Clary’s immediate thought after having doubts about Magnus following through with his promise to her to wake her mother up being “I never should have trusted someone that wears that much eyeliner” will never not be funny to me
Remember when Hua Cheng pretended he was unconscious on that island to see what Xie Lian would do..
I LOVE this scene with all my heart!
Xie Lian: damn, what this FINE BODY do xD
cause this was his ONLY conclusion?? so VALID. better make sure to pet everywhere for water injuries ~
"beyond stunning"...yeah..so true.
RIGHT IN FRONT OF HE XUAN'S FISHES?
"Silent prayer",,,, oh I know what he was prayin for ~ it's for something else not to awaken in him.
Hua Cheng for sure didn't wanna ruin the moment but even HE couldn't keep his eyes closed anymore. It was so sudden and perfect.
I love imagining them just... staring at each other like that. Unable to process what just happened.
Cause Hua Cheng must've expected ANYTHING but that. But there's something the All Knowing Ghost King doesn't know.
It's that the one he Simps for SIMPS BACK hard. And he's just as dangerous to his own poor heart.
they are simp4simp your honor!
+THEY ARE SUCH A MESS I ADORE THEM WITH ALL MY HEART.
XIE LIAN can't find an excuse for it, HUA CHENG can barely hold it together.
Why don't you both calm down~ and make out properly~.
Sure they kiss a lot later on but, this... this is just so sudden and Xie Lian's own initiative so early on, that he can't even fathom what just happened. He's also trying (and succeeding in the next pages) to give Xie Lian an easy way out and explain himself. Although Hua Cheng much rather wished he faked being asleep for a while longer cause who can blame him.
I know you’d expect a raindrop request prompt from me but, hear me out:
Dew and Cumulus #38 or #52
(I saw art of them earlier and it made me mildly unhinged about one of my favourite rarepairs)
CUMDROP MY BELOVED
Dew + Cumulus, #38: stroking their leg and #52: gripping thigh
The fitting room is quiet. Too quiet, if you ask Dew.
There’s soft synth humming from the hallway, some demo Copia left looping, but in here, it’s just him, the mirror, and Cumulus crouched at his feet with a mouthful of pins and eyes that haven’t left his thighs in five minutes.
“You sure it's meant to be this tight?” Dew mutters, fidgeting in place. The new uniform clings like sin, black spandex and mesh, sheer panels down the hips, split seams at the thighs that catch with every shift of his weight.
“Positive,” Cumulus says, entirely unbothered. “Frater approved the sketch himself. Said ‘make ‘em melt.’”
Dew makes a noise in his throat. Something helpless.
Cumulus hums under her breath and reaches forward to adjust a fold near his knee. Her fingers stroke slow up the side of his calf, tracing the line of fabric, and muscle, like she’s sculpting it from memory.
He twitches.
“Hold still,” she says, not unkindly. Her hand climbs higher, smoothing a wrinkle at the curve of his outer thigh.
“You could just -" Dew breathes in through his nose, sharp. “You could’ve let the tailor do this.”
Cumulus looks up at him, eyes dark.
“Why bother when it's my design?”
Dew hums; doesn’t flinch when her hand slides higher. Doesn’t stop her when her palm cups the thickest part of his thigh, squeezing gently to test the taper of the seam. Her thumb brushes inward, not quite grazing where he’s getting hard beneath the tight fabric.
Dew swallows thick.
“'Lus-”
“I’ll behave,” she murmurs. “After I make sure the back seam won’t split when you strut onstage.”
“You think I strut?”
“I know you strut.”
She strokes her hand down again, lingering this time, just long enough to make his breath catch. Then she shifts to the other leg, kneeling fully between his thighs now, both hands bracketing him with deliberate care.
“You’re burning,” she whispers, just loud enough for him to hear. “Right through the fabric.”
Dew presses his lips together, trying not to let it show. The glow at his neck is already rising, hot and betraying.
“I thought we were just pinning seams,” he mutters.
“We are,” Cumulus says sweetly. One hand squeezes his thigh again, slow and firm. “Just also admiring what’s underneath.”
Cumulus shifts her grip, both hands smoothing up the outer seams of Dew’s thighs, tracing the curve of muscle with surgical precision and sinful intent.
“We should test your full range of motion,” she says, utterly serious. “These costumes are delicate. One wrong move and it’ll split from hip to heel.”
“I don’t -” Dew huffs. “You don’t need to supervise that.”
But his voice breaks halfway through, because she’s rising, slow and graceful, until her body brackets his again. Close enough he can feel her breath at his collarbone, her fingers still ghosting across his hips.
“You stomp when you play,” she murmurs. “You bend over. You crouch. And I’m not saying I don't enjoy it -”
“You absolutely enjoy it.”
“ - but I would like to ensure the integrity of the seams.” Her hands drift to his hips again. She spins him, slow, until he’s facing the mirror. “Now bend forward.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Bend.”
Dew groans, but he does it - hips hinging, thighs flexing beneath taut spandex, the mesh panels stretching just so. The reflection is devastating. Cumulus watches through the mirror with her hands on his waist, thumbs pressing firm into his hipbones.
“Perfect,” she murmurs. “That’s the shot the crowd will die for.”
She strokes her fingers down the outer seams again, tracing the path her tongue could take, if she weren’t being so frustratingly professional about this.
“You planning to do that every night?” she asks.
“I don’t - fuck, I don’t know,” Dew pants. His voice comes out low, strained. “Depends on whether the seams survive.”
“Oh, they’ll survive,” she purrs. “But only if I reinforce them.”
Her hand slips between his legs then - under, around, between - cupping him hard through the fabric, gripping tight. His knees nearly buckle.
“Still holding,” she says with a smile.
“You are not testing the stitching with your hand like that.”
She leans in, brushing her lips just under his jaw.
“You want me to stop?”
He shudders. Doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t stop.
-
Dew manages to wrest himself out of Cumulus’s orbit with no small effort, his cheeks glowing a deep ember red and the front of his costume tugged just slightly lower than before, and definitely pulling tighter. She’s already gathering her pins and notes, expression serene, like she hadn’t just groped the ghoul into next week.
He stumbles into the hall and nearly collides with Phantom, who’s bouncing lightly on their heels, eyes wide with anticipation and nerves.
“Costume holding up okay?” Phantom asks, half teasing.
Dew opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows.
Then offers them a crooked smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Seams are strong. You’ll be fine.”
He claps a hand on their shoulder as he passes, a little too hard, a little too warm. “Good luck in there.”
From inside the room, Cumulus’s voice rings out - syrupy and sweet, just loud enough to carry:
“Next victim!”
Dew walks faster.
Behind him, Phantom mutters, “...I’m not sure that was encouragement.”
Have been binging Grian’s hermitcraft playlists (skipped season 6 because LONG but will probably circle back to it) and season 8 is insane in the best way possible. I love season 7 to death, but 8 was so unhinged. It goes from “haha let’s put our boats on top of each other” to “haha let’s make a capitalist commune” to “haha death games with the boys” to “haha industrial sabotage :D” to “wait, is the moon big?” to “haha insomnia cult” to “oh crap moon big” to “oh crap the moon is going to collide into the planet, girl help”
