, ass in the air, cheek pressed to the bed. jiraiya settles behind you, his cock thick and heavy where it drags over your folds, teasing. kakashi kneels in front of you now, still half-hard, still watching.

“you okay?” jiraiya murmurs, low and sincere, fingers trailing over your lower back.

you nod once. “mhm.”

“need to hear you say it.”

“…yes,” you whisper. “please.”

“good girl.” he sinks in slow.

he’s wider than kakashi, stretching you open inch by inch until your fingers curl into the sheets and you gasp his name. the burn is delicious, the kind that makes your thighs twitch and your mouth fall open around a breathy curse.

“fuck—jiraiya—”

“that’s it,” he grunts. “take it all. bet you’re feelin’ full already.” you are. full and used and ruined.

he fucks you in long, slow thrusts at first—letting you feel everything, dragging the head of his cock against that spot inside you until you whimper into the bed. his pace picks up, slapping skin against skin, and you can hear him laughing under his breath every time you moan for him.

“knew you’d be sweet for me,” he says, pulling your hips back to meet him. “you’re gonna let us break you, huh?”

you lift your head to glare at him, defiant even as you’re shaking beneath him. “like hell.”

“mm. we’ll see.”

kakashi brushes hair from your face, silent and dangerous where he sits in front of you. he cups your chin, thumb teasing your bottom lip, and your eyes flick up to him. he’s watching you fall apart. he’s savoring it.

“open,” he says, voice soft. you do.

he lets you take him into your mouth while jiraiya fucks you from behind, and it’s filthy. you’re gagging around kakashi’s cock as he eases into your throat, shallow and steady, while jiraiya groans behind you, muttering how perfect you are between them.

they ruin you. they make you feel like you were made for this. the rhythm is dizzying. kakashi rocking into your mouth, jiraiya pounding you from behind, both of them murmuring praise and filth like you’re a prize they’ve earned.

“so pretty when she cries like that,” jiraiya groans, watching the tears gather in your lashes.

“look at her,” kakashi says, tilting your chin up. “still trying to keep that attitude with a cock in her mouth.” you shiver. moan around him.

eventually, kakashi pulls out. you’re panting, drooling, wrecked.

“think she can take both of us?” jiraiya asks, one brow raised.

kakashi hums. “she can handle it.”

they reposition you—kakashi behind you this time, sliding into your already dripping pussy, jiraiya coaxing your mouth open again as he straddles your chest.

it’s filthy.

kakashi fucks you slow while jiraiya uses your mouth, and you’re gone. overstimulated, overwhelmed, but loving every second of it. their hands are everywhere—tugging your hair, stroking your thighs, holding you still like you’re something breakable they’re choosing not to break. and then it hits.

kakashi’s fingers find your clit while he’s fucking you, and you cry out—muffled around jiraiya—body locking up as you come hard, shaking beneath them.

“fuck, she’s clenching—kakashi—”

“don’t stop.” they don’t.

they keep going, coaxing another orgasm out of you until you’re barely conscious of anything but the way your body pulses around them.

when they finally come, it’s almost in sync—kakashi first, groaning against your neck, and jiraiya after, swearing loud as he finishes across your chest and stomach.

you’re trembling. boneless. breathless.

they’re gentle after that. kakashi carries you to the bathroom—literally carries you, bridal-style, murmuring something sarcastic about how “tough you were ten minutes ago.” you flip him off weakly.

jiraiya draws a bath, surprisingly thoughtful, adding some herbal salts you don’t even know they had.

you sit between them in the tub—kakashi behind you, arms around your waist; jiraiya in front, teasing your knees with little flicks of water. it is actually cute how cramped they are — but no one says much. you feel safe. and warm. and wanted. you lean your head back against kakashi’s shoulder.

“…so,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded. “am i forgiven?”

jiraiya chuckles. “depends.”

“on what?”

“if you behave.”

you smirk. “then no. not a chance.” kakashi’s hand slides lower under the water.

“…figured.”

and just like that, you’re right back where you started—spoiled, smirking, and absolutely theirs.

you wake first, it’s barely morning, the kind of stillness where the world feels like it’s waiting to breathe. your body aches in that delicious, heavy way — not painful, not uncomfortable, just… remembered. your thighs are sticky and warm against the sheets, but not dirty. not ruined. just used in the best way. your skin smells faintly of lavender from the bath and maybe something muskier — like him.

no… like them.

kakashi’s breath is slow and even behind you, chest pressed to your back, arm slung over your waist like it belongs there. and in front of you, there’s jiraiya, splayed out like a giant overgrown cat, silver hair wild against the pillow, a hand still lazily resting near your knee like he fell asleep mid-tease.

“you’re both still here,” you murmur, barely audible. you’re not sure if you meant to say it out loud, but kakashi hums.

“where else would we be?”

your cheeks burn, and not just from how soft his voice is when it’s not covered behind that damn mask. there’s something smug in it — the kind of smug that says you didn’t think we’d stay. and truthfully, you didn’t.

jiraiya shifts, groaning a little as he wakes. his hand finds your hip and gives it a squeeze that makes you jump.

“mm, morning, princess. you’re not running again, are you?” he asks, eyes still closed, but that grin — shit-eating and fond — spreads across his face anyway. you scoff, stretching under their warmth.

“not unless you two try to jump me again.”

“don’t tempt us,” kakashi says behind your ear, voice half-asleep but serious. “you wouldn’t make it past the front door.” you turn your face into the pillow to hide your smile.

there’s quiet for a while after that. just the three of you tangled up in soft cotton sheets, hearts slower now. not in a rush to fight or fuck or flee.

just existing. safe.

eventually, you hear a knock — measured, confident, a little impatient.

you groan. “you invited guests?”

kakashi’s already sitting up, mask back in place like he never took it off. “that’s not just a guest.”

jiraiya rolls over dramatically, pulling a blanket over his head like he’s being punished. “shit. that’s tsunade.” you barely manage to pull a robe over your sore shoulders before the door opens.

“took you long enough,” tsunade mutters as she walks in, arms crossed. she doesn’t look surprised to see you all half-dressed and lazily assembled. in fact, she looks like she expected it.

you raise a brow. “how’d you know—?”

“bath still smells like sake and your chakra’s back to normal. you weren’t fighting anymore, so obviously you were…busy.”

you open your mouth to argue but she raises a finger. “save it. i don’t care what happened. i care about what’s going to happen next.” you sit a little straighter.

“your file was buried,” she continues. “like someone didn’t want anyone to find out what happened to your brother… or what the third failed to do for you.” your jaw tightens.

“you didn’t deserve what happened. and you didn’t deserve to be abandoned. but i’m hokage now. and if you want to come back to konoha — to be a shinobi again — i’ll sign your full pardon.”

the words land heavier than you expect.

you’ve carried so much alone. bitterness. grief. that awful hope that maybe someone would say this one day. and now that she has… you don’t know how to answer.

“my brother’s still gone,” you say quietly. “a pardon doesn’t bring him back.”

“no. but it gives you a future,” tsunade says. “it gives you a chance to be more than someone running from your past.” you glance at kakashi, then jiraiya.

neither of them speak. they don’t push. they just look at you — really look. and you realize they’re letting you choose, for once.

you take a long breath, and when you exhale, your voice is steadier.

“…okay.”

tsunade nods, like she knew you would. “good. finish recovering. paperwork will be waiting.”

she leaves with a curt nod, and you collapse back into the bed with a groan.

“that woman is terrifying,” you mutter.

“she’s your boss now,” kakashi points out.

“you’re both my problem now,” you shoot back.

jiraiya chuckles, dragging you down between them again.

“not a bad problem to have,” he says, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder, you close your eyes.

for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe in something soft. in second chances. in warmth that doesn’t come with warning signs. and maybe, just maybe… in being loved the way you always deserved.

wrapped in their arms, you drift back to sleep — and you don’t dream of running anymore.

[bluelolblue]

For @tobytheeggo for our 1 year anniversary (January 11th) of becoming friends! Here is ExplodingKittens - Orin and Santino! ^ ^

[knightswaypoint]

Merlinktober Day 19 (on day 23): Scales

A celebration of some Dragon!Merlin fics I’ve enjoyed! (close-ups and fic links under cut)

In a World of the Same, You're Different by @thepenguinclub

Rating: Gen | Word Count: 8,058 | Chapters: 1 “You know,” the prince started, and Merlin grunted in frustration, turning away. Princes were always the same, “I don’t appreciate you talking about my father like that.” Merlin stopped and narrowed his eyes, before slowly looking back at the prince. He studied the prince's face intently. “And who, exactly, would your father be?” he asked, fury crackling through the calm sounding words. He was not in the mood to be played with by a prince. “Uther Pendragon,” the prince said calmly. Merlin’s tail lashed so hard against the rock next to him a large piece of it chipped off, rocketing through the air and over the edge of the mountain. --- Merlin was cursed to be a dragon, which was fine. It was fine, he was fine, he was happy, thank you very much. Everything was great. Except for all these knights and princes that kept bothering him. That, that was not fine. It was annoying. It definitely wasn't the only human interaction he ever got, he was fine. So if this odd group of knights and their king would leave, that would be wonderful.

A Dream of Dragons by @slantedknitting | with Art by LFB72

Rating: E | Word Count: 40,640 | Chapters: 1 Merlin, a fierce dragon, is captured and held prisoner in a deep cave under a castle. He believes he will perish, miserable and alone… until a second prisoner arrives. The man is small and annoying at first, but gradually they get to know each other, and soon enough the cave is almost tolerable. Then the man escapes, and Merlin realises his whole world has been changed.

running back home by @sourw0lfs | with Art by @kokoshka67

Rating: M | Word Count: 25,126 | Chapters: 7 With another growl, the monster surges forward, pressing its full weight into Arthur and toppling his footing. They both go down hard with just the damaged sword as a barrier between them. Arthur’s arms shake with the effort to keep it that way, pressing upwards with all the strength he can muster to free himself. The monster barely budges, lips pulling back in a snarl that reveals a mouthful of half-sharp, half-dull teeth. Through his panic, Arthur finally realizes why this monster seems so different from the attacks in the past. His gaze trails from the jagged teeth snapping angrily at him to the side of the creature’s face that isn’t covered in scales, to the side that’s so obviously and glaringly human. Because the monster isn’t a monster at all. It’s something else entirely, some kind of cursed hybrid never before seen. Worst of all, though, Arthur finds that he recognizes the human face beyond the scales and fangs. “Merlin?”

Tales of a Dragon and His Prince by @0hheytherebigbadwolf

(Summary for the first in the series) Rating: Gen - E | Word Count: 42,121 | Works: 15 They cannot have even one hunt without something going wrong on some level. A horse throws a shoe. A crossbow string breaks. A storm blows in. A giant beast attacks. Merlin turns into a dragon. The usual things.

(and also With the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet because it's a similar dragon design and both fics are so very fun)

[jojo-schmo]

Just Admit It- Part 1

I've been playing around with possible friendship dynamics of the Beast Council for fun!! I love imagining what kind of childhood they could have in the Forgotten Land all together.

What if Carol and Sillydillo are the fun-loving extroverts? Leon is the introverted one who's been smitten by Carol for a really really long time but he's too shy about it? And Gori is the friend who is an excellent observer and will bluntly tell you what he thinks (and maybe has a tendency to get grumpy when things aren't easily going his way).

Somewhat of a prequel to this other doodle comic about Leon and Carol- everyone here is still a kid ^_^

Part 2

[yarrowleef]

did anyone else know The Last Unicorn had a sequel??? i didn't know that

anyway, i want whatever tf molly grue and shmendrick have going on

[kdelarenta]

may god bless the dinosaur that died to make the fossil fuel that was treated to become gasoline in the car that took @intimidatingpuffinstudios to the hospital to be born so that they could write one of my favorite IF dynamics of all time.

[harbingersecho]

Lasombra fashion show?

Now how did you know I've been meaning to draw fashion 'shows' for all the clans…?

But! Here's some Lasombra fashion stuff for you!

+ bonus because I love bullying Lasombra abt their tech issues (:

[kowtownart]

Sending out a huge Merry Christmas to my beloved besties!!

@magnus-opus @the-spam-specialist @disastrouslyyours

Words can’t describe how much the three of you mean to me. When we all met because of our love for a silly little salesman, i never would’ve believed that i’d find the people i want to be close to forever. I took a leap of faith back then, almost three years ago now, and i’m forever so so very happy that i did.

You’re all so lovely and sweet and kind, sometimes i wonder how the heck i got lucky enough to be your friend. We’ve had so many fun times over the years, from our RP shenanigans, to ArtFight chains to playing Pokemon together, and even working on projects in call!! I can only hope that we continue finding new games to play and telling new stories and just hanging out.

This year has been an exceptionally hard one for me, for a lot of reasons, but knowing that you guys were there and always lending support when you could made it that much more bearable. I could never thank you enough for being there for me, for continuing to stay by my side through the last half of this year.

Someday i hope to meet you guys irl, whether one on one or as a group, i want to get the chance to say that i love you in person. To give each of you a giant hug before we go off to explore together. Even if i’m going to be blubbering like a big baby.

To Mags, Catt, and Amber; Thank you for being my friends and letting me be in your lives in one way or another. I love each and every one of you so so much, i hope you all have a fantastic Christmas!!

🫂💙🫂💙🫂💙

(Now for the bonus pictures!!)

Non-blurred

And the original sketch from 2022! I would’ve finished it but some things got in the way and i just hadn’t touched it until this past week. I always wanted to do something with it but i just felt too nervous before now! So throwback to Hocus and Mags’ Spam EX! Disk, Gramps and Birb were gonna be in the original sketch too somewhere but i kinda ran out of room… and motivation back then.

[wool-string]

Day 31- babies 🫶

[slimeandsadness]

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