#< what the different colored scars are for

[bamsywrites]

And Comes Dawn pt 12

Pairing: unrequited Isildur x Reader, mentions of Sauron/Halbrand reader, possible future requited Isildur x Reader

Tags: angsty, unrequited love, Isildur curses like a sailor and like breaks peoples bones, reader runs away from her problemsReader gets into trouble obvi, surprise kinda toward the end.

Notes: I told you I'd be feeding you but I'm not sure that yall will like this one. No sauron. Just isildur. There's some foreshadowing at the end and that's what I think might ruffle some of yalls feathers 😬😬 also it's not the best. I'm still getting a feel for isil.

“No, no. Isildurs fingers wrapped around your wrist, tilting it ever so slightly, “you must block like this. The tilt gives you the advantage to push in. It gives you easier access to defend more of your body. Having the sword straight up will make you more vulnerable.”

You nodded following his example. You'd been at this for a few hours with him. He'd been insistent when he found you were going on the expedition back to your homeland. He knew that the main reason you were going was that Halbrand was making the trip as well, but you had offered your skills as a healer. He couldn't stomach sending you into a battlefield without you having some combat knowledge.

“That's a good girl,” he commented with a laugh as you blocked several of his attempts. “But watch your feet. You have to be ready to move to either side.”

He stopped again. “Bend your knees like this,” he demonstrated the position he was talking about. “That way, you'll be ready for whatever movement you may need to make.”

You nodded and copied his position, and then you were back to practicing, trying to use everything he had taught you. He'd give you praise when you blocked or got a hit, offer advice when you missed. The light around you was dimming, and you were making progress. He was genuinely proud of the progress you made.

“One more go, alright, then I have to get some food or I fear I'll perish.” He commented, his heart soaring at the sound of your laugh.

The sound of the wooden swords hitting each other as you practiced filled the street. Suddenly, you went to block, and he was able to twirl you away, bringing you into his sword and against his chest.

“I win,” he laughed before noticing how close you were to him. He could see every freckle on your face, every faint scar from childhood, the different specs of color that made up your eyes. The air felt hot and crushing around him. He hated how gorgeous you were and how his mind would wander to a world that couldn't be.

A world where, in this instance, he could kiss you.

He he held your gaze, he didn't know for how long but then his eyes wandered down to your lips and he saw how soft they looked. He wandered if they were. He wondered if things were different, would you allow him to kiss you.

The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them.

“I wish a could kiss you.”

And with those words, you backed away, dropping your sword and staring at him for a moment. He could tell you didn't know what to do or say, that your mind was thinking over everything. He adored his friendship with you, just as much as he did you, and he knew those words would cause a conflict in you that might destroy that friend ship.

“I need to go,” you mumbled softly before swiftly turning on your heels and making your way down the dark streets of Numenor.

“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath and quickly followed you.

Perhaps you'd stop, and he could explain. If not, he simply needed to make sure you made it to your accommodations safely. There were plenty of Numenorians who supported this venture, but there were plenty who were not and blamed you and your companions. Some even resented you. Some threatened violence. And while Isildur could understand wanting to punch Halbrand in the face, he would not allow that harm to come to you.

“Wait, come on, just wait. Please.” He called after you, his feet carrying them after you.

Why did Elros put so many damn stairs in this city?

He feared he lost you. You were much faster than he suspected. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, a chorus of curses chanting in his mind. It was when he heard your voice from a street over that he calmed, but when he registered what you said in his mind, his blood ran cold, and he saw red.

“Please, I didn't do anything. I swear.”

You sounded scared. You sounded hurt. He'd never run so fast in his life, and the sight he saw made any semblance of calm or common sense leave his mind. A group of 3 men, all Isildurs age, and you, with a fresh cut on your face.

“I suggest you all step the fuck back,” he moved stand between them and you, his hand wrapping around your wrist to keep you behind him.

They all snickered, “and what will you do, elf lover?”

The words had only left the man's mouth and Isildur had grabbed him by the back of the head, smashing into his knee. Once. Twice. Three times before any of the mans friends got involved. It was a cacophony of curses, fists, and the crushing of bones. You had pressed your back to the wall with your eyes shut tight as it all transpired.

“I suggest you leave before I break your nose like I did both of your weak, pathetic friends.” Isildur hissed, his nose was bleeding as was his mouth, but he stood there with the others shirt in his fist as his companions sat on the ground worse for wear than Isildur was.

When the man didn't respond, Isildur growled and yanked his shirt harder. “Brave enough to strike a woman, but cowardice overtakes you now? You are pathetic. A disgrace to Numenor. The valar look on you and despair.” He pushed the other away from him.

“Leave now.”

He watched and waited for them to leave before turning to you. He limped towards you, examining your face. “Are you okay?”

“Me?!” You ask exasperated, staring at his beaten body. “Are you okay?”

“I'll survive.”

~

Less than an hour later, you were seated in his room. His home wasn't far from the attack, and he sat in silence as you tended to his wounds. He watched your face intently, the adrenaline from before had worn off for both of you and the weight of the words he spoke had started to wear on you both.

The silence had been awful for him. Normally, he'd make you laugh, or there was some witty back and forth between the two of you. You’d become a close friend in a short time. His feelings for you wereones he tried to swallow and hide, but he failed.

“I'm sorry.” He decided to break the silence first. “I never meant for you to be caught in the middle of something you never asked for.”

You silently wiped blood from his chin before sitting back and away from him. “I do not wish to hurt anyone's feelings.”

He smiled sadly, looking at his lap, “I will be honest with you, my feelings are hurt all the time. You are so, obviously in love with another man, and I do find comfort in the fact that you are happy and that he returns your love.”

He swallowed thickly, “I want you to be happy, truly. You are my friend, and I do not wish you any ill, but I know what I feel in my heart, and some days, it simply aches.”

You looked down, your lip quivering, and he felt an immense amount of guilt. He saw you part your lips to speak, and he put his hand on your knee to stop you.

“You do not need to apologize or feel guilt. I do not blame you as you have done nothing wrong. I said before, and I mean it, your friendship is not a consolation prize. It is an honor. Truly. I value our friendship more than I can say.”

You looked at him, swallowing thickly, “There's nothing wrong with you, Isil. You are funny and brave and loyal. You are a good friend and a good man.”

He smiled again, of course you would comfort him in this moment. You were simply that kind of person, and that's why he adored you so. “I'm also incredibly attractive.”

You laughed softly, wiping at your eyes.

“I should not have said it,” he spoke sincerely once more, “That was unfair to you. I hope that we can move past this. I hope we can still be friends.”

You smiled at him and nodded, “I've never had a friend like you before. I just do not wish to hurt you.”

He shook his head. Did you not know you were a rose? He'd grasp tight the thorny stem if it meant he got to view the blossom. “I am fine. I will be fine.”

You wet your lips and nodded, picking at the skin of your palm.

“Truly, don't worry. The women of Middle Earth will be throwing themselves at my feet after I save them from the orc scourge. I will have to fight them off, me and Berek may not make it back.”

You laughed softly, “You are a strange man.”

“You are a strange woman. You show up to our shores with an elf and the long-lost king of the southlands. Your friends assault our people, commit treason, and you start yelling explectives in our streets.”

You glared at him, and he couldn't help but laugh. Relief flooded his body as things settled back to normal, and he escorted you home. His heart did ache when he saw you with him but a part of him knew there was more to come between the two of you, weather a deeper bond of friendship or romance, he did not know.

And he was not wrong, for 3000 years later, a part of him and a part of you would carry on in a ranger, sat at an inn and about to embark on a journey that would change the fate of all life.

[wisteria-lodge]

Why do female protagonists complain about their looks? I was reading a novel a friend recommended and within the first few pages the narrator is complaining that her eyes are the color of mud, her hair is boring and brown, she has freckles, etc. Is this supposed to make them relatable? I don't particularly like my freckles but it's not something I think about more than once or twice a year. It's just annoying and a downer when the character does this.

It's because girls in books (... and girls in real life...) are supposed to walk this tightrope where of course they are beautiful (because beauty = value.) But they can't seem like they're trying to look beautiful (because trying to be beautiful = vanity, shallowness, a kind of girly femininity that's either childish, pathetic, or sinister.) The Stepsisters are trying to be beautiful. Cinderella just is beautiful. Dress her in a potato sack and roll her around in mud, she'd still be more beautiful.

This is where the "protagonist who doesn't think they're beautiful" thing comes from. Obviously if they don't think they're beautiful, then they're not trying to be beautiful, with all the negative junk surrounding that. So you get these annoying descriptions where a regular or even cute-sounding person will say "ugh, I have eyes the color of mud and hate my freckles," not "I have brown eyes and freckles." (Bet you five dollars the love interest thinks her freckles are adorable, and gets lost in her deep, dark doe eyes.) Also - "mud colored eyes" is such a strange thing to think about yourself? If the author wanted to commit to writing about someone who actually had body image issues - then the internal narrative would be my skin sucks and I'm too fat. But that's a little too real: the reader can't actually think the protagonist is unattractive.

Which is too bad, when you have a female protagonist who is just isn't very attractive, that can be fantastic. In Jane Eyre, it's important that Jane is sort of unfortunate looking - it effects how people treat her, the sort of jobs she can get, but it also lets her fly under the radar and be invisible in way that would be impossible if she were more beautiful.

I tend to prefer descriptions that stress - how people move, or what they're wearing, because that reveals character in a way that "brown hair" just doesn't. I want to hear about a character's attractiveness if they are so remarkably attractive (or unattractive) that it affects how other people treat/perceive them. Same way someone might treat a character differently if they had a dramatic scar, or looked a lot younger than they actually were, or were a different ethnicity from the rest of the cast. Just give me a handful of their most distinguishing characteristics, and you don't have to do it on the first page.

[plutoswritingplanet]

Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt. 7

a/n: shout out to my wonderful partner, who had to listen to me rant and rave about this fic.

Warnings: Explicit Smexual Content (we did it guys), Dubious Consent (whoops), Mention of Scars, Smoking, Good Old Fingerblasting, Reader is Still Plus Sized. Cross-Posted on AO3

Summary: And as such, the board is set, and the pawns are in place.

Vicarious Masterlist

The Instagram feed of your private account seems to taunt him, the orange ring around your profile picture almost begging him to tap it. He doesn't particularly care about the Vaught-curated, fake one, that posts smiling pictures of Fireball doing superhero training. He doesn't care about the hairspray commercial, or the short videos of you posing in the recording studio, where they make you sing some pop-rock swivel. He does enjoy the one short clip from an interview, where you praise him like there's no tomorrow, but it's a small flicker of interest in the sea of insignificant blabber. 

No. What grabs his attention, what is the only notification he ever gets on his phone, is the private and intimate life of Smirnoff. Hidden under already ten times broken website coding, followed by a rather small group of your friends from different points of your existence. And oh, what an existence it is.

Another day off, once every week, and you've fled the Tower in the early hours of the morning. He can't exactly follow you out, despite wanting to do so, to an almost alarming degree. Homelander doesn't get days off. He doesn't have the luxury of normalcy, because by all means, he's not normal. His eyes follow you like a hawk, from the surveillance point of his penthouse, where he sees your retreating form greet the doorman. 

It is quite disconcerting to him, as he takes in the way you interact with insignificant Vaught employees, after a month. The smiles, the borderline servile pleasantries, so unfitting to your role as a superhero, as his god-damned Sidekick. Once, he saw you pick up a note, which flew out of some worm's pile of documents, hand it to them with a bright expression. Like it's the most normal of occurrences, like you should be bending over for anyone other than himself. 

He would've intervened. In that small moment, he would've crossed the floors of the Tower, grabbed you by that soft underarm and showed you, exactly, who you should reserve your politeness for. But, he wouldn't interrupt Madelyn's speech, no matter how much he wanted to, he was tied at the moment, and as the day went on, the incident slipped his mind. 

Which he sorely regrets, as he peeks out his window, sensing through floors upon floors of noise-filled concrete and metal, that you're back.  

He seeks out your newest story with ease, his fingers flying over the touch screen. Your account pops up, like it's done for the past month, the colorful ring around your profile picture calling to him like a siren from mythology he's never bothered to read. 

The lights of New York never dim, and as he stands by the window, overlooking the nightlife of the city, he pauses, just for a moment. He wonders if you hate this place too. Not in the same way he does, that's for sure, but he's seen your house, your neighborhood. He's seen the way you flinch, whenever a particularly loud sound from the outside wriggles its way into the Tower. The way your nose scrunches at the fumes in the air, the way your eyebrows jump to your hairline, whenever you see a price tag on the water bottles stuck inside a vending machine. Even if you can afford them, even if you'll be able to afford them long after your contract is terminated. 

Honestly, you should be on your knees, thanking him for dragging you into the real world. For taking you away from the insignificant, lazy life of the suburbs. He's also aware, that precisely because you should be grateful, you hate this situation. You're too damned proud, even if you try to conceal it. He's getting good at reading you. 

First picture.

You're back at that disgusting, dirty food joint right outside the Tower. He can practically taste the unbearable amounts of sugar in your latte, and he frowns slightly at the whipped cream almost spilling over the sides of the glass. His tongue smacks against his pallet, imagining himself licking the artificial taste out of your mouth, letting the carbonation fizzle on his taste buds, until it turns into liquid, flowing from your lips into his throat. 

In a staggering display of self-restraint, he swipes to the next photo. 

"What the fuck is that" the black text says, accompanied by a horrified emoji, and he frowns, because honestly, he has no idea. He's looking at a very zoomed in photo of a bug, or... Some other alien creature. He grunts low in his throat and swipes. 

There's a three hours gap between the insect photo, and the next one, and he brings the screen closer to his face.

It's a video. A short clip of you, splayed on the floor. Someone else is holding the camera, and despite his best efforts, he can feel a small pang of jealousy crawling up his spine. 

Your cheeks are warm with exertion, your chest rising and falling in deep breaths, and he absentmindedly notices a very beaten up dog toy in your hand, traces of saliva still on it, as well as your fingers. A black, wet nose enters the picture, as the person filming zooms in on your face. You sputter, as the dog starts to lick your cheek, and the sound of your laughter fills his penthouse.

That same, rough noise you use around your friends. The loud cackling, that sounds simultaneously like nails on a chalkboard, and the greatest of symphonies. He wonders what he'll have to do, for you to laugh like that around him. He's funny, he knows he can be funny, he's the god-damned Homelander. 

He's everything. 

Homelander zeroes in on the way your chest shakes under a simple tank top, as your body convulses in bounds of laughter. And then suddenly, he freezes, all the heated, dangerous thoughts slipping out of his brain, as he notices something. He replays the video, once, twice, three times. Zooms in, tilts his head, tries to conjure up a clearer image from the amassing of pixels.

- Oh show me the way to the next whiskey bar - your voice carries through the metal-enforced walls of the tower, cutting through concrete and worming itself right into his ear. 

He's standing outside the door to your rooms, his eyes following your form as you glide through the kitchen area, hips swaying under a flowy skirt. It's the same outfit you've worn in the story, and despite himself, Homelander starts to salivate, the muscles of his stomach tightening ever so slightly. 

Your singing is, well, to be quite honest, not good. Which could've been anticipated, considering the amounts of auto tune they layered over your voice, in that horrendous song. It was clear you were not a singer, which you've mentioned, extensively, to Stillwell. She ignored it, of course. The small note in your files about taking part in a student rendition of a play twice in your life, and a teeny tiny mention of some band activity, was enough to set her unshakable resolve on truly milking the "rockstar" persona. 

Still, it doesn't stop you from belting out the refrain like you're part of the band, your body swaying, as you hug the pillar of your kitchen area in a dramatic display.

- Oh moon of Alabama, we now must say goodbye...

 He watches like a hawk, through concrete and metal, his eyes burning at the corners, as he tries so hard to catch that elusive thing. That small flicker he's sure he's seen on his screen, just minutes ago, but to no avail. And he has to know. Why, he's not sure himself, but the need to make sure, to uncover another layer of your being is too strong to ignore, and with a huff of frustrated air, he finally makes up his mind. 

The hard, demanding knock on your door startles you from your impromptu, private performance. Bare feet pad on the carpet, as you rush to the stereo system, turning the music down, before skipping towards the entrance to your room, curiosity and just a flicker of anxiety mixing within your gut. 

By all means, today is the one day you shouldn't be disturbed, so whoever this was, must have a pretty important reason to stop by your anything but humble abode. 

- Yeah? - that's the only word that you manage to say, as you open the door, before a flash of blue enters your vision. 

You barely have the time to realize, who exactly is standing in front of you, before a gloved hand darts out in your direction, fingers gripping the cleavage of your top tightly. A strangled sound of surprise and outrage escapes your throat, as blonde mass of hair invades your vision. 

Homelander kicks the door closed, as his hands tug mercilessly on the fabric of your shirt. Your arms flail in the air, before you have half the mind to grab his wrists, sputtering wildly, as you try (and fail) to free yourself from his hold. 

- What the fuck are you doing? - your voice comes just a bit more on the panicked side, and you mentally scold yourself.

He doesn't seem to notice this slip-up, too occupied with whatever he's hoping to find in your bra. Your face burns red against your better judgement, as his free hand wrenches itself in between your breasts, all but scooping your flesh to the sides, until your sternum is more visible. 

Finally, he blinks, freezing in his place, blue eyes staring at your skin so intensely, you're convinced he's going to burn another hole through you. 

- What is that? - he asks, voice low and more dangerous, than you've ever heard up until this point. 

You frown, confusion written clearly on your face, and in response, he jabs his gloved, red finger right at the center of your chest, your body swaying slightly from the impact. 

- This. What the fuck is this? - he repeats, a note of impatience sneaking into his tone, and you tug your chin as far down as it can go, struggling to see, what exactly he's pointing at. 

And then, like a flicker of genius, your mind catches up. With a huff of frustration, you finally take a sharp step back, letting the material of your top tear, a scrap of sad fabric dangling from his hand, as you throw him a look, that borders on annoyance. 

- It's a scar - you try to keep your voice indifferent, try to deny him the satisfaction of your reaction, but goddamn, this is your day off, and he's acting insane. 

He looks utterly out of place inside your room, although you can't imagine anyone, except maybe Ozzy Osbourne in his prime, fitting into this strange jumble of rock paraphernalia. You barely fit in here yourself, with your sweaters, and tops, and flowy skirts that flutter around your ankles. Still, seeing him here, in your space, fills you with a sense of discomfort. This is supposed to be your safe house, your one hiding spot in the hell site that is the Vaught Tower. A naive way of thinking, considering the man you wanted to hide from the most, could see and hear through walls, but still, you'll take an illusion if you can't have the real thing. 

Homelander blinks a couple of times, you can see the muscles of his jaw moving under his skin in a way, you've come to recognize. He's thinking. It's never good when he's thinking. Your first month as his glorified sidekick is coming to an end, and you already know, nothing good, nothing kind, will ever come out of that brain of his. 

- You... - his eyes flicker over your entire figure, from head to toe - Scar?

The note of incredulity in his voice makes you sigh, and you tug the torn fabric of your top upwards, just to try and shield yourself from his gaze. Slowly, he notices the scrap from your shirt still in his hand, and as he looks down at it, his fingers run absentmindedly over the fabric, the frayed ends sticking out. Your eyebrow twitches, when he pockets the material, but you decide not to comment. Not while you're still uncertain of his, well, everything at the moment. 

- Of course I scar - you say slowly, trying to keep your voice calm - You burned a hole through me, remember?

Finally, that seems to snap him from whatever daze he's been in, and he regards you fully with a sharp jerk of his head. 

- You said you heal faster - he points out, and you can see, the way his legs twitch, as if he's undecided whether he wants to close the distance between the both of you. 

- Scars are a part of the healing process - you tell him, words sounding a bit rehearsed, a bit too much like a doctor reciting the same phrase to every patient. 

The Doors continue to play, quietly cutting through the air, mixing with the sound of your quickened breathing. Somehow the once comforting music starts to feel more and more like a soundtrack from a horror movie. 

You can't stand in place anymore, a nervous sort of buzzing entering your system like a tsunami wave, and against your every instinct, you turn your back to the predator inside your safehouse. Feet padding over the carpet, you find yourself at the window, cracking it open, and letting the cool, fumes-filled air of New York into the room. He's not even trying to be stealthy, as he comes closer, and when you turn to face him, you're met with a myriad of conflicting emotions running through his expression. 

A childish sort of giddiness, at the prospect of marking your skin, of carving himself into the very essence of your flesh. And a deep disdain for such ordinary show of weakness, of humanity. You don't like either of the options, and your hands reach for the half-smoked pack of cigarettes at the nearby table. 

- So you knew, you'll scar - he starts, his eyebrows raising - And you didn't think to mention it?

It wouldn't change a thing, and the both of you know it. You fish out a lighter out of your pocket. 

- And you shot yourself in the fucking stomach - he continues, his tone growing lighter, like he doesn't believe the very real events, that transpired between the two of you - You can't be that stupid, I've seen a college mention somewhere in your files. 

That makes you huff, as you take out one of the cigarettes with practiced ease, placing it between your lips, while looking at him utterly unamused. 

- For English literature, not... - your hand flails in the air - Whatever... Borderline abusive, work interactions. 

He scoffs at the statement, like it's a joke. Like you're not forced to second guess every little action around him. The lighter flicks to light, and suddenly his mouth splits into a smirk. Sharpened canines flash at you, a small shiver coils itself at the base of your spine. 

- You know what they say about nerdy girls, right? - he quips, voice lowering into a strange sort of rumble, that would perhaps sound seductive, if it weren't him.

- I can guarantee you, I've heard every version of this...

- They don't know how to smoke - he cuts you off, jutting his chin out slightly in your direction, making you finally look down at what you're actually doing. 

The cigarette is on fire. Literally. 

You've lit the wrong end, and your nostrils fill with a biting scent of burning plastic, as the filter melts in the heat. 

You sputter, free hand waving in the air in quickness, and the small, burning stick flies out of your mouth, and shoots across the room, until it hits the sink in your small kitchen area. Homelander's eyes crinkle at the sides, as he takes in that small display of your power. You run after it to the sound of Homelander's rumbling laughter, too mocking to laugh with him. Fortunately, you manage to drown the burning end in water, before the smoke detector goes off, and for a moment, you allow yourself to stand there, leaning heavily on the counter, watching the cigarette swim. 

He slides into your kitchen like it's his playpen, towering over you with a smug expression, and you have to bite your lip, because fuck. That was, perhaps, actually funny. 

And in the warm light, he looks less like your nightmare, and more like an all-american boy, you could've met at a college party. A shuddering breath leaves you, much too close to a laugh, and his lips pull back even more, into a boyish sort of a smile, that just barely makes your stomach flutter. 

- Yeah... Okay - you concede, giving up ever so slightly in this strange situation, and you try to suppress another shiver, as his blue eyes suddenly seem much too sharp. 

And then, he crosses his arms in front of his chest, the padding on his suit making his chest look almost ridiculously puffy, as he takes a deep breath, looking away from you in a manner that might be mistaken as, god forbid, shy. 

- So - he starts, immediately putting you on high alert, even if there's a flicker of curiosity brewing inside your gut - How was your day off?

You blink up at him confused, before realizing, that he doesn't really care. His shoulders sag slightly, already bored with the conversation he started himself. And you want him out of here, so you mirror his stance, crossing your arms, and take a long breath.

- Good. - you attempt, and fail, to sound casual -  I've been to....

The rest of the sentence is cut off by your strangled gasp, as your chin suddenly gets pushed up by a gloved hand. And then it's tongue, teeth and a whisper of lips, all but attacking you, poking, probing, demanding entry. Your arms flail once again, your nails dragging over the marble countertop, over the geometric patterns of his suit.

Homelander all but crushes your body against the kitchen counter, one of his hands coming up, roughly palming at your breast, fingers sinking into the soft material of the bra cup, into the even softer flesh. He drags the material down, until you spill out into his palm. 

Is this the Maybe you've been thinking about? It doesn't feel like a Maybe. 

Your mind races between all the possible exits from this situation, every single one falling short, when he finally grows tired of the barrier of your teeth. His other hand grabs your jaw tightly, pressing on the tissue until your mouth falls open on instinct. Like a fucking dog, that's being tricked into swallowing a tablet, his tongue slides into your mouth. 

He groans, deep within his chest, as if this is some moment of immense relief, and you're stuck in limbo, undecided between gagging and reciprocating the kiss. Both options seem as likely, and that thought terrifies you to no end. 

The decision is made for you, once again, as his knee slides between your shaky legs, brushing ever so slightly against the heat, that's been steadily growing, and god help you, it feels good. 

A low, keening sound rips through your chest, your throat, and he swallows it like it's the only air he'll ever need, responding with a grunt of his own, his fingers tightening over your breast. His other hand slides down, over your ribs, your waist, until it settles on your hip, grabbing the flesh there with all his might, and pulling.

Pushing, and pulling, until your hips stutter into a steady grind against his knee.

You're convinced your blood has turned into living lava, undescribable warmth flooding your abdomen with every move, spilling into your cheeks, the tips of your fingers. 

Finally, he detaches himself from your mouth, and as you gasp for air, your senses return to you in a cold wave. Despite the heat, the tingling, overtaking sensation building in your core, the tantalizing way he plays with your breast, your mind cools itself. Finding your voice comes easier than you would've anticipated, and you vow to explore this unexpected level-headedness at a later time.

Your hand finds his chin, nails biting into his impenetrable skin, forcing him to lock eyes with you. The dangerous, almost animalistic darkness within them, would've scared you, at any other time, but right now, all you feel is calmness. The sort of silence you'd experience in the very eye of the hurricane. 

- Go to your room.

You almost don't recognize your voice, the low commanding tone that comes somewhere deep within, from some undiscovered part of yourself that seems to come out in his presence only. You're still undecided whether it's Fireball, Smirnoff, or this strange third thing. Perhaps it's all of them combined. Doesn't matter now, what matters is, he stops.

Everything comes to a screeching halt. The knee, the hands, even the song playing quietly on the stereo system. You're convinced he's turned into a statue in front of you, until he blinks. A feverish series, another tell of his running thoughts. His mouth falls open, traces of you cooling against his bottom lip. And then his jaw sets, along with his decision.

- No - your stomach drops - Give me something.

Confidence slips through your fingers like air, as the realization of just how much unprepared for this balance you really are. How you've bitten off so much more than you can chew, and there's no other way forward for you, than to choke on it. 

- I... - your voice lodges itself firmly in your throat - I don't...

- You want to play this game? - his voice is low, hot breath fanning against the column of your throat - Play it right. Give me something. 

You swallow hard, his eyes drifting to the movement, the pulse running rampant in your artery. This must be that elusive Maybe your friend talked about, but as you stare at him, eyes wide and uncertain, you suddenly feel like the weight of the world has been dropped on your shoulders, which were not meant to carry this burden. Still, in this eye of the hurricane, you make a decision, because there's nothing else to do, nowhere to turn, not really. 

Your head nods on its own accord, spine stiff and cracking, and you can see a flicker of victory pass his features. Not in a way that would suggest relief. No. He knew from the start, there's no other way for this interaction to end. 

And as such, his hands leave you, as he unclasps the velcro at the wrist of his right glove, the sound jarring in the thick tension between the two of you. Then, the loosened leather presses itself into your lips, resting at the border of your teeth. 

- Bite - he says, low in his throat, and the hinges of your jaw creak as you sink your teeth into the hard material. 

His hand slides out, elegant fingers, veins climbing the expanse of skin, and your breath hitches ever so slightly. Homelander doesn't waste time. The moment he's free of that one article of clothing, he reaches down, gathering your skirt up. You can feel the flowy material slide up your calves, your thighs, until it bunches up around his forearm. The pads of his fingers brush over the well worn cotton of your underwear, and your eyes flutter, a sign of betrayal from your own body. 

He drinks in every reaction, every change, as he slowly, tugs your panties to the side. You can see those sharp canines flash in a borderline giddy smile, as he finally makes contact with your flesh. 

- Would you look at that... - he quips, and you know very well, just how drenched you really are, just how tight the muscles of your stomach had been. - Aren't you just the perfect little Sidekick.

There's no time to answer him, as suddenly your walls flutter around his fingers, his thumb finding it's goal with an almost unbelievable ease. Your hips stutter, torn between pushing him closer, deeper, and pulling away. He hums in your ear, his mouth finding purchase behind your ear, where he sucks and bites, until you shiver. Your hands fly up, grabbing at the bronze eagles on his shoulders, nails scraping against the metal, as your mouth falls open. His other hand, which is currently not occupied with absolutely wrecking your nether regions, pushes into your mouth, thumb pressing against your tongue, leather running over your bottom teeth. 

He tilts your head up, forces you to look at him, those once baby blue eyes are almost completely eaten by his dark irises, which are lapping at every twist of your eyebrows, every flutter of your eyelashes. Your breath hitches in your throat, as he pushes his fingers as far as they'll go, pressing up into you, the sounds becoming downright obscene. The pressure builds with an almost alarming speed, your thighs starting to shake from the exertion. 

His head dips down, tongue sneakig from between his teeth, and he licks a long stripe between your breasts, mouth closing over the small, light scar. There, he sucks, until your back arches, until the skin becomes pink, then red.

And despite the fact, that situation is messed up beyond belief. Despite the fact, that hate burns low in your stomach, it's fire rising with every motion of his fingers, every press of his thumb...

You let go.

Your hand grabs at the back of his head, fingers digging into his skin, pushing him down to meet your open mouth. And you kiss him. Truly kiss him, pouring every hidden or otherwise emotion into the swirling of your tongue. You swallow the loud groan coming from deep within him, and let the pressure in your stomach snap like a rubber band. You've always been quiet, and today is not any different, as your body arches against him, hips moving in an uncoordinated stutter, riding his hand like your life depended on it. 

You revel in the way his eyes widen in surprise almost more than your orgasm. The realization, that you've caught him off guard, setting your nerve endings on fire. 

He recovers quickly, pulling away from the kiss, his mouth hanging open. Then, his hand rips itself out of you, before you have the time to stop spasming, coming up to his mouth, where he cleans his fingers, shoving them into his mouth. The noise he makes, when he tastes you for the first time, borders on pornographic, and with a freezing shiver running down your spine, you think he looks almost beautiful like this. If he was anyone else, he would be perfect. 

Alas, he's himself, and you are what your life has made of you, so you force your breathing to level, until you're sure you're ready to speak. 

- Go to your room - you repeat, a note of hoarseness sneaking into your tone, but his eyes flash nonetheless. - Now. 

There's just a second of hesitation. An excruciating moment, where your heart nearly stops in your chest. And then, your skirt falls back into place, fluttering around your ankles, as the heat of his body leaves you. That hellish American flag billows after him, and now you're sure the stars and stripes are mocking you. 

But he's gone.

 The door slams after him, and finally you're left alone, moisture cooling on the insides of your thighs in a way that makes your stomach twist. You can't think about it. You try to shove this entire situation into another box, hide it from sight, stomp on it like an annoying cockroach. Knees buckle under you, and the coolness of the kitchen floor is a jarring contrast to your burning skin. 

On instinct, pushed by some invisible force, you reach up, fingers closing over the cigarette pack and the lighter, and this time, you light it correctly. It takes three puffs, until the smoke detector catches on, the water system coming to life, spraying the entirety of your room with cold water. 

And you continue sitting there, on the floor, holding your wet cigarette between your teeth, letting the water cover everything, you included. It's okay. You can afford it.

You're a rock star. 

[trashratsaws]

We ALL love the scarian dynamic of watcher!Grian being completely unknowable to a human Scar by virtue of Grian being an omniscient god. I will sacrifice myself on your altar if you give me your attention, I don’t need you to love me like I love you nor am I deterred from loving you if you are incapable of love as humans understand it, you are fascinated by me and I am enamored by you but we are beings so drastically and fundamentally different I will likely never understand you. Our understandings of emotion and experience of being is completely alien to the other, and yet we seek each other out. It’s Grian’s godliness juxtaposed by Scar’s humanity BUT,,, what if you flip that.

What if the sheer complete unknowability is more Scar than Grian? This watcher deity who sees all and thrives on chaos meets actual ball of sunshine human and though he can replicate human language, human behavior, inhabit a human form, he cannot understand the subconscious mind of a human because he is not one. Oh what agony to be so much bigger than the ant. Oh to feel that if only your brain could interpret the signals they send to each other then you could understand the love the ant gives you, and perhaps return it. Oh to weep when you step on the ant by accident, bringing it back to life over and over again. Oh to inhabit the ant’s form, mimic every smile, kiss, and gentle touch in a desperate ravaged attempt to be closer to them. Human emotions are like shrimp colors to him.

Even more painful - the scorned deity trope is brutal this way. For his obsession with this human, his desire to understand, his meddling in his life and acceptance of his gross human love, the watchers turn Grian away. Force him to dance around on earth in human skin, force him to watch his precious ant die in his arms over, and over, and over again. You must now inhabit a world between the mortal and the divine, scorned by your kind but different from humans. For Grian to give up his divinity for beings who can’t even understand him. God.

[sweetie-peaches]

It’d been while.

Since, everything, the memories had almost faded in Tubbo’s mind, the scars had start to change colors, the aches remained, and the nightmares. Things had gotten better

Then he was back, a different competition. A different fight, this time he could almost call it willing, if anything he’s done in his life has been willing.

He doesn’t know what he feels when he sees them. His team. His family. Every fight and battle, they come back to him like that.

It feels like blood and ash.

It tastes like snow and dirt.

It smells like home.

Sparks kindling, A home he can’t come back too, a home forged in bloodshed.

Soulfire.

So he pulls himself up, he ties his boots and he’s ready, ready to be a part of this. For the memories he lost, for the ones that remain. For his family.

For soulfire

[blu3-ja3]

Civilian clothing? Absolutely and a little Treat as well! Enjoy Lovelies!

O'Connor: Long sleeves and covered neck always, even when hot. Shes insecure about her burn scar and has enough people staring at her for a lifetime. On a very rare occasion does she wear short sleeves and it's ONLY with the 141 around. She likes rich jewel tones and soft fabrics, if it's textured it feels horrible or it's too tight on her skin, she hates how her scar feels. She likes silver jewelry and simple makeup, a bit of gloss and her eyes (shadow, liner, cute wing, and mascara) her nails are always painted whatever colors the sergeants pick. A skirt with nice tights or leggings and a cute boot? Yes. A nice pair of jeans with a cute belt and her old black combat boots, classic. Her hair is up, braided, ponytail, bun or beanie. It's only when she goes somewhere nice does she have it down. Her bag always has her knife, a bandana, and a hair tie along with her phone and wallet.

Price: Lumberjack, lots of well fitting flannels and cable knit short sleeve polos. Nice slacks or jeans with nice combat boots and a well kept leather belt. Nice wrist watch that was a gift from Ghost. Bucket hat that matches his flannels color, he originally only had two but Gaz found a color matched bucket hat for each shirt the man had. He didn't wear them at first but eventually indulged his partner. His beard is always well manicured and trimmed.

Ghost: Mans is unironically fashionable and only wears black. Wears long and short sleeve button ups they're all perfectly tight and hugs his chest and arms well. Soap makes sure of that. Nice jeans or slacks with a black and silver belt and his well worn combat boots. Silver wrist watch, chain necklace, and rings, with black nails. He keeps a face mask on and most times wears a beanie so his eyes and the makeup on them are the only thing seen. There's a difference between Ghost doing his eyes and Soap doing his eyes. Ghost's makeup is what he always does, smeared black nothing fancy. Soap's is intricate with liner and designs, it's still chaotic but in a beautiful way, it's perfect for Ghost.

Gaz: Fashion king, everything he wears is color coordinated with Price. Sweaters with knitted designs or embroidery over a white or black collared shirt. Well tailored black or brown slacks or jeans with a belt to match the sweater main color. Nice pair of chucks customized for Gaz by Soap as a birthday present. Lots of silver jewelry and accessories out the ass.

Roach: Nice acid washed jeans and graphic tees under an unbuttoned flannel. Nice pair of vans and goofy mismatched socks. Patterned belts, multi colored beanies, and chipped nail polish. He keeps his skateboard on him and walks around with his dog Ripley.

Soap: Punk Soap? Punk Soap... Why else the goofy hair cut? He's got a custom leather jacket with hand made patches, studs, and spikes. Graphic or band tees with ripped jeans or colored checkered pants. Well worn black combat boots with custom design embroidery. Chocker with a little ghost charm, rings and layered necklace and bracelets, as well as tongue and ear piercings. Will sometimes wears fake nose and lip piercing jewelry. Nail polish and eye makeup that matches his outfit, wears black lipstick sometimes it drives Ghost crazy.

Lil Treat height and ethnicity ( I think that what its called but idk I'm not smart)

Ghost: 6'7" (British Dad/German Mom)

O'Connor: 6'5" (Irish Mom/Scottish Dad)

Price: 6'4" (Both British Parents)

Gaz: 6'2" (African Mom/ British Dad)

Roach: 5'9" (Spanish Mom/Jewish Dad)

Soap: 5'7" (Both Scottish Parents)

[goby10]

Ok so I read into things a lot if that isn't obvious already 😭 but I wanted to talk about the arcane eye theory that I've been coming up with.

Spoilers beware

Ok so we see how in arcane jinx, Viktor, and silco all have apparently different eyes or they change. For example in the new season Viktors eyes change to the hex core colors right??? So where am I going with this so hear me out guys, with Viktors eye changing those colors it only confirms my theory of his blinded by the hex core not only does it let him see more but it guides him decieves him into feeling bad about killing Skye. And with silco his eye is the only reminder he has of what Vander did to him and the river toxins and how it infected him, it's his whole objective for everything he does he is BLINDED by his PAST which is shown through his scar and his eye. With jinx the first time we really see her go full blown jinx is actually at the end of episode three where she turns her head to look at the camera and her eye is purple not because of shimmer but because of jinx, that is just the way she is now right??? So with this eye theory I think everyone in arcane when they have these big changes in their eyes or appearances it's really just showing what is blocking them or what's driving them. With Vi we don't see this with her eyes but moreso with her hair how she dyes it black it's this identity change from who she was right??? I don't know I might be crazy but I think it's pretty cool how in arcane the visuals in showing what's pushing them and also holding them back is literally in their physical appearances.

[urinarythreatinfection]

Aight bet-

Can i get Shanks paired with a female reader (romatically) who is also missing an arm and/or has red hair.

Thank you v.v

Not my bestest work but I thought it was funny and warm.

Narcissistic Romance

Shanks x Fem!Reader. Reader has red hair and missing arm. Miku is Miku even if she looks different so skin color or hair texture can be anything else. Small angst(?) but mostly fluff. Drabble + Headcanons

“I get we have the same hair and stump but did you really need to go this far? You even drew the scar on me.” You touch your eye where some friends had drawn Shanks’s signature scar on.

“This fits so well! You might as well be his female form.” You��re all near a bar, one of your friends got the idea to dress you up as Red Haired Shanks after getting drunk. “Strike a pose or somethin-” They’re interrupted when yelling is heard.

“C-CAPTAIN!?” You hear from behind you, turning to see a group of men staring at you.

‘Captain?’ You think to yourself, confused before it clicks. These must be Red Hair Pirates, but how? This is a crazy coincidence that they’re here right as you’re dressed up. Your mind runs at a million miles a second and you clamp a hand over your friend’s mouth before they speak. “Well, I got caught by a devil fruit. Changed my looks a bit but I look good as a woman too, right?” You smirk, going along with it. Unfortunately, your cover is blown almost immediately when a head peeks over your shoulder to look at you.

“Hmm. I do look good as a woman, don’t I?” It’s Red Haired Shanks, another coincidence and you jolt with a yelp. “Freaking out, Miss Red Hair? Not very Emperor-like.” He teases with a grin. Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to go with the joke considering how quickly you got caught, and by the man himself. “What’s my female doppelganger doing here?” He looks at your friends with a wink, this is so embarrassing. “Popular as a woman too?”

That was how the two of you met, a funny cosplay of a funny guy.

You were scared at first you were going to get in trouble for impersonating him, even if it was a joke and you were caught immediately.

Shanks isn’t a sore sport though and he actually found it really funny.

He had stayed at the island and you were good company, proving to be a good fighter as well.

He couldn’t just leave an attractive and strong woman alone, right?

You ended up joining his crew along with a few of your other friends that could fight and wanted to go, the rest you all sending letters to any others often.

The official number of redheads in the Red Hair Pirates is now two.

The two of you two hit it off, cracking similar arm jokes and having fun together, it was perfect.

It really wasn’t long until you both ended up dating, then came new jokes.

“Narcissist.” That’s what people like to tease you both about.

Dating a person that can look like a genderbent version of you with the right clothes and makeup is definitely narcissistic.

Of course, you both take it with pride.

Shanks even likes to show you off, calling himself the luckiest man ever to find the most beautiful woman ever to play into the narcissist joke.

Something on a more personal level is that the two of you can relate to missing an arm, helping each other with phantom pain and insecurities.

After all, when the person you love has the same imperfection as you it’s hard to be insecure about it.

You’re perfect to him and him to you, despite your disabilities.

It’s nice to have someone that understands, that knows how hard it is to deal with losing a limb.

When you’re feeling insecure sometimes Shanks puts his stump on yours, smiling and calling you both “stump buddies” before kissing you.

If the weather is bad and you’re both struggling with pains you can hold each other, finding comfort in the warmth of your lover.

Shanks holds you tight, even if he’s clenching his jaw, always trying to put your pain above his no matter how much you try and tell him he matters too.

It makes you feel insecure, he should have a partner that would be able to help him without struggling themselves, but to him you’re everything.

He’d rather hold you while shaking from pain himself than be comforted by anyone else.

These bad moments with you are more precious to him than the best with anyone else.

[habitual-creatures]

It still doesn't feel right to sleep alone...

But I don't remember what or WHO I had with me before...

(( aughhh mod got hit with another wave of missing Steph and instead of trying to just SLEEP I decided to make this. I dunno why. but it exists. soooooo... yep. ))

[tricoufamily]

i didn't even play the pack i got distracted by the apply to all button

[sergle]

I think my favorite thing about doing ginger red hair instead of cherry red hair is: lying to people about it

[reblog-house]

Some things can change.

[gophergal]

Kids being kids

[butchtifalockhart]

“wow, cloud and tifa have such a fascinating dynamic! trauma-bonding as the sole survivors of a horrific massacre while also not having actually seen each other in years is such a cool way to explore trauma and growth! i wonder what people are saying about them online! :D”

what people are saying about them online, every time, without fail:

[dailykugisaki]

Day 127 | id in alt

They hangin out on a building fr.

[i-am-a-fan]

“The Crowning of the Sun”

Supposedly the second part of this art work.