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#it's not sunday but I mean
theygender · 2 years
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The more I learn about judaism the more I wonder where tf christianity got all its bad shit. Why is divorce a sin in christianity when judaism has recognized the right to divorce for nearly a millennia and has codified religious laws for it. Why does christianity consider sex to be dirty (to the point where puritans considered it a sin to enjoy having sex with your own spouse) when in judaism it's considered holy and it's a literal mitzvah to have sex with your spouse on the sabbath. Why does christianity consider it a sign that you're faithless if you question your religion when in judaism that's considered an essential part to developing your faith. I'm probably stating the obvious here but I still can't get over the fact that there's no historical basis to any of this shit before christianity started, it's like christians just said "hey guys what if we took the torah and built a new religion around it but this time it was actively hostile to human life"
#rambling#disclaimer this isnt about individual christians im speaking about the religious trauma i experienced in my own life etc etc#these are just a few examples that I've noticed but they're definitely something#the part about sex in particular shocked me bc sex is pretty much viewed as actively evil in a lot of christian denominations#like you should only do it to create children and if you take pleasure in it (even if its with your own spouse) youre a dirty sinner#there arent as many examples like this nowadays but if you read puritan laws about sex it's like#you're allowed to have sex with your wife basically 10 times a year but you have to be fully clothed with the lights off#and you cant have sex on a holiday or a sunday and you cant touch each other and you have to try as hard as possible to hate it#literally WHERE did that mindset come from?? like for real#in judaism having sex with your spouse is basically considered a celebration of everything holy#and if you have sex on the sabbath (the holiest day in the jewish calendar—above every holiday)#its considered TWICE as holy#make it make sense#this is one of the things people mean when they say that lumping judaism in with christianity as 'abrahamic' religions is meaningless#theyre literally nothing alike#the only similarity is the torah but thats only half of the christian bible and one third of the jewish one#AND christianity interprets most of it completely differently from how judaism does#im tired#greatest hits#hall of fame
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skullingwaydraws · 5 months
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Hello I’ve been in pirate hell and can’t wait for the finale. Hoping to get one of stede completed soon as well 💕
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doodleswithangie · 30 days
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@danielhowell, thanks for making a show that's equal parts devastatingly hilarious and achingly poignant 🖤🧡
[Image Description: Stylized fanart of Daniel Howell performing his stage show. Inked in black with a gradient orange background behind him, Dan screams into his microphone, "WE'RE ALL DOOMED!" End ID]
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braxiatel · 1 month
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Mumbo and Iskall are going end busting on Tuesday Alexa play Do You Even Bust? by elybeatmaker on repeat
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luxaofhesperides · 4 months
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For the ghostlights drabbles: “Say my name” with a favor being called in?
Duke had saved Phantom years ago, back when he was just out of high school and working to take down a branch of the government that was kidnapping and experimenting on people, targeting magic users and metas. Phantom had been working on his own to take them down, and they met in the middle, trashing a lab and freeing as many people as they could.
They had managed to shoot his back, knocking him down and making him bleed a glowing green. Phantom couldn’t move, protecting two kids with his body, and Duke couldn’t reach them in time before they were taken away by another swarm of agents. 
He was able to go after them in time, free Phantom and the kids, and evacuated the victims before Phantom rained hell down on the facility.
At the end, standing in the background as they watched paramedics treat the victims and take them towards the nearest hospitals, Phantom had turned towards him and thanked him.
Or rather, he thanked the Signal and offered him a bracelet with a rounded orb of ice, glowing faintly in the dark. If you ever need me, he had said, Hold this, and call me name.
Phantom vanished once the last of the victims were transported to a safer location, and Duke hadn’t seen him since.
He’s kept up with news about Phantom as best he can, but from what he could tell, Phantom is based primarily in Amity Park, Illinois, and the town is fiercely protective of their hero. News rarely leaks out of there, and with them running on their own servers and independent internet, it was nearly impossible to get in from the outside. 
Phantom remained a curious and distant figure in Duke’s life. He holds onto the bracelet still, guarding it carefully and sometimes running his fingers over the ice that never melts.
But he doesn’t call in that favor. He’s never to.
At least, not until now.
Sucking in a breath, Duke prepares himself and holds the orb of ice in the palm of his hand. He’s in civies, unable to hide his identity for this, and closes his eyes. “Phantom,” he says.
For a moment, nothing happens. Duke blinks his eyes open and frowns, mind already forming new plans to contact Phantom. Then the ice goes bitingly cold, almost painful, and the temperature in the room drops dramatically. The ice lifts up from his hand, floating in the air, then cracks open.
White-blue light spills out of it, growing brighter as it seems to swallow up the room entirely. Duke hurries to back up, an arm thrown up to protect his eyes. His breath mists out before him and he shivers as the sound of ice cracking fills the room.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the light disappears and the cold fades away like a bad dream. 
Slowly, Duke lowers his arm and looks up at Phantom, floating in the middle of his living room with a crown made of ice, engulfed in blue fire, hovers above his head. He looks older, more regal, holding his head high. 
He regards Duke carefully for a minute, then tilts his head and says, “Signal?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Man, I’m so glad you came.”
“You… need help with something? You’re calling in your favor now, right?”
Duke nods. He understands Phantom’s confusion; being in the hero business means that favors like these tend to be used only during the most hopeless of times, when the world is close to ending, when the chances of getting out of a situation alive is close to impossible. It’s exactly the kind of thing Duke was expecting to call Phantom in for.
Not the kid sleeping on his couch.
“You’re a ghost, yeah?”
Phantom blinks at him. “Ghost king, now. Why?”
“Well…” Duke rubs the back of his neck, nervously. “I didn’t really know who else to call, and I can’t do this on my own since I’m not a ghost. But this kid got attached to me and won’t leave, so now I’m taking care of her and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I don’t know why you think I have any experience with kids but—”
“She’s a ghost.”
Phantom stops short. “Ah. I see.” He floats down until his feet touch the floor, and then he’s standing like any other person. “Where…?”
Duke looks past Phantom’s shoulder, and Phantom turns to follow his gaze. Chelsea, the ghost girl, looks to be around nine years old and is fast asleep on the couch, curled up under Duke’s softest blanket.
“Signal,” Phantom says quietly, “What, exactly, is the favor you need from me?”
“You can say no,” Duke starts. “I get that this is a lot. But I need help raising her. And since you’re a ghost, I figured you could help me learn about the ghostly side of things. You don’t have to raise her with me or anything! Just… I would appreciate any help you’re willing to give me.”
Phantom doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at Chelsea, an unreadable expression on his face. 
On the couch. Chelsea shifts in her sleep, brows furrowing as she makes a choked noise in the back of her throat.
Moving on autopilot after so many nights of this routine, Duke kneels next to the couch, fishing one of her hands from beneath the blanket. He gives it a few reassuring squeezes, keeping it a slow rhythm to pull her gently from her nightmare. She settles down in just a minute, brow smoothing out as she continues to sleep. 
The silence grows and Duke is all too aware that his heart is the only one beating. 
He doesn’t hear Phantom move. Doesn’t realize he’s right next to him until he sees Phantom’s hand reach out towards Chelsea. When Duke looks, Phantom is sitting on the floor next to Duke, looking at Chelsea with something soft and devastated in his eyes. His hand hovers about her head for a long moment, then slowly lowers to rest on her head. 
The touch looks gently, barely putting any pressure on her head, but it’s enough to make Chelsea’s eyes snap open, suddenly wide awake. She stares at Phantom with wide eyes, then sits up and looks between him and Duke.
“Who are you?” she asks in a small voice that makes Duke want to stand against the world to keep her safe. 
Phantom smiles. It’s casual and charming and makes him look like anyone else, as if he’s not a powerful king from a realm unreachable to humans. “Hi there,” he says, “I’m Danny. I’m a ghost like you. Signal called me and asked me to meet you.”
The Ghost King is good with kids. Who would have thought?
Chelsea looks at him for confirmation and only relaxes when he nods. “I’m Chelsea. What do you mean ghost? I’m not dead.”
Both he and Phantom tense, carefully keeping their expressions neutral. She hasn’t told him much at all, just that her parents were gone and forgot her and she got hurt, so she wanted to stay with ‘Mr. Signal’ because he’s a hero and heroes keep people safe and he was the only one who was Black like her. Duke hadn’t had the heart to say no, and began searching for her family, only to find that her parents had fled the state, and likely the country, after killing their only child through neglect and a dangerous environment. 
It was then that he realized that her powers were not because she was a meta, but because she was ghost.
It still hurts to realize how young she is, how much of her life had been stolen from her in an instant. Duke hadn’t been brave enough to broach the topic with her, instead choosing to let her grow comfortable in his presence, get them both settled into a routine now that he was her primary guardian. 
“I know it sounds scary,” Phantom says, “And you may not want to believe me, but it’s true. I’m sorry that you died so young, but that just means you get to hang out with me and other ghosts from now on!”
Chelsea crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “I am not dead,” she says.
“Cici, I’m sorry to say this, but you are,” Duke cuts in. “That’s why I called… Danny. You have new powers as a ghost, and he can help you get used to them.”
“I’m not dead!” she says again.
“Kid,” Phantom begins, but Chelsea shakes her head hard and hops off the couch.
“I’m not lying! Watch, I’ll prove it to you!” She closes her eyes and scrunches up her nose, concentrating. Her hands curl into tight fists by her sides, and the glow around her grows dim. Two faint, stuttering rings of light appear around her waist. They flicker and wobble in the air, as if weak and uncertain of their own existence, then split apart, one moving up towards her head while the other falls to her feet.
Beside him, Phantom sucks in a sharp breath, but Duke can’t turn to see what’s wrong when he’s trying to take in the sight of Chelsea suddenly full of vibrant color, looking more solid that he’s ever seen her, very much alive.
“See?” she says proudly, lifting her arms and doing a spin to show off her right she was. “I told you I’m not dead!”
“No, you’re not,” Phantom agrees, sounding shell-shocked. When Duke is finally able to look away from Chelsea to check on him, he looks awed. There’s the smallest smile on his face, just the slightest upturn of his lips, but it makes him look softer.
Duke turns his attention back to Chelsea before he can be caught staring. “Cici, can you come here for a second?”
She goes before he’s finished speaking, crossing the space between them in a single jump, then grins up at him. Her hair is a bit of a mess, the two buns he managed to get her hair into falling askew. He makes a note to visit the old aunties in the Narrows later to ask them to teach him how to do hair. For now, he holds out a hand and Chelsea drops an arm into it.
It seems to good to be true, having her be alive, but her pulse is steady and strong when he presses his thumb against the inside of her wrist. 
“Well,” he says, leaning back and letting go of her arm. “You certainly proved us wrong.”
Chelsea doesn’t have much time to look smug before PHantom quietly says, “You’re like me.”
“What?”
“You’re like me,” he tells Chelsea. “A halfa.”
She tilts her head to one side. “What’s that?”
“Someone who is half human and half ghost. Both dead and alive.”
Duke blinks, taking in the words, then turns to face Phantom so quickly he’s worried he might give himself whiplash. Halfa, he said. Like me, he said. 
And sure enough, two rings of light, bright and strong, appear around Phantom’s waist before splitting in half, moving over his entire body. 
Gone is the Ghost King, all powerful and adorned in dark clothing with a crown of ice above his head. In his place is a guy who looks to be Duke’s age, eyes a deep blue and his black hair messy, feet set solidly on the floor. He looks completely normal, completely human, and no longer an impossibility.
“You still up for learning how to use all your new powers?” Phantom asks.
Chelsea grins. “Yeah!” And then, with a quick flick of her eyes going from Phantom to Duke that he almost misses, very innocently asks, “Are you going to stay with us then?”
“I… don’t know?” Phantom looks to Duke for an answer.
Already, Duke can see this going two ways. The correct way forward, the normal one, has Phantom popping in every so often, taking Chelsea out for a few hours to work on training her and her powers. It’s easy and routine and they can keep their boundaries uncrossed and be professional. 
The other path is what Duke wants most that he shouldn’t impose onto the literal Ghost King. He could have Phantom living with them while he’s on Earth and out of Amity Park, having a place at the table, a section in the closet for his own clothes, a quietly domestic night together while Chelsea sleeps where they can get to know each other more, get to know each other outside of news reports and texts on a screen.
“You can stay with us if you want,” Duke offers, casually, “It might keep my apartment safe from her powers acting up on their own again.”
“Are you sure? I could always just fly in on the weekends or something.”
“I’d appreciate having you around. So you can help Cici.”
“If you don’t mind,” Phantom says, looking away. Like this, fully alive with a beating heart, it’s easy to see the blush steal away across his cheeks. 
“I don’t.”
“I don’t either!” Chelsea pops in, looking far too gleeful by their awkward conversation.
Duke can’t help but laugh, feeling lighter than he had in ages. The relief of knowing that Chelsea is alive, for the most part at least, eases the guilt of thinking he had been too late to save her, that there was no chance she could have made it out and had a future, makes him feel weak. All the exhaustion of the past few weeks hits him all at once and he wants nothing more than to collapse in bed and sleep for twelve hours.
“Alright, squirt,” he says, reaching out to pat her head. “It’s late. We can talk more in the morning, so go to bed. In your actual bed this time, not on the couch.”
Chelsea stands up taller, ready to argue, but Duke gives her a Look™ and she quickly shuts her mouth, nods, and drags her feet back to her room (the former guestroom he can never give any of the other Waynes ever again, once they find out about her). 
Sighing, Duke collapses onto the couch once he hears the door shut behind her. Phantom joins him after a few seconds, sitting tentatively on the edge of the couch. The cushion moves beneath his weight, another reminder of how solid and alive he is right not.
Duke wants to touch him, to reach out and feel for himself his pulse, the warmth of his body, his chest lifting with each breath. 
He doesn’t move. He stays where he is, hands carefully still, and tries to think past the dizzying thoughts of she’s still alive, I’m not too late, he’s still here, he’s alive.
“Rough week?” Phantom asks, voice purposefully light.
“Something like that.”
“You should get some sleep too.”
“I don’t think I can. Not after everything. My mind’s too loud right now.”
Phantom shifts closer to him, hesitant in a way that Duke has never seen before in him, and asks, “Want me to stay with you until you mind quiets down some?”
“Yeah. I’d like that. Thanks, Phantom.”
“You know, if I’m going to be around so often as Chelsea’s halfa mentor, then you might as well call me Danny.”
Truth be told, Duke didn’t think that was his real name. He’s glad to know it’s not. 
“Then call me Duke.”
“...Are you sure? You could still hide your identity from me.”
“Nah, I trust you. A name for a name, yeah?”
Danny smiles. “Duke,” he says, testing out the name, and it’s never sounded better than when it falls from Danny’s mouth.
“Danny,” Duke returns. He belatedly realizes that they’ve leaned towards each other, drawn together like gravity, stuck in each other’s orbit. It feels natural. It feels like this is where they’re meant to be.
Maybe he should be more cautious. They’ve only meant once before, after all. But he’s read all he could on Phantom and has seen how Amity Park loves him. He’s stressed and exhausted and trying to figure out how to look after a half-ghost child that’s already been dealt a bad hand in life. He should be keeping Phantom at a distance, watching over him carefully to ensure he isn’t a threat to Chelsea.
But Duke saw how he acted with Chelsea, so gentle and understanding and kind. That’s all he needed to see.
He may not know much about Danny, but he knows this: he is trustworthy.
Enough to entrust his identity to him.
Enough to entrust Chelsea to him.
It’s more than a favor; it’s a promise to walk this road together. 
There’s no one he’d rather do this with. 
“Thanks,” he says again, “For all of this. I know it’s a lot.”
Danny shrugs. “I don’t mind. Really. It’s nice to know there’s another halfa out there, no matter how she came to be one. Makes things feel less lonely.”
“Will you tell me more about halfas?”
“Later. Once you get some proper rest. We’ve got time, haven’t we?”
“We do,” Duke agrees, affection settling warm in his chest. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
Learning how to control her new powers won’t be easy for Chelsea. Learning how to take care of her won’t be easy. Learning how to do things together, as Duke and Danny rather than the Signal and Phantom, won’t be easy. But Duke knows with a certainty he feels in his bones that they’re going to be fine.
So long as they’ve got each other, they’ll be fine.
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(Ignore the fact that I use tiktok while reading this post) Anyway, LOVE theater kid tiktok. Right now my fyp is literally:
“The Mean Girls movie was so good, maybe even better than the stage show. The instrumentals and vocals were insane, the cinematography was on point and the comedy and casting were perfect. And Reneé Rapp was so hot”
“The Mean Girls movie was an atrocious monstrosity missing all the good songs and good singers of the stage show, and the instrumental, timing, and key changes were Not It. And Reneé Rapp was so hot”
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becca-e-barnes · 9 months
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I’m literally drooling over the thought of sensitive Bucky whimpering and whining while fucking your tits and thighs he’s so pathetic and needy all he wants is to make you feel good and to fill you with his cum even if it overstimulates him
Okay, tit fucking is great and all but thigh fucking is SO underrated in my humble opinion. Could just be the fact I've got a small chest though lmao
It's so fun when you're already really into it and the insides of your thighs are all slick. I feel like Bucky would lose it, getting to see your face and look in your eyes and enjoy your body.
It's a nice one to do while laid on your side, facing each other. Although the angle isn't quite right for him to slip inside you, it's fun to explore the other ways your bodies can steal pleasure from one another.
"This isn't going to work, sweetheart." You can't help but laugh, having already tried everything you can think of to make the height difference work. There's no way to keep this romantic and intimate in that position because there's just no chance of aligning your bodies properly to allow him to press inside you.
"Maybe not. But it feels nice anyway." His eyes flutter shut, gliding his dick over the smooth, soft, warm insides of your thighs, encouraged by how slick and easy your arousal makes the movement.
You adjust yourself to bring your other thigh on top of his length, closing him in on both sides.
You're wet enough that friction doesn't impede his movement too much and there's something oddly romantic about it. Maybe it's his hand smoothing the back of your head or his other hand up your back, pulling your body closer to his.
It's so intimate, watching his face as he whines your name, rutting senselessly against your thighs. The little flush to his cheeks is beautiful and you can't resist kissing the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. The thick duvet on top of you both, coupled with your combined body heat means the room is far hotter than you'd planned.
You take a second to reach between your bodies, spreading your wet folds and readjusting his length, letting him drag his cock against your neglected clit with each stroke and oh, that's pretty mind-blowing.
"O-oh my God." He whines, desperately fucking himself against your wet cunt, rather than into it. It's a different kind of pleasure to being inside you and while they're not comparable sensations, it doesn't stop this from feeling fantastic.
"Fuck, that's good." You groan, rolling your hips to meet his. Your fingers dip between you once more, gathering some of your slick arousal, using it to glide your fingertips over the underside of his shaft and over his balls.
"Holy shit, that's - fuck." Bucky's hardly got a coherent thought left in his head. He's closed in on both sides by your wet, soft thighs and now your fingers are giving him a different sensation underneath while pressing him against your soaked sex.
"I know, baby. Feels good, doesn't it?" Your fingertips trail lightly back and forth over the underside of his shaft, focusing on the inch or so beneath the tip.
"I can't... I need to cum." He groans, thrusting frantically, clinging to your body to keep you close. Within a few seconds, you feel his dick pulse under your fingertips, his cum coating the inside of your thighs in hot, thick, messy spurts.
He doesn't waste a second, kissing your forehead before kissing your neck and whispering "Good girl. Now let me watch you get yourself off with my cum on your fingertips."
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masterwords · 8 months
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Corporate needs you to find the difference between this picture:
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And this picture:
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They're the same picture.
Bonus:
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if i fell through the floor i would keep falling ; suguru geto
synopsis; geto knocks at your front door one morning ten years after leaving everything he knew behind, fully expecting to be met with a middle finger or a hand to the throat. when you invite him in, instead, he can’t help but feel somewhat perplexed.
word count; 7.5k
contents; suguru geto/reader (platonic or romantic, up to u!!), gn!reader, geto-typical angst with lots of yearning, open-ended, geto’s pov, reader is a softie, mutual pining kinda, geto is terminally bitter and terminally lonely and also kind of a bitch but we love him
a/n; i’m extremely normal abt suguru geto and the debilitating loneliness he must’ve felt during the ten years after he left <33
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”it’s been a while.”
the smile on his face must be sweet, he thinks, illuminated by the blurry light of the morning sun. as charming as it’s always been. coated in a thin layer of lighthearted deceit, a cruelly projected sense of normalcy.
with a hand raised up in cheerful greeting, geto gazes down at you.
— admittedly, he’s a little underwhelmed by your reaction.
astonishment or bafflement was maybe a little too much to ask for. you don’t look very surprised to see him at all; almost as if you were expecting him to show up in front of your apartment at the break of dawn.
and, really, maybe you were. after all, satoru must have told you already. why wouldn’t he let you in on their touching reunion, the promise of war that spilled so easily from his lips?
of course you would have heard of it by now.
still, geto can’t deny that it’s just a little bit disappointing. he would’ve liked to see your wide eyes, would’ve liked to hear you stammer a bit. the expression you’re currently sporting is something else entirely.
you look sad.
there’s a fondness in your eyes, though, unmistakable. a spark of it, entirely impossible to ignore, that catches him off guard. and there’s a softness in the way you raise your head to look up at him, a familiarity that flickers in the depths of your irises.
geto is just a little bit put off by it.
it looks the same as always. you look the same as always. and geto’s heart constricts, where it rests, tucked away deep within the confines of his ribcage.
a moment passes. the sun peeks out from beneath the curtain of the horizon, the violet and indigo of the morning sky melting into that familiar burst of ochre. and geto is content, to silently admire the way that you glow in its light.
he waits, patiently, for your expression to shift. to melt into one of anger, or repulsion, or any other kind of bitter hue.
it never does.
a sigh flows from your parted lips, instead. a soft little breath. in the bitter cold of a morning such as this, it turns into vapour as it drifts through the air. you blink, tiredly, eyelashes fluttering with something akin to exasperation.
”you’re a cruel guy, you know that?”
geto blinks. a fickle moment passes.
then, he smiles.
you’re admonishing him, but you’re doing so almost gently — with an easygoing kind of disapproval. as if you’re still in high school, huffing over the teasing bout of laughter he lets slip when you trip over air.
geto’s lips curl up, smoothly, an action he’s grown awfully used to over the years. smiles are a form of currency, he has come to realize — smiles of deceit, of fondness, of barely contained disgust. all kinds of smiles, whether plastered on or genuine. a means to meet an end.
a single tug of his lips, encompassing an immeasurable number of unspoken words.
the smile that geto graces you with is an amused one. it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s friendly enough. ”so i’ve been told.”
for a minute, you do nothing but observe him. there’s a turmoil behind your eyes that seeps out in the way you look at him, the way you shift from foot to foot and gnaw at your bottom lip anxiously. geto doesn’t interrupt, observing you in turn. waiting for one of you to move the first piece of this little morning game of chess.
in the light, he can almost delude himself into thinking that your eyes change colour, different shades and hues dancing around your dilated pupils. as you gaze over the contours of his face, a certain kind of affection blooms within them, one that geto expected to have faded over the years. 
but it’s still there. and it’s the same. a little more blurry, maybe, a little faded at the edges — more matured. but still the same, despite that. 
(a memory comes to him. one of you, and him; sharing a bag of chips on the school’s rooftop when neither of you could sleep.
bathed in the light of the moon, your eyes glimmered with that very same affection, like a shooting star breaking out across the night sky.)
one long, careful, tender moment passes by. 
the intense contemplation on your features is almost enough to coax a chuckle from the depths of his throat. an urge to tease you creeps up on him, slowly, but before he can open his mouth you seem to come to a kind of conclusion.
and so, you step to the side — allowing him to see inside your apartment, catch a brief glimpse of the interior. you look oddly comfortable, at peace, having made your move; the next piece is his to place.
what a surprising move, though. geto can’t help it if his eyes widen just a smidge, if he blinks in a way that could almost be interpreted as briefly confused. out of all the possible scenarios he’s played out in his mind over the years, this wasn’t the one he expected to merge with reality.
”wanna come in?” you ask, tentative. your voice is inviting. a little clumsy, although he supposes that could just be because of fatigue. it is early, after all.
geto takes a moment to think.
as far as he can tell — and he always can, in one way or another — there is no deceit hidden in your expression. no signs of bloodlust, no spark of violence, no quiet resentment bubbling beneath the surface. earnest. that’s all it is. a little awkward, but candid. pure, in a way.
you aren’t trying to trick him. you’re genuinely, seriously, honest-to-god inviting him inside your apartment.
the next move is his to make.
and geto knows exactly what he should do. he should decline, politely, excuse himself with feigned remorse and a jovial invitation to his own personal hell.
(surely, you already know. the others have almost certainly told you by now. geto just wanted to personally invite you, himself. face to face.)
right. that’s what he should do. that’s the winning move.
and yet, he finds himself moving.
lips curling up on their own, without his approval, geto moves forward. one step is all it takes for him to cross the threshold of your home; a boundary he didn’t expect you to offer up so callously, truth be told, but who is he to deny the wishes of a dear old friend?
”why, thank you,” he smiles, voice pleasant, smooth like silk.
(for just a little while, he supposes he can indulge himself in the opportunity you’ve so graciously given him. just for a bit.)
geto doesn’t bother taking off his footwear, and he knows you couldn’t care less either way. allowing him to pass you by as he waltzes into your very own space, you close the door behind him. he half-expects to hear the click of the lock, but it never comes.
a particular scent envelops him, as he stands by the coat rack, unmoving — he has no intention of taking off his robes, heavy with his carefully nurtured devotion. a symbol of his choice.
the scent is familiar, but also unlike anything he can recall within the borders of his memory; a soothing blend between fresh laundry, and sunlight, and cat fur, and something rather sweet.
there’s more to it than that, though. a certain scent geto could only ever describe as you. 
(his heart aches with longing.)
as he ponders the intricacies of the fragrance, geto is acutely aware of the stare burning into his back. how careless of him, to leave it facing you, unguarded and vulnerable.
what a perfect opportunity he’s presented you with; the great curse user suguru geto, forever exiled and wanted dead, now merely a fly at the mercy of the web you’ve created. trapped in your apartment with his back turned to you, a mere lamb to the slaughter.
how easy it would be, for you to plunge a knife into his flesh. to curve your way along his spine.
you do nothing of the sort, though. and for some reason, the realization that you aren’t going to irks him, even though deep down he knew that would be the case. still, it crawls its way under his skin, along the arteries of his forearm, an itch he yearns to claw away.
how foolish. how very like you.
(what a cruel thing change can be, when no one else seems to succumb to it.)
unable to do anything but accept it, however, geto turns towards you once more. you stiffen, as if burned by his gaze, and a part of him delights in it.
”how have you been?” he asks, bright and courteous. there’s a genuinity to the question that geto can’t deny. something about this situation sends a spark of fondness running through his veins.
at the sound of his voice, your eyes soften again. it’s a subtle shift, but he doesn’t miss it. doesn’t think he ever really could, because even though the light inside your eyes makes him uncomfortable, down to the very marrow of his bones, he can do nothing but bask in it. in your attention, in that heavy gaze.
a single word could never hope to faithfully describe the emotion smouldering inside it — but if forced to, geto would humbly settle on resignation.
it’s almost as if you still haven’t fully accepted it, ten years down the line, that you’re only just beginning to. like even now, you’re convinced that it’s nothing more than one big joke; that he’s about to reveal a hidden camera, and gleefully tell you that it was all a prank to get back at satoru.
naive, naive, naive. but geto can’t deny that it tastes sweet, on his tongue — to imagine that you might still have some faith in him, after all this time.
a sigh leaves your lips. you sound a little bit exhausted. it sends a pang of ache to the very center of his heart, and a part of him yearns to soothe you. another part relishes in the pain he must have brought you over the years.
the rest of him smoothly tucks those stray thoughts away, as he brushes non-existent dust off from his robes.
then, your eyes take on a more tender hue. you ignore his question entirely, and speak in a low voice. raspy and sincere, and maybe just a tad bitter, given everything.
”those robes don’t suit you, suguru.”
— a shiver travels down his spine.
suguru.
(the way your lips form around the syllables is still so lovely.)
you’re full of surprises, as always. at least to a certain extent, he was expecting you to settle on geto, to draw a firm line in the sand between him and you. the ocean and the land, always meant to be separated by that thin line, kept apart in each other’s best interest.
but geto is beginning to accept that you’re going to do this your way — sincerely.
the statement is a veil, obscuring a million unspoken thoughts, double meanings that aren’t particularly hard to discern. a silent rejection, a quiet disapproval. there’s a grief to it that sits heavy on your tongue.
taking a moment to collect himself, geto meets your gaze, and all its weight. his lips curl up into a sad smile, a little fatigued. he wonders if you can hear it, in his voice.
(maybe it was stupid of him, to think he could keep this meeting professional.)
”… is that so?”
you continue to look at him, as if waiting for something else. but geto doesn’t give you what you want, that touch of tender honesty he’s sure you’re hoping for.
”i think they suit me just fine,” he playfully disagrees, instead, tone bordering on something childishly stubborn.
you wait just a single moment more, still clinging to that hope for something sincere, anything. 
then you huff. it sounds vaguely amused.
”you look like a con artist,” you deadpan, eyes flitting down to examine the outfit again. geto would be offended by your rudeness if you didn’t also happen to be right.
”how sweet of you,” he purrs, shooting you a smug smile. the words are lighthearted, mildly teasing. “that’s exactly what i’m going for.”
you give him an unimpressed look, that he mirrors with a perfect smile — and then you give in to another amused exhale, paired with a soft shake of your head.
there it is again, geto thinks. that sense of déjà vu. it’s equal parts eerie as it is comforting.
silence lingers in the air around you, as hazy sunlight flits in through the gap between your curtains and cascades across the floorboards. until you clear your throat endearingly, and walk past him.
”well, make yourself at home,” you murmur in passing.
considering the circumstances, the words are spoken fairly naturally, and geto has to resist the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this is. inviting a wanted criminal into your home, a literal mass murderer, and treating him with the same politeness you’d show to any other guest.
what would the elders think, he wonders, if they knew? would they brand you an accomplice, question your motives? put your head on the chopping block right next to his? he wouldn’t put it past them, the pieces of shit.
but despite his amusement, geto doesn’t laugh. he only watches as you make your way to the kitchen counter, a firefly catching his eye in the summer night.
(except you aren’t a firefly, and it’s not summer. it’s winter, and you’re someone geto wishes he didn’t still care for.)
”i was thinking of making tea,” you hum, voice soft but still easy for him to discern from his spot in the living room. ”do you want some?”
geto’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. his voice is teasing, as it flows out from his lips.
”how generous,” he chirps, still idly watching the way you move around the open space, your hair changing colour in the flickering light of the sun. ”satoru could learn a thing or two from you.”
he expects you to flinch. a suitable reaction, to how casually he brings up his reunion with his best friend, like it’s nothing. like it means nothing. like nothing’s wrong.
geto knows it’s cruel, which is exactly why he does it.
but you don’t flinch. you don’t even stiffen. and he senses no anger in your body language, in the silence that settles in the space between his words and yours. all you do is exhale sharply, a little exasperated.
”you shouldn’t be so cruel to him.” a beat. your voice sounds just a little smaller when you continue. ”he’s missed you, you know.”
the reply is nearly instantaneous, and it’s bare. honest. you sound like you’re scolding him, but it’s more protective than angry. and it’s gentle, like you’re patching him up after a mission, reprimanding him for not being more careful.
at this point, geto can tell you have no intention of playing along. how annoying. he wishes you would — that earnest sadness and regret of yours is almost unbearable, and the gentle bluntness you present him with cuts much deeper than his casual cruelty ever could.
you aren’t going to play along, aren’t going to pretend you don’t care. geto wonders why you won’t, why you’re the only one who still refuses to.
satoru certainly has no issue with it. playing along, putting up a front. attempting to treat him coldly, as an enemy. but geto knows him, knows his soul like the back of his hand, and he could tell it was trembling when their eyes met. from underneath those bandages of his, the thin layer of cowardice that shields those precious eyes from the rest of the world. from geto.
and shoko is just as unbothered as ever. always playing it cool, never caught off guard or shaken to her core. geto can’t even tell if it’s an act or not, anymore. but he knows that she was angry, when they spoke that day, ten years in the past. knows she wanted to tell him off, but chose not to.
both her and satoru are like that. always have been. closed off, accustomed to bearing an unbearable weight, resigned to the ache that it brings them. acting distant in a desperate attempt to mend it.
you, though?
you were always a little too sincere for your own good, a little too true to yourself. it must hurt you, he thinks. it must hurt you even just to look at him. yet you continue to do so, unflinchingly.
that’s simply how you are.
you’ve always enjoyed dipping your toes into the grief of it all, leaning into the pain. always the first to take that step into the abyss. content to tear yourself open for everyone to see, even if no one follows suit.
never averting your eyes. never taking the easy way out.
(unlike him.)
geto hums, smiling a little at the sickening irony of it all.
the gentle clinking of ceramic resounds throughout the kitchen, and geto’s ears perk up. his gaze follows your hands, as they move to grab two cups from the wall cabinet. floral designs, he dully notes. blue bells on one, red camellias on the other. a porcelain teapot rests on the kitchen table, but no flowers adorn it.
without your expressions to keep him entertained, geto decides to wallow in the fleeting peace and quiet. aside from your soft breathing and the occasional clinking of teacups, there are no sounds to be heard. 
a moment that seems to exist outside of time and space, where time passes backwards and your shuffling in the kitchen is his only concern.
eager to satiate the mellow boredom in his chest, geto’s eyes begin to flit across the space of your apartment. greedily drinking in every detail he can see, as if he’s trying to memorize it all. maybe he is.
everything he can see is a piece of your existence, in one way or another. every inch of the apartment is littered with your fingerprints, your choices and fickle tastes.
like the rich yellow of the curtains you’ve picked out to frame the glass of the windows, bright and stark and blending smoothly in with the cream colour of the wallpaper surrounding it. or the forgotten cup on the table in front of the tv, a faded green. he vaguely remembers seeing you drink out of it back when things were still good, when you both thought of the school as your home.
a book rests on the duvet pillows of your couch, but he sees no bookmark peeking out from between the pages. geto wonders if you still dog-ear your books, and thinks to himself that a crime of that calibre would warrant your own exile if the world was only fair. alas, it isn’t. war of the foxes, he reads from the cover. ironic.
along the windowsills are potted plants, stacked up next to each other, green and flourishing despite the snowy wonderland of the outside world. their leaves differ in shape and size, some accompanied by blooming flowers. he imagines you watering them, dutifully, nurturing them with gentle hands and sleepy smiles. 
there are many things to look at, more and more little fragments sprouting up the longer geto continues to do so. a knitted sweater thrown over the wooden armrest of a chair. colourful candy wrappers littering the table. an old radio tucked away in a corner of the room. 
geto drinks it all in — a home you’ve painstakingly created, that you’ve allowed him into. he examines it thoroughly, the way an art dealer judges a painting on display. turning the image over inside his mind, twisting it, burning it into his retinas. soaking in every little detail he manages to find. 
your home.
(it’s so like you that it hurts.)
finally, geto thinks he’s had his fill of the living room. so he ventures into the kitchen, only a couple long strides away.
the scent that greets him this time is comforting, homey. the aroma of coffee grounds, a touch of leftover curry, a strong fragrance of blooming hyacinths and dried lavender sitting contentedly by the windowsill. through the translucent glass, geto sees layers upon layers of snow on the rooftops, and the gradual rise of the glittering sun. 
the quiet buzzing of the electric kettle is the only sound he hears, along with the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, as his eyes wander along the kitchen.
the shelves are stacked with a variety of different spices, and glass jars of honey and jam. along the counters rest a wide array of kitchen appliances, from blenders to rice cookers to french presses. mugs with silly designs are stuffed into an opened wall cabinet, and geto recognizes some of them, to his silent delight. 
there are colourful post-it notes stuck to the fridge, messy scribbles of recipes and reminders. meetings, birthdays, grocery lists. even just little doodles, smiley faces and napping cats that make his lips quirk up. and polaroids — he tries not to let his gaze linger on the picture of satoru sleeping in the most uncomfortable, inhumane position he’s ever witnessed, nor the blurry image of shoko smoking by a balcony railing, sleeves cuffed and expression forlorn. he can’t imagine either of them noticed you snapping the photos.
(no polaroids of him. of course not. why would there be?)
geto tries not to look over at the fridge again, examining the floor and furniture instead. over in the corner stands a bowl of cat food, seemingly untouched. the kitchen table is covered with a checkered cloth, kept down by a plate of chocolate chip cookies. 
your kitchen is fairly small, but it’s cozy. rays of fresh sunlight envelop it in a giddy, ruminating glow. like something out of a dream.
when geto enters the space, your eyes flit over to him briefly, and he shoots you a friendly smile. your eyes do that thing, again, where they crumble a little at the corners and get a tad softer. like you’re looking at an old friend.
(he supposes you are.)
you clear your throat before speaking, as he takes in all the sights.
”what kind of tea do you want? i’ve got, uh…” 
with gentle movements, you open a wall cabinet, eyes swiftly scanning over the different labels of the many boxes, jars and sachets of tea inside. dutifully, you list off the ones you can see. 
”earl grey, chamomile… oolong, rooibos…” you continue, seemingly never running out of options, fingers tapping at the handle. ”ah, this one’s kinda weird. it’s supposed to be, like, cherry flavoured? don’t ask, satoru picked it out — but it tastes more like laundry detergent.” 
a pause. 
”it’s pretty good, though.”
geto can’t help it. the comment coaxes a chuckle from out his chest, and he’s surprised at how genuine it sounds when it spills from his lips. 
you seem to notice it, too, seeing as you perk up where you stand by the counter. out of the corner of his eye, geto thinks he almost catches the fleeting glimmer of a tiny smile on your lips.
and for a moment, everything feels familiar. eerie and comforting, in equal measure. a sense of nostalgia drifts throughout the kitchen, mingling with the scent of tea leaves and sunshine and freshly baked cookies. 
this is the opportunity you’ve given him — a slice of normalcy. as close to normalcy as one can come to in a situation such as this. a soft bout of laughter, shared between estranged childhood friends, one of which is a mass murderer. it’s really not normal at all.
normalcy is no more than a fever dream. that much has always been the case, but —
there’s a comfort in it, in this. the familiarity of it all. the way you settle into old roles, share knowing looks and cycle through old memories he knows you’re both haunted by.
it’s soothing.
he’s changed, and you’ve changed, but there’s still a sense of belonging between the two of you. in this moment, this sole flicker of nostalgia. in this kitchen.
and for a moment, geto almost forgets why he’s there. almost forgets the unforgettable, the inevitability of a choice he made long ago. it stings, and he wonders how you can bear it; this thin line between longing and awareness.
”so? what’ll it be?”
your voice rings out across the open space, face angled towards the table to meet his stare. 
geto hums, absentmindedly, and takes a step closer.
the narrow distance between you two lies heavy, as he shuffles up right next to you, haphazardly sweeping his eyes over the wide assortment in front of him. he can almost, almost hear your breath hitch when the fabric of his clothing grazes your shoulder.
he wonders if the tea is just an excuse, to be able to come so close. to bask in your warmth.
you don’t move away.
”oolong,” he firmly decides. he doesn’t really need to think about it.
then he swiftly turns on his heel, and takes a seat by the kitchen table. confident and graceful — as if this isn’t your kitchen, but his. unconcerned over table manners, his elbows resting on the wooden board, as his jaw meets the heel of his palm. he bites into one of the chocolate chip cookies, the sweetness crumbling on his tongue.
this time, you finally do stiffen — though geto doesn’t see it. he does, however, feel your lingering stare, and when he tilts his head in your direction he catches a glint of sorrow passing through the depths of your irises.
geto blinks. he tilts his head questioningly, a cue for you to follow.
and finally, finally, you stammer. barely, but it’s there. that nervous shiver of your voice.
”ah — sorry,” you mumble, gaze falling down to the floorboards. you seem almost flustered. ”it’s just…” 
there’s something raw in your voice, something that wavers. 
”back then, you’d always choose earl grey.”
a long moment of silence passes.
there are a million unspoken words in that sentence, geto knows. words you’ll never say, words you’ve always yearned to say. though he has no intention of digging them out. 
the sentiment is more than enough.
a bitter taste settles on his tongue, but he smiles, careful to keep his voice light.
”well,” he hums. ”some things change, i suppose.”
to that, you huff out a breath of amusement, turning around to face the counter once more. but not before eyeing his robes again, expression rich with humour.
”yeah,” you hum, lighthearted. something close to a chuckle. ”i suppose they do.”
geto grins softly, in tandem, from his spot by the table. like you’re still teenagers, sharing a look over an inside joke no one else is privy to.
after that, he simply watches you work, chewing at the treat while he waits for the tea to be done. the light of the electric kettle flickers off, and your hands curl around the handle, bringing it to rest next to the teapot on the tablecloth. he watches, expression mildly bored, as you grab the ceramic cups and the silken sachet bag of dried tea leaves.
a strong scent of oolong tea wafts through the air, when you flick your fingers to pour some of the leaves into the teapot. there’s a certain elegance in the way you pour the boiling water, slowly, in a smooth circular pattern. geto follows the movement, the rise and fall of the leaves as water fills the strainer.
you’re unhurried, methodical. there is care in the motion of your hands, the intense gaze you bear as you perform it. every slight twitch of your knuckles, the soft exhale you emit when the teapot has been filled. 
geto can do nothing but watch, in silent admiration. 
you put the porcelain lid back on, blocking the steam rising up in a flurry of warmth. while the tea simmers, soaking up the flavour of the leaves, you busy yourself with readying two teaspoons. 
”how do you take it, these days?” you ask him, as you languidly pour hot tea into the cups. ”any sweetener? milk?”
”one cube of sugar. no milk.”
at that, your eyes flit up, recognition blooming in them as you hear the familiar sentence. but geto keeps his gaze glued to the hyacinths on the windowsill, never meeting yours.
truthfully, he says it mostly to appease you. he figures he can give you this one thing, at least — this one hope that maybe everything hasn’t changed, after all. that he hasn’t changed, in his entirety, that there’s still some remnant left of who he used to be. even if all that’s left of him is just one single cube of sugar.
it’s kind of funny. but geto doesn’t laugh. 
you place a cup in front of him. the one adorned by red camellias. geto racks his brain, flitting through past conversations with florists and paragraphs memorized from non-fiction books on botany. what was it, again?
eternal love. long-lasting devotion.
the petals and the calyx of a camellia always fall together.
geto bites back a laugh. some part of him wonders if you’re making fun of him, if this is how you’re planning to release your pent-up anger — in such a petty, roundabout manner. but deep down he knows it was no more than an absentminded choice, on your part.
(you always hurt him most when it’s not your intention to do so.)
as you take a seat on the opposite side of the table, he gingerly touches the rim of the cup. soft steam rises from the liquid, its colour marigold-esque, and geto breathes it in deeply before bringing the ceramic to his lips.
you watch, in anticipation. intensely enough that he can feel it even when his eyes flutter shut, your gaze prickling his skin as he sips from the cup.
the warmth of the tea is comforting, a distinctly floral taste spreading along his tongue. there’s a slight nuttiness to the taste, a rich sweetness. as it runs down his throat, geto hears himself hum softly. a satisfied smile slips into the curve of his lips. inside the depths of his chest, a light nostalgia swirls, pleasant and tingly. 
he remembers moonlit nights, whispered secrets you could only ever tell each other, the glimmer of aluminium and rush of caffeine as you gulped down the too-sweet coffee that the vending machines had to offer.
he remembers sunny mornings, muffled laughter shared in the solitude of the kitchen, basking in the floral scent of chamomile and lavender and everything in between as the world woke up around you.
with a clink, geto sets his cup down on the table, pinkie raised lightly. smile a tad bittersweet.
”this is good tea.”
a moment passes. you break out into a genuine smile, nearly beaming, delighted by his approval. 
”isn’t it?” you chirp, fingers curling around your own cup, the little painted flowers adorning it. blue bells. geto recalls that old wives’ tale — how wearing a wreath of blue bells compels one to tell the truth. ”nanami got this one for me, actually.”
he smiles, perking up ever so slightly. a little more animated. ”oh?” he takes another sip. ”he always was a snob, wasn’t he.” 
that makes your own smile grow, lips twitching upwards, and an amused exhale flows from your lips. a gentle breath. you always were very fond of your grumpy underclassman. ”yeah.”
there’s something familiar about this, geto can’t help but think. eerily so. an acute sense of déjà vu, the same one that’s been plaguing him all morning.
the way you’re treating him isn’t how one would treat an enemy, nor a stranger — it’s how one would treat an old friend. that, and nothing more.
(geto wishes he could say it didn’t soothe his heart so terribly.)
he allows himself to sink deeper into the rotten sweetness of it all. indulges in this one fleeting moment, before everything crashes and burns. 
the world outside your kitchen is a cold one, he knows, blanketed by snow and frost that has yet to be stained red. the pure white is a warning, not a consolation — a reminder that there are still things to be lost.
the world of curses is an empty promise, the promise of suffering being rewarded. the idea that the sun will melt the frost around your legs if you wade through enough snow. 
(but geto knows better.)
outside your kitchen, only one path exists for him. it isn’t a kind one, nor is it particularly comforting. but, unlike those empty promises, that path has a truth to it. an end point, that isn’t just wait and see what happens, maybe the sun will rise if you’re lucky.
he isn’t a fool. the world is as cruel as it is beautiful, which is a false simile because cruelty is only ever beautiful when you aren’t a part of it. another one of those empty promises. geto has no idea how they kept him going for so long.
but here, in this moment — the world feels rather kind. kind in the sense of being just enough, the kind of brief solace that used to give him enough hope to get through the day.
for now, this aching gap of yet-to-be-ruined is enough. it’s all that he cares about, all that exists.
— but all good things must eventually come to an end. 
geto knows it better than anyone, so he isn’t particularly surprised when he looks up to see your face set into hard lines.
you meet his eyes with a certain flickering determination, a conviction — and geto knows you’re about to cross the comfortable line he was hoping you could both maintain for just a little longer.
”suguru.”
he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. a smile is enough. so his lips curl up, silently.
”can i ask you something?”
every move geto makes is calculated, a performance, as your words sink into his subconscious. dragging the silence out, as if trying to waltz around the inevitable end of this sickeningly sweet game of morning chess. 
the slow circling of his spoon, creating a vortex for the oolong tea to follow, as it catches the light falling from the window. the way he leans back, to make himself comfortable, letting his jaw rest on the heel of his palm as he dissects your expression from across the table.
there is something almost taunting in his eyes. 
but he smiles. courteous, bright. ”go ahead.”
for just a second, he sees you falter. just a smidge, but the way your nails dig into the skin of your palm is telling, just like the way your eyes choose to linger on the tablecloth a second longer than they need to.
then you meet his eyes once more, and begin to speak. geto hangs on to your words, as if they even matter.
”i’m not expecting you to be honest with me,” you state, bluntly. he’s glad to know you’re on the same page for once. ”but i’d appreciate it if you could. just this one time. i won’t ask for anything else.”
another long and tactful sip of his tea. he wasn’t lying, before — it really is very nice. the flavour is strong and thick on his tongue, sweet and bitter all in one. expensive. the pads of his fingers tap along the ceramic of his cup, right over the red flowers that seem to taunt him so.
here it comes. your lips part, but no sound comes out, and geto knows you’re thinking of how best to phrase your inquiry. it doesn’t take you long to decide, a firmness blossoming in the scope of your iris. a sense of finality.
”are you happy?”
despite everything, his breath hitches in his throat. the movement of his fingers halts.
your question comes out clear, candid, sincere. the look in your eyes makes him feel a little like he’s being devoured. vaguely aware of how his smile wavers, for just a split second, geto can only hope you don’t notice it — but he doubts you do, because you only continue to speak, unperturbed.
”i’m sure you’ve changed a lot, these past ten years. and i’m sure you’ve had more than enough time to convince yourself that you’re happy, even if you aren’t.” you bite your lip. ”i should’ve asked you this a long time ago. but now — i’m asking.”
geto’s eyes never leave your face.
”are you happy? are you genuinely satisfied with your life? are you happy with your choice?” 
there’s something desperate in your eyes, now. something geto can’t look away from, despite himself. all he can do is touch the ceramic beneath his fingers, hot enough to burn, and listen to you speak. 
”if… if you are, then —” 
you take a deep breath, a sharp inhale that geto would mimic if he wasn’t dead set on maintaining his composure.
”— then i won’t get in the way. i’ll let you live your life the way you want to. just as long as that’s true.” 
geto looks at you, smile nowhere to be seen. time itself seems to halt, in the space of your kitchen. the current center of the world.
he doesn’t dare to even breathe.
”… but,” your voice trembles. you stare intently at your own cup, surely beginning to grow lukewarm at this point. what a waste of good tea. ”if you aren’t happy, then —”
a pause. no one says a thing.
”then what?” geto spits. his voice comes out sounding just a tad sharp, cold like the frost outside your apartment. more so than he meant it to.
your pupils waver, before you lift your head to look at him. the resolution in your eyes makes his breath hitch. an unflinching kindness, one he can’t remember you ever not having.
”— then i’ll do whatever it takes to change that. no matter what.” a beat. “even if it makes you hate me.”
such immense honesty.
geto wonders why he came here, in the first place.
to declare war. was that his genuine desire, though? or was it just another excuse?
with satoru, he can pretend. with shoko, he can pretend. with himself, he can certainly pretend.
but with you?
his fingers leave the ceramic, eyes burning with a decision mirroring yours.
geto’s burned many bridges, in his life. but this particular bridge is one he’ll miss. the cinders that follow won’t keep him warm, that much he knows.
but in the face of such honesty — such genuine kindness — he couldn’t bear not to give you a serious answer.
(it’s the least he could do for you.)
”i am.”
a moment passes. the center of the world shifts. 
”i’m happy with my choice.”
it was the only one worth making.
as they fall from his lips, the words taste heavy, absolute. in the light of a morning still yet to be broken by the passage of time, your eyes shift. for a moment geto wonders if you’ll close them. if you’ll give yourself that one relief.
you don’t.
instead, you bite your lip, eyes stubbornly never leaving his own. now you look a little angry, a little frustrated. he’s glad to see that flicker of fury directed at him, at last.
”but are you happy?” you persist, frustrated in a way that buzzes with kindness and concern. a way that makes him feel rather lost.
geto hears himself speak before he has a chance to think about his answer. the voice that comes out of his throat sounds oddly soft.
”that doesn’t matter.”
”it should.”
your reply is equally instantaneous. and geto feels a tremor run through his heart.
”are you happy, suguru?” you try again, pleading. that hope of yours is back, the hope that he’ll be honest just this once. sincere, even just for a syllable or two.
the clock on the wall ticks, hands moving methodically and cruelly, second by second. another moment of time burned to cinders. geto knows what must be done.
this mindless self-indulgence was nice, for a while. but geto has more bridges to burn. more wars to brew.
one final touch. that’s what he’ll give you, in return for your generosity. one final touch of tender honesty, even if it burns his tongue.
”i will be,” he exhales, breathless. ”once all this is over.”
then he gets up from his chair, the squeaking of wood against the floorboards signaling a parting. your eyes never leave his face, as he dusts off his robes absentmindedly, glancing at the half-finished cup on the table.
then geto smiles at you. there’s a fondness to it, one he’d only ever show you. his eyes crinkle, just barely, and the dark brown of his iris shifts into a mellow amber as sunlight cascades down the contours of his face. a genuine smile.
”thank you for the tea.”
there it is. your eyes soften, again, helplessly. 
you aren’t satisfied. geto doubts you ever will be.
but you’ve always been the only one to tear yourself open, the only one to step into the abyss. geto has always admired it, just as much as he’s always found it foolish. not once has he ever followed suit.
things like honesty and tenderness don’t suit him. he doesn’t think they suit any sorcerer, except maybe for you.
at last, that grieving resignation finds its way to your eyes again. it doesn’t hurt him as much this time, perhaps because he was waiting for it.
”… you’re welcome,” you breathe. a sad little breath.
geto allows himself to look at you for just a moment more.
then he turns on his heel.
”well, this was nice,” he hums. ”but i really must be going now.”
pleasant and jovial. a voice unsuited for a situation like this. geto wonders if it hurts you as much as it hurts him.
rubbing salt into wounds is all he seems to do these days, anyhow. so he smiles. ”i’ll see you on the battlefield, i hope —”
”suguru.”
deep down, geto knows that there’s no going back from this. that the moment he moves his feet, the moment he leaves your apartment — the moment he steps over the threshold in front of him — he can never return.
your kitchen was never his to walk into, in the first place. he was never meant to set foot into your home. that was your choice. geto can’t help but think that it’s every bit as cruel as the one he made ten years ago.
your voice is the same as always. sad and fond. familiar, in how it twists and tugs at his heart in a way nothing else can anymore.
geto waits. he’ll let you have the final word. the final piece moved into place. checkmate.
he’ll let you be the one to devour that aching gap.
curse me, he whispers to the confines of his mind. resent me. i’ve caused you so much pain.
curse me yourself, so i can hate you properly.
”if you ever want another cup, i’ll be here.”
silence falls upon the kitchen.
geto stands still, feet rooted in the spot by the threshold separating the kitchen from the living room. the ticking of the clock is the only sound he hears.
there isn’t a trace of resentment in your voice.
(he wishes you would play along, even just once.)
a low hum buzzes in his throat. the seconds stretch on; more hands moved, more time burned into nothing. the silence is deafening, thick and heavy. an intense moment of contemplation, as geto tries not to shiver under the warmth of your constant gaze, burning into his back.
the center of the world shifts, once more. the gaze of fate falls upon the two of you, bathed in the rays of the rising sun, in a kitchen where normalcy is a little more than just a fever dream.
it doesn’t mean anything, anything at all.
geto knows it. he knows it better than anyone. but maybe he can allow this mindless self-indulgence to carry on, for just a little longer. if only to give him the excuse he needs to see you again, to stand in your kitchen like this, like the view of the rising sun is something he’s allowed to behold.
how greedy. how callous. hasn’t he always been, though?
just for a little bit longer.
”… you know,”
geto takes a step forward, robes fluttering with the movement, heavy and pious. he crosses the threshold, words just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear.
(in the space between the words, laced together with the silence, lies the ghost of a smile.)
”it’s been a while since i had earl grey.”
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sleepypandaarts · 2 months
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Wasn’t 2.0 basically us going on dates with pretty girls and Aventurine pining after us from afar?
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unforth · 2 days
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Danmei and Baihe C Novels and Manhua Officially Licensed in English
Things are getting licensed fast enough that keeping a list like this up-to-date is basically impossible, but I saw someone asking in the tags so I figured I'd try. All titles are danmei unless otherwise noted (very little baihe is licensed so far). I've included Chinese titles and linked novelupdates for each title when I was able to find them, but sometimes publishers change the original titles so much that I can't track them down, apologies.
Basically: this is everything I know of as of March 26, 2024. There might be more. I tried.
For the latest danmei news, Danmeinews.com is a great resources.
Note that some of this information was sourced from this Carrd, last updated in March 2023.
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Seven Seas:
The full list of danmei novels licensed by Seven Seas is here. The full list of danmei manhua licensed by Seven Seas is here.
These titles are in various stages of publication, from "entire series released" to "license literally announced less than a week ago." As far as I know, all Seven Seas titles are available world-wide, through major distributors and libraries, and in e-book and print formats.
Mo Xiang Tong Xiu titles:
The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System (Ren Zha Fanpai Zijiu Xitong).
Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation (Mo Dao Zu Shi)
Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation (Mo Dao Zu Shi) manhua
Heaven Official's Blessing (Tian Guan Ci Fu)
Meatbun Doesn't Eat Meat titles:
Case File Compendium (Bing an Ben)
The Husky and His White Cat Shizun (Erha he Ta de Bai Mao Shizun)
Remnants of Filth (Yuwu)
Meng Xi Shi titles:
Thousand Autumns (Qian Qiu)
Peerless (Wushuang)
priest titles:
Guardian (Zhenhun)
Stars of Chaos (Sha Po Lang)
Other titles:
Ballad of Sword and Wine (Qiang Jin Jiu) by Tang Jiuqing
I Ship My Rival x Me (Wo Kele Duijia x Wo de CP) manhua by PEPA
Run Wild (Saye) by Wu Zhe
The Disabled Tyrant's Beloved Pet Fish (Canji Baojun de Zhangxin Yu Chong) by Xue Shan Fei Hu
You've Got Mail: The Perils of Pigeon Post (Fei Ge Jiao You Xu Jin Shen) by Blackegg
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Rosmei:
Rosmei licenses are Singapore distribution rights only. There is a list of international partners organizing group orders here. I've personally placed my orders through Yiggybean, as discussed in reply to this ask.
These titles are only being released as print editions.
Eta: titles that weren't originally on JJWXC (of which there are several here) WILL have e-book editions.
Ning Yuan titles:
BAIHE: At the World's Mercy by Ning Yuan
BAIHE (I think???) The Creator's Grace by Ning Yuan
priest titles:
Coins of Destiny (Liu Yao)
The Defectives (Can Ci Pin)
Drowning Sorrows in Raging Fire (Lie Huo Jiao Chou)
Other titles:
Albert from Earth by Jie Mo Jun
The Bat (Bian Fu) by Feng Nong
Breaking Through the Clouds (Po Yun) by Huai Shang
Don't You Like Me (Ni Shi Bushi Xihuan Wo) by Lv Tian Yi
The Earth is Online (Diqiu Shangxian) by Mo Chen Huan
Everyone Loves the Cannon Fodder (Chuan Cheng Wan Ren Mi de Paohui Zhuma) by Qie Zai Shan Yang
Global Examination (Qianqiu Gao Kao) by Mu Su Li
Gold Class Enforcers (Jinpai Dashou) by Pao Pao Xue Er
How to Survive as a Villain (Chuanyue Cheng Fanpai Yao Ruhe Huming) by Yi Yi Yi Yi
Kaleidoscope of Death (Siwang Wanhuatong) by Xi Zi Xu
The Killer of Killers (Sha Qing) by Wu Yi
Nan Chan by Tang Jiuqing
Obsessed (Ki Ma) by Wu Chen Shui
Wine and Gun (Jiu yu Qiang) by Mengye Mengye
Wow, You Guys are Really Good at Gaming (Nimen Nansheng Da Youxi Hao Lihai O~) by Yi Xiu Luo
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Peach Flower House:
Peach Flower House titles are primarily for sale through their website and through some distributors, such as Amazon.com. Whether titles are e-book only, print only, or both varies by title.
Da Feng Gua Guo:
The Imperial Uncle (Huang Shu)
Peach Blossom Debt (Taohua Zhai)
Other Titles:
Golden Terrace (Huang Jin Tai) by Cang Wu Bin Bai
In the Dark (Zai Hei An Zhong) by Jin Shisi Chai
Little Mushroom (Xiao Mogu) by Shisi
University of the Underworld by Ziloi
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Via Lactea:
The full list of danmei novels licensed by Via Lactea is here.
Via Lactea titles are primarily for sale through their website and through some distributors, such as Amazon.com. All titles are either print-only or e-book + print. Only a handful have actually been released, the rest are licensed and presumably in progress.
Jing Shui Bian titles:
Salad Days (Jing Jiu)
Silent Hearts (Mo Mai)
Other Titles:
Dawning (Liming Zhihou) by ICE
Euthanasia by Feng Su Jun
Falling (Luo Chi) by Yu Cheng
Psycho (Feng Zi) by Xiao Yao Zi
Limerence (Wo Xichen Ni Nan Pengyou Henjiule) by Jiang Zi Bei
Lip and Sword (Chun Qiang) by Jin Shisi Chai
The Missing Piece (Maoheshenli) by Kun Yi Wei Lou
Raising Myself in 2006 by Qing Lv
Rose and Renaissance (Wo Zhi Xihuan Ni de Renshe [Yule Quan]) by Zhi Chu
Killing Show (Sha Lu Xiu) by Fox
Soul Vibration (Linghun Saodong) by Dr.solo
To Rule in a Turbulent World (Luan Shi Wei Wang) by Gu Xuerou
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Monogatari Novels:
It is unclear to me if Monogatari Novel titles are available for world-wide distribution, but there are group orders being organized or I think they can be ordered directly from their webpage; they are based in Spain. These titles can also be ordered from at least some major retailers. Note that there has been some controversy about Monogatari Novels.
BAIHE: A Clear and Muddy Loss of Love (Jing Wei Qing Shang) by Please Don't Laugh
BAIHE: Female General and Eldest Princess (NuJiangjun he Zhang Gongzhu) by Please Don't Laugh
How to Survive as a Villain (Chuan Yue Cheng Fanpai Yao Ru He Huo Ming) manhua by Yi Yi Yi Yi
The Legendary Master's Wife (Chuanshuo Zhi Zhu de Furen) by Yin Ya
The Silent Concubine (Ya Nu) by Qiang Tang
BAIHE: Soulmate manhua by Wenzhi Lizi
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Chaleuria:
As far as I can tell, Chaleuria has not updated their webpage since April 2023, so the current status of in-progress titles is unknown. All titles are digital and/or e-book, and I'm not sure how to purchase them as I haven't tried.
Complete Guide to the Use and Care of a Personal Assistant (Zhuli Shiyong Zhinan) by Why Radiance
Deep in the Act (Ru Xi) by Tongzi
Fake Slackers (Wei Zhuang Xue Zha) by Mu Gua Huang (no longer available)
From Body to Love (Leng Yan E Nan: Xian Shenhou Ai) by Wan Wan Yi Xia
Interstellar Power Couple (Xingji Qiangli Lianyin) by Kun Cheng Xiongmao (no longer available)
Intoxicated Friends (Zui Qing Zhi Pengyou) by Ye Shu Ying
The Long Chase for the President's Spouse (Zongcai Zhui Fu Lu Manman) by Three Thousand Crow Language
Reborn into a Hamster for 233 Days (Chong Shengcheng Cangshu de 233 Tian) by Yi Shu
Records of the Dragon Follower (Cong Long Ji) by Yueren Ge
Urban Tales of Demons and Spirits (Dushi Yaogui Lu) by Qie Er
World Hopping: Avenge Our Love (Ni Wufa Yuliao de Fenshou, Wo Du Neng Gei Ni Song Shang) by Xiaomao Bu Ai Jiao (no longer available)
A handful of other licenses are mentioned on the Carrd I linked at the beginning of this post; I have no idea the status of those titles and wasn't able to find information on them while putting together this post other than what was listed on that Carrd, so I've omitted them.
As a final note, I've personally purchased from every printer on this list EXCEPT Monogatari Novels (I'm holding off because of the controversy and will see how things play out) and Chaleuria (which I vaguely knew existed but nothing beyond that).
Seven Seas translation varies but the editing is general strong and the editions are sturdy and nice. Extras that have come with final volumes are lovely. I am buying literally everything they publish except for You've Got Mail, due to information about the author that was shared with me that the author is a transphobe. Note that Kinnporsche by Daemi is not danmei as it's Thai (and I've heard unsavory things about the author - I don't have a link for that as the information was shared with me on Discord, and I encourage you to do your own research rather than taking my word for it). No judgement if you make a different choice than me, to be clear, I'm just sharing the information I have and why I personally am not buying the books). Note that Seven Seas isn't without controversy, especially for treating their contractors poorly resulting in them unionizing. Some people have also been unhappy with the fidelity of their translations compared to the original Chinese (I've been satisfied personally but ymmv).
Peach Flower House has inconsistent inconsistent editing quality, but the books are very readable, and I'm excited that they're working with translators such as E. Danglars. I haven't bought any of their special editions so can't speak to their extras, but I've bought all their print translations and will continue to do so going forward.
I just got my first title from Via Lactea last week and finished reading it on Sunday, and the translation read very well and there were minimal errors. It also came with a bundle of cute extras, which I wasn't expecting and pleased, and writing this post has caused me to cave and spend $150 to buy the rest of their books. Thank you, tax refund. (Should I spend this money? No. Did I anyway? ...)
No Rosmei titles have actually shipped yet, so I can't speak to their quality, though the previews they've shared on social media (as outlined here, for example) read decently and I'm optimistic. The cover art is also lovely, and they've been communicative and responsive, for example they've already issued a statement related to a recent controversy over perceived poor marketing for At the World's Mercy.
Tl:dr, the above is absolutely everything I personally know about mlm and wlw Chinese novels and manhua that have been licensed for English publication. I hope it helps someone.
Now go forth, and buy some books!
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q1ngqve · 18 days
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ᝰ MEAN SUNDAY !
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✶ 𓏲ּ ꩜ 𓂅 sunday x fem! reader ⋆ he is mean and makes you ride his shoe :(
CW; praise / degradation, dry humping on his shoe, orgasm denial
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your hands tremble as you wipe them down on your skirt, sweat coating the lines of your palms, creating the illusion of glitter splattered all over them. a silent curse echoes in your mind as the man before you taps the tip of his shoe on the ground, a signal for you to look up at him.
“m’sorry.”
he releases a breathy chuckle at your apology, his pupils dilating as you look up at him from your position, your knees digging into the sky blue carpeted floor.
“what for? to my knowledge, you did nothing wrong.” he responds calmly, his words laced with sarcasm, “your words, not mine.”
as the words sink in, a heavy weight settles in the pit of your stomach, and a wave of dread washes over you. your head shakes slowly, and your teeth sink into your trembling bottom lip, a futile attempt to hold back the rising tide of fear and guilt. tears well up in your eyes, blurring your vision as the realization hits you that you've disappointed him, and you're unsure of the consequences that follow.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad… just wanted to spend time with you.”
his head cocks to the side, a faint crease forming between his brows, his annoyance evident yet overridden by an underlying amusement. with a devilish smile playing at the corners of his lips, “didn't mean to make me mad? angel, you did just that.”
heat rises to your cheeks, lowkey feeling proud that you've managed to provoke a reaction from him, especially since he's usually a patient man. "s'not it... you've just been so busy, I wanted you to relax." your eyelash flutters hopefully, trying to diffuse the tension with your reasons.
“by locking me in my room so I’d miss the appointment with my guests?”
you purse your lips, head lowering once more, shame creeping back as you feel your body shrink under his gaze. although he's smiling, the tension in his expression and words betray his true feelings. you've never seen him so angry and cutting, and it stings more than you anticipated.
your head jerks up suddenly, chin tilted upwards, the skin on your neck stretching at the pull of his hand wrapped around the roots of your hair. he tugs firmly, forcing your eyes to meet his, and your lips part involuntarily as your breathing quickens. as you stare into his golden eyes, you spot a mixture of frustration and lust swirling within them, intensifying the tension between you.
“since it’s your first time, I’ll go nice on you, hmm? how’s that sound?”
he crosses his right leg over his left, the sole of his shoe hovering directly in front of your face, the tip barely grazing your cheek as he releases his grip on your hair and leans back against the couch.
“go on then, get yourself off.”
your own head tilts to the side in confusion, clearly baffled by his comment and unsure of their meaning. you search his face for any sign of an explanation, “what? you think you’re getting my cock tonight? after what you did this afternoon? you’re adorable, angel.” he gestures at his shoe with his eyes, and it hits you — he wants you to ride it.
your heart rate increases, pounding in your chest with each hitched breath you take, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you look for confirmation, but all he does is give you a glance before picking up his phone and dialing his guest.
his eyes bore into yours when he notices you're still in the same position, and you feel a shiver runs down your body as his gaze holds yours, compelling you to act on instinct. without thinking, you scoot yourself towards his shoe, feeling a rush of heat as you spread your legs apart, allowing it to settle between your thighs, body hovering inches above it.
he looks away once again, fully engrossed in his business call, his free arm settling on his raised lap, white-gloved hands smoothing over his dress pants mindlessly.
your thighs tremble as you take one last look at him, a mix of nerves and anticipation egging you on. with a shaky breath, you sink yourself down slightly, just enough for the tip of his shoe to come into contact with you. you bite back a whimper as the hard material press snugly against your clit, making you jolt.
despite having done little more than rock back and forth timidly, your hands instinctively reach for his leg as you feel your own start to weaken from the intoxicating sensation. your eyes flit nervously between your arousal and his face, trying to gauge his reaction to your actions.
soft whines escape your lips as you start to give in to the embarrassing and degrading situation, knowing that this’ll satisfy him tremendously. he barely spares you a glance when you slide further onto his shoe, the rough laces on it making you jolt again as they come into contact with your clothed clit. your brows twitch when you feel your juices seeping through your panties, coating his shoe. the knowledge that you’re ruining it has your pussy clenching around nothing, forcing more wetness to gush out in the process.
completely lost in lust, your hips rock on its own accord as your mind switches to autopilot, surrendering fully to the heat building inside you.
“sunday…”
he releases a silent curse under his breath, his fingers twitching underneath his glove as he watches you bite back your moans, distracted by the sensation of his shoe against you. nothing his guest is saying over the phone registers in his mind; his attention consumed by the sight of you. his eyes would flicker over to your face every few seconds, and he feels himself strain against his pants uncomfortably. oh, how he wanted to fuck you on the spot, but he needed to teach you a lesson.
the knot in your stomach tightens, and your head falls forward, your forehead landing on his thigh as you cling on for dear life. your hips continue to grind down, seeking more of the intoxicating high his shoe provides. a soft yelp leaves you when you feel him subtly adjust his feet, curving them up just enough for the tip to tease at your entrance.
you don’t bother hiding your whines any longer, his name tumbling from your lips uncontrollably like a mantra as you grasp onto the feeling of your near release.
“my apologies, mr. —, but I’ll have to call you back.” a soft plop sounds from the couch before you, and your head lolls back once again, pulled by his hands on your roots. another pathetic moan escapes you as he leans down, his face closer to yours.
a smile plays on his lips as he watches for your reaction when he pushes his shoe upwards against you, eliciting a gasp of his name, and his eyes glimmer in awe. he feels like his dick is about to explode any second, and the feeling of your thighs clenching around his shoe only adds to the intensity of blood rushing down south.
tear streaks form on your cheeks as your eyes threaten to close, overwhelmed by the euphoric sensation coursing through you. the knot in your stomach finally reaches its tipping point, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of release.
“cumming—”
sunday snickers lightly at your reaction before pulling his feet away, returning them to a wide manspread. your fingers dig into his knee, and a desperate whine echoes through the room. your head shakes, eyes wide and glassy as you gaze up at him, silently begging for him to grant you your release.
“oh, don’t cry, angel. it’s what you deserve for messing up my schedules.”
he stands and pulls you up with him, guiding you to lean against his body by wrapping his arm around your waist. you collapse against his chest, hands reaching out to grip at his sleeves as your body gives out from exhaustion and sensitivity.
apologies tumble from your lips repeatedly, and he laughs softly before silencing you with a gentle kiss. his lips meet yours tenderly while his hands massage your nape with care, a total opposite of his mean words from before.
“now go to bed, and we’ll deal with you again tomorrow.”
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namislesbian · 8 months
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omg i just realized another funny thing about the crocomom crack theory is- if it's true then it means robin has worked for both of luffys dads at one point
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bildads-shoes · 3 months
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You've heard of
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But have you heard of
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I'm pretty sure I saw @docdust make a shua/sure pun at some point so this one goes out to you
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luuxxart · 2 years
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it just so happens to bring all the boys to the Jazz Jin
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stumpwentz · 6 months
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folie a deux is the idea of shared madness- the scientific term for romeo and juliet. btw. if you even care.
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