#I made my own and they’re hideous

[bladders-gate-three]

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So in act 3 of BG3 you get access to the Helldusk armor, right? Like you take the breastplate off of Raphael, and yoink the helmet and gloves from elsewhere in his house…

BUT WHERE ARE THE SHOES?!?

TURNS OUT THEY’RE IN THIS CHEST…. At the Foot of Enver Gortash’s stinky little bed!!!

This little shit spent all his time around Raphael, who clearly has control issues; the only thing he took with him were the shoes to a perfect set of armor.

Because armor with mismatched shoes looks dumb.

IMAGINE BEING RAPHAEL thinking: that little shit stole my amazing boots. And you think; he’s probably wearing them right now.

and then

AND THEN YOU SEE HIM WEARING THESE

THE AUDACITY.

Also his parents were cobblers and he now has the world’s ugliest shoes, but keeps some of the best greaves ever made in his toy chest. Double whammy.

[tchaikovskaya]

Enduring horrors beyond comprehension (being a renter and trying to balance the real cost of spending your own money to somewhat improve the apt/house that you don’t own and won’t ultimately keep, vs the abstract cost of having to live with and look at shit that is functionally or aesthetically horrible in your daily life)

[honoredalone]

𐙚 I’D RATHER BE KISSING YOUR WAIST

❝ move slow, i don’t wanna get in your way. well the words in your mouth sound cool but i’d rather be kissin’ your waist ❞ keep it up - chase atlantic

♡ gojo satoru is the strongest, but that didn’t leave him without his scars. internal and external. the biggest scar making him shy away, but that didn’t stop you from loving it.

content: talk of scars, self doubt, negative thoughts, sad baby satoru, slight angst, tooth rotting sweetness

heavily inspired by @colonelarr0w, “tracing satoru’s scar”. go check out their works!! they’re amazing, so go support!!

it’s ugly, satoru thinks it’s the most hideous thing on his body. the gross texture, weird color and the memories behind it. the scar circling his waist makes him sick to look at. everyone knows how confident satoru is, well how could he not be? he’s the strongest after all, but even the strongest has his moments of weakness and the scar is just a permanent reminder of just that. he resents himself for it though he’s only human.

“what’re you doin’ there sweet girl?” his voice is raspy and deep from fatigue, a long day of teaching at jujutsu tech will do it to you but he always looks forward to this time of day. when he can lay in bed with you, cuddled into your warmth, his hand caressing the small of your back lovingly. your hand drifting down his torso above his black t-shirt. he didn’t usually wear t-shirts to bed but after the fight he could barely look at his own body without being ashamed so naturally he hid is body not only from himself but from you too. he knew you wouldn’t be disgusted by something so trivial but he couldn’t heal the insecurity that leaked into his brain.

“nothin’ ‘ru just wanna love you.” you whispered, your head resting on his toned chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. your fingers slowly moving to the hem on his shirt. you didn’t miss the way his stomach clenched when your warm hand drifted under his shirt. “you’re so handsome.”

“baby, wait.” satoru almost whines as your fingers feather over the ragged skin. his other hand softly holding your much smaller wrist. you heard the way his heartbeat sped up, the way his breathing became uneven.

“satoru, love.” you sat up, your eyes connecting with his. you hated seeing him so broken over something so small, something that you didn’t care about. nothing about the scar that decorated his beautiful pale skin deterred you away from him whatsoever, he’s your satoru.

“please.” he didn’t know what he meant by that but his eyebrows furrowed together, crystal eyes filling with tears. “it’s not pretty. it’s ugly.” he quietly admits, hand still wrapped around your wrist while the other still sits at the small of your back, thumb caressing you so tenderly. it upset you he thought about himself like that, it crushed your heart. he couldn’t help the fact that the wound scarred and it wasn’t his fault that it made him self conscious but you wanted to show him that it, of course, could never change how you felt about him.

you move to sit on his lap, his hands going limp and laying flat on the plush covers before they find your waist, squeezing your sides affectionately. looking at him for silent permission to push up his shirt slightly, he only looks at you like a kicked puppy before giving you a tense nod. you slowly push up his shirt, just blow his chest. his torso as gorgeous as always, fair skin strong and smooth. he was beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful. he took your breath away everytime, before and after the wound. you rest your hands onto the scar, thumbs softly rubbing the rough skin. his breath shook, he closed his eyes to prevent tears cascading down his blushed cheeks.

“you’re so handsome satoru.” your voice soft, melting over him like honey. he could just sob, he was barely keeping it together when he felt your warm breath fan over the wounded skin. “my pretty boy. so beautiful.” you place soft kisses, all over. his hands shook on your sides as his fingers tighten attempting to dampen his nerves. his words were stuck in his throat, he could barely formulate a sentence in his head because what could he say. open mouthed kisses making his stomach warm and tickle slightly, making his head spin.

“fuck, sweet girl. i love you. love you ‘s much.” his words wavered as he spoke, his mind nearly blank. kissing up from his waist, to right below his chest he sits up, wrapping both of his arms around your waist. he looks at you so sweetly, almost defeated. his arms retracting from around you to the neckline of his black shirt, slowly taking it off and discarding it to the side and looking over your face again. he knew that he couldn’t fully look at his scar and not feel badly but he could learn to like it, just because you did.

[hyunjins-orange-slice-too]

i deserve you, and you deserve me

pairing: daddy!chan x chubby fem reader

genre: comfort, soft smut

word count: ~2.4k

warnings: reader is insecure about her body, mentions of weight, pet names, unprotected sex.

an: this is kind of a request from @httpdwaekki and what i mean by that is, i sort of wrote part of it and im saving the other part for another post. i hope that’s okay! i wanted this one to be very soft and sweet and the other part of the request that we talked about i feel like would be better if it were a little more… rough? lol im def planning on doing it when i have time tho so look out for that. :)

also, idk the results of the poll i just posted, but hopefully they’re pro daddy!chan because here’s this. <3

masterlist

‼ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⚠︎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‼ adults only • mdni ‼ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⚠︎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‼

it was early in the morning. the sun peeking through the blinds gently wakes you from your peaceful sleep. you open your eyes slowly and begin to stretch your body, tensing all of your muscles only to then let them relax. you were warm, the blankets soft against your skin. you hugged your stuffed animal tighter to your chest, not wanting to get up yet. your stretching and rustling must have caused a stir in your boyfriend. he made a noise of his own before rolling over to face you, his chest to your back, and throwing his arm over your waist. though you are facing away from him, you can picture what he looks like in your mind. his dark curly hair was a mess, you were sure, sticking up every which way. his eyes were heavy, refusing to open, his cheeks slightly flushed. he pulled you closer to his body, mumbling out a “good morning.” his voice was deep and thick with sleep.

you tried to hide it, but your body went rigid. you noticed that you were both still naked from the night before. and all you could focus on was how his hand gripped the fat of your stomach. and suddenly you felt disgusting. you wanted to hide from him, to pull away and cover yourself. but doing so would alert him to your feelings and you didn’t want to make him feel like he did something wrong. so you continued to lay there, a million horrible thoughts running through your mind. it was one thing to be naked together at night, when the light is minimal and you feel like he can’t see your body. but now it’s morning and the sun is bright. if he were to look now, he would see everything. every pound, every stretch mark, every hideous thing about you. you wouldn’t be able to hide it. you gently gripped his wrist, rubbing the back of his hand gently with your thumb, before lifting his arm off of your stomach. you moved his hand to rest in a slightly better spot, on your hip. he huffed a disapproving sound before putting his arm right back where it was originally and pulling you in even tighter.

“can’t hold you right if my hand is on your hip.” he mumbled, squeezing you lovingly, nuzzling his face into your shoulder.

you gave in and tried to enjoy his arms around you. you loved him, and he made you feel so safe. feeling his strong arms around you made you want to sink into him further. but you couldn’t get rid of the incessant tapping on the windows of your mind telling you that you’re too big for him. there’s too much of you. that he deserves someone skinny and that you deserve nothing. the noise in your head grew louder and louder, you body itching to be covered. you gently tried to pry yourself from his grip, reaching for your discarded pajamas on the floor. but of course, in true chan fashion, he wouldn’t let you go. he held you tight, grunting his disapproval.

“daddy im cold.” you lied. “i want my pajamas.”

he still held you tight, but now his hand started to travel. his fingers slowly ran up your stomach, over your rolls much to your dismay, until he was cupping your breast in his palm.

“i can think of a way to warm you up.” he says softly, his lips brushing against your shoulder blade, his thumb rubbing back and forth across your nipple.

you started to panic. what were you supposed to do now? you didn’t want to push him away, you didn’t want to make him feel unwanted. but at the same time, you couldn’t let him continue. couldn’t let him look at you.

he must have sensed your apprehension. his hand slid back down to your waist. “is something wrong, baby? we don’t have to if you’re not in the mood.” he sounded slightly disappointed. and you thought you should run with that. yes that’s it, you’re just not in the mood. but you always found it hard to lie to him. lying is what bad girls did and you were very much not a bad girl.

he pulled the cover higher up your body, tucking you in, shielding you from the non existent cold that he thought you felt.

“it’s not that i don’t want to..” you said quietly.

“then what is it, princess?” he asked, pressing soft kisses against your back. “do i have morning breath?” he chuckled. “i’ll go brush my teeth right now.” but he made no move to leave the bed, too warm and comfortable next to you.

when you didn’t answer him, and when you didn’t giggle at his teasing like you normally would, he paused. “baby what’s wrong?”

you took a deep breath, knowing the conversation that this statement was going to cause. you almost lied, almost told him that you just didn’t feel well, or that you were still sleepy. the lie danced on your lips but you couldn’t push it further. “i don’t want you to see me.” you said into the plush of your stuffie, the fabric muffling your voice.

“what was that?” he asked, gently tugging at your friend, pulling him away from your face.

“i- i don’t want you to.. to see me.” you said, your voice quiet but very clear this time.

“princess..” he cooed. he separated his body from yours, propping himself up on his elbow so he could look at your properly. he gently tugged on your arm, rolling you over onto your back. you let him pull you but held the cover tightly to your body, not letting any skin peek through. you looked up at him with glassy eyes that made his chest hurt. he cradled your face in his hand. “why don’t you want me to see you? hmm?”

“i don’t want you to see what i look like..”

“baby i love looking at you. don’t you know that?” he asked, trying to pull the cover out of your grip but you held on tight.

“but i’m so.. big. and you’re so lean and muscled. you’re beautiful. you deserve someone skinny and pretty.”

“hey stop that.” he scolded. “you are not big. you are perfect. you’re so perfectly beautiful and i don’t want anyone but you. i deserve you and you deserve me.” he pointed to himself and then pointed at you as he spoke. “yeah?”

you shook your head, disagreeing with him. he obviously deserved someone way better than you. everyone knew that. people wondered why you were with him. why he picked you. you could feel their judgement every time you entered a room holding his hand. could feel all of their eyes on you.

he could tell you were in your head about it, struggling to believe him. he tugged on the blanket once more. “cmon baby. let me see your beautiful body?”

you held firm to the blanket, shaking your head no.

“baby..” his tone was changing. still sweet, but more authoritative. “be a good girl and let me see.”

you bit you lip, unsure of what to do. he was pulling the daddy card. you hesitated still and he had decided that he had had enough. he sat up, his toned chest and abdomen flexing as he scooted himself to the edge of the bed. he sat there, legs dangling off the edge, and he looked back at you, still cowering under the blanket.

“come here, little one.” he said, his voice calm. you knew he meant business but he didn’t sound mad. he gestured with his hand for you to come to him before pointing to the small space of mattress between his legs. “now.”

you slowly pulled the cover off. and using your hands to hide yourself as best as you could, you crawled over to him.

“sit between daddy’s legs.” he said. “put your back to my chest.”

you did as he said, wrapping your arms around your middle.

he wrapped his arms around you as well, enveloping you in his warmth. he kissed your neck and your shoulder before looking straight ahead.

directly across from the bed, propped up against the wall, was a giant mirror. he looked at you in its reflection, your eyes looking down.

“baby look.” he said softly. he squeezed you in his arms, motioning with his head to the mirror. but you didn’t want to look. couldn’t look. you had been avoiding your reflection for a while now, the sight of your own body making you nauseous. you turned your head toward his face. he looked at your sweet eyes, filling with tears.

“i- i can’t.” you choked out, tears starting to fall down your cheeks.

“hey..” he swiped your tears with his fingers. “none of that.”

he kissed your quivering lips once before he spoke.

“you don’t have to look. but i’m going to.” he said. “and you know what i see?”

you shook your head no, sniffling.

he smiled down at you. “i see my beautiful little baby.” he looked back at the mirror. “i see your sweet face, your perfect skin, your cute soft little tummy.” he poked your stomach with his finger, causing you to squirm. a small smile flitted across your face. you could hear the sincerity in his voice. you believed he truly meant what he said and you softened a little to his touch, starting to feel at ease.

he made an mmm sound in his throat. “i see your gorgeous thighs..” his hands slid down to your legs, squeezing. “you’re so soft, baby. you’re like my little cloud.” he whispered as he kissed your neck. you tilted your head back to give him better access. he kissed and licked at your skin until your head felt light and fuzzy.

“and these..” he groaned, grabbing your breasts, one in each hand. “baby you’re the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen..” he rolled your nipples in between his fingers and your breath caught in your throat. he rocked his hips, pushing his erection into you. “do you feel that baby?” he asked. “you feel what you do to me?”

your hands gripped his thighs, your arousal growing, your brain felt like TV static.

“only you do this to me, princess.” he licked your earlobe, a shiver running through your body. “you’re so fucking beautiful i just can’t help myself..”

his hands grabbed your hips. “hold on to my legs, baby.” and that was all the warning he gave you before he lifted you up and sat you down on his length. he sank into you easily, causing you both to groan. “see how easy i pick you up?” he rocked your hips back and forth. “you’re so tiny compared to me.”

he reached down and spread your legs apart. “fuck, princess.” he exhaled. “look how well you take me.”

and you did. for the first time, you looked at your reflection and it was.. hot.

wait, you looked hot.

your tightness was gripping him as he pumped in and out of you, your arousal dripping down him. he looked completely lost in you. his eyes were everywhere, looking at your bouncing breasts, glancing at the look of pleasure on your face, focusing on where his body met yours.

“baby you’re so perfect.” he panted. “my perfect girl.”

his fingers came to rub little circles where you needed him most and you tightened around him.

“cmon baby..” he moaned in your ear. “i’m not going to last much longer.”

you watched his reflection as he worked his hands on you. his beautiful fingers applying a little more pressure. you eyes closed and your head fell back on his shoulder. “ah ah baby.” he tutted. “eyes open for me. watch how stunning you are when you cum.”

your head lolled forward, and you struggled to keep your eyes open. but this time it wasn’t because you were repulsed, it was because he was making you feel so good. “there you go baby.” he cooed. “good girl.”

your walls fluttered around him. “daddy…” you whined.

“i know baby. feels so good, huh? do you see how beautiful you are?” his thrusts were starting to get sloppy, and your high was very quickly approaching. “see how perfect you are? fuck— you’re. so. perfect.” he punctuated his statement with his thrusts before he stilled and released inside of you. you watched as it leaked down, staining the sheets. after a moment, he started rolling his hips again, wanting to see you come undone.

your nails dug into the skin of his thighs as your release washed over you. you tried as hard as you could to keep your eyes open but you just couldn’t. the pleasure was too much and your body shook and went limp in his arms. he supported your weight, held you against him as he helped you ride it out.

“come back to me, baby.” he whispered against your shoulder, placing gentle kisses there. you eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze in the reflection of the mirror. your eyes shifted to your own face, flushed in post orgasm bliss. your hair was a mess but you had to admit the pink of your cheeks really made your eyes shine. they practically sparkled in front of you.

you turned your head to look at your boyfriend, his face was also flushed. he smiled, his little dimple poking out. you kissed him slowly. muttering i love you against his lips.

“i love you more, sweet girl.” he said, holding you just a little tighter. “and i’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you that. showing you just how beautiful you really are.”

and though you weren’t ready to see yourself exactly as he saw you, you really did feel beautiful in his arms. and you knew with his help, you could learn to love more of yourself.

and you knew, just with the way he was looking at you now, pure adoration on his face, his lips swollen and damp from your kissing, you knew.. you deserved him.

♡ pls reblog if you liked it! it truly helps a lot and makes me smile :) ♡

©hyunjins-orange-slice-too i do not give permission for this work or any of my work to be translated, copied, or reposted.

[johannestevans]

I came out as trans at about fifteen or sixteen, changed my name, and I’ve lived as a man since. As a young man doing my A-Levels, going to university, and working afterwards, I was out as a man, using he/him pronouns, using my actual name —

Two pictures of me, one at age 16, the other at age 19.

To people who had no idea what a trans man looked like, it was pretty easy to give people a funny look and say, “I’m a man,” in a tone that made them suddenly flustered and nervous, because cis people feel extremely guilty about misgendering another cisgender person in a way they don’t when they know you’re trans.

I was thin, had a lower-toned but still not masculine voice, didn’t have much of a chest — I got gendered correctly automatically maybe 30 or 40% of the time, and maybe up to 50% if I employed shame in the right way, implied I was cis with a hormonal imbalance, or if people assumed I was still a teenage boy rather than an adult.

To people who did know what a trans man looked like but weren’t trans themselves, talking to them was fucking excruciating.

I remember once when I was selling house alarms and some hideous cis girl asked, “Are you transgender?” and I immediately told her, “Nope,” as she kept questioning the point. Another time, I was in the back of a taxi when a man asked if I was trans, although thankfully when I told him, “Nope, just low testosterone,” he seemed to immediately believe me and back the fuck off.

It’s one of the reasons I feel conflicted about trans visibility — it’s great for other trans people to see a variety of trans representation, but cis people knowing what trans people are is a double-edged sword, because cis people are entitled, invasive, and often just straight-up weird about gender, most of all when they think they’re being allies.

When I started working at a hotel, my immediate boss was a very abusive woman — she was petty, vindictive, and because she had poor organisational skills and frequently got flustered by her own workload, she would take this out on any staff around her, whether that was her juniors, other management, or sometimes guests.

Her being abusive in the workplace wasn’t that unusual. Now and then the managers would misgender me, and I’d correct them, and they’d brush it off as they apologised, that sort of thing.

Because this manager identified as an ally, she flipped her fucking lid.

She went off on a tirade for some ten minutes about what a great ally she is, and how much she knows about and cares about trans people, and how a lot of people wouldn’t hire a trans person, and she volunteers with local queer groups (she was at the time a mediocre DJ, and frequently DJed at a local gay club), and all this bluster.

Over one (apparently needed) correction.

All she needed to do was not misgender me — a quick “sorry” might have been nice. A ten-minute rant about how she was a saint for hiring me?

Not really necessary.

Cisgender people hate trans people — and I know some cis people reading this are immediately raising their hackles and about to go “well not ALL cis people — “ because they’re allies, and it’s important that I know that they’re a good one, actually, and they’re a real ally.

But the reason that cis people have a knee-jerk negative reaction to trans people, intersex people, and any person that they have decided is gender non-conforming, the reason they respond so punishingly to our existence or to mild misbehaviours on our parts — such as demanding respect or correcting their mistakes — is because our very existence is an interruption to their worldview, the ideologies and biases by which they live.

They should know what a man is just by looking at one, and if they get it wrong, that’s embarrassing for them — because to cisgender people the binary male-female divide is crucial to the way they respect or disrespect others, people that interrupt their thinking on it can trigger a lot of rage and upset. A trans person represents a frightening challenge — what if they accidentally treated a man with the casual disrespect that is rightfully allotted women? What if they sexually objectified a man thinking he was a woman, and it made them gay for a moment?

If they think you’re cisgender and heterosexual enough, any of these things are their fault, and they feel very bad about them.

But if you’re trans?

Well, it’s your fault for existing that way, right? You’re the one doing genders wrong — they’re not the one that made the error!

There’s a particular rage reserved for trans men, lesbians, and any other trans or GNC person that’s perceived as being “biologically female” — because society feels the greatest gender-based entitlement over these people’s bodies, in large part due to institutional misogyny, we’re perceived as gender traitors.

Cis men hate us because we’ve ruined what they perceived as a resource for them — a source of sexual gratification and aesthetic pleasure, a breeding vessel for birthing babies, not to mention a mother with all the domestic labour that comes with; cis women hate us because they perceive us as gaining all the privileges of being male, of gaming the system, and at the same time breaking what they sometimes feel is a sort of sacred trust of femininity.

In order to cope with institutional misogyny, some cis women effectively craft a further gender-based bioessentialism — if you have a uterus and are perceived as a woman by society, you’re not just physically capable of birthing a child. You must also innately have the traits of an ideal mother — you must be nurturing and lovely, you must be caring, you must have the correct emotions, you must be submissive in the right way. But also, a woman like this must be cleverer than a man, and if she effectively parents or cares for the men in her life, she just does that because she is so smart, and men are so stupid.

Again, trans people represent an interruption to that mode of thinking. If trans people are real, and we’re the genders we say we are, all of that ideology is nonsense.

If I, a trans man, can just “choose” to be a man, doesn’t that mean that every woman that experiences misogyny is just “choosing” misogynistic abuse?

The fact that as a trans man, I experience abuses that are linked to misogyny is irrelevant — that I’m at a higher risk of sexual abuse, that medical professionals dismiss my symptoms as soon as some of them realise I’m “really” a woman and cease my treatment or cease treating me with the respect due a man; that people dismiss me and dehumanise me, either because they think I’m transgender, and therefore a lesser being, or an ugly and not sexually available woman, and therefore a lesser being.

If I’m a trans man, I must experience male privilege — why else would I choose to be trans?

And if I don’t experience male privilege in every situation, because people don’t always consider me male or legitimately male, or if male privilege in any given situation I experience is actually complicated by other factors, such as race, disability, sexuality, and so on, then I must be lying.

Passing privilege isn’t the same as male privilege — passing privilege generally refers to the privileges a transgender person experiences because they reliably pass as cisgender.

I don’t think that it’s universal — “passing privilege” assumes that everyone passes in all situations, and while I would say that I pass very reliably in a lot of mine now that I’m several years on T and my second puberty has been very good to me, this doesn’t apply everywhere.

When I’m in the hospital, for example, or otherwise seeing a doctor, I get treated with even more hostility — partially because most cis doctors practice misogyny-based medicine and are more likely to dismiss women’s symptoms or generally give them worse medical care, especially male doctors treating women. In my experience, cis female doctors are more likely to punish me for being transgender than a cis male one is.

I’ve noticed multiple times going to see a doctor, being treated as a man with all my pain or symptoms being treated as a concern, and then abruptly there’s a sudden withdrawal of care and concern when the doctor either realises I’m transgender and/or realises I’m “really” a woman.

But the thing is?

I’m pretty sure that the reason I suddenly receive such aggressive negative response is because I pass so well. When cis people realise that I’m trans, they feel even angrier and more personally betrayed, because I’ve so thoroughly “tricked” them by being a man without their permission.

Me at 24, about a year on testosterone; me at 25, about two years on testosterone. Same blouse, same vest.

But in general, day-to-day life — yeah, I’m perceived as a cis man.

Notably, a cis gay man.

Regularly, other trans guys and some butches tell me that as they began to present in ways perceived as more masculine, they noticed that women in public responded to them differently.

If they were out at night and a woman was walking alone nearby, she might cross the street to be a bit further away from them; she might choose to sit elsewhere rather than be near them on a bench; a woman alone might not want to share a lift with them.

I thought this was interesting the first few times I heard it — I hear it all the time, and it still strikes me as curious, because I don’t experience the same thing at all.

I’ve never had a woman walk away from me, or be careful not to be alone with me. Frequently, women strike up conversation with me in public, they chat to me on buses the way they might with other women — a little while ago I was waiting for my boyfriend to pick me up from the airport, and a young girl of 19 or so actually came up to me to ask if she could hotspot off my phone for a second and to ask me for directions.

It’s not that women alone shouldn’t strike up conversation with men, or shouldn’t be alone with them — but just to avoid any potential discomfort or risk of being harassed, many of them understandably avoid it.

But a lot of women see me in the street or in public places, and when they perform their internal risk assessment, I don’t prompt a red flag.

Part of it is that I’m skinny and white, sure — I’m not very physically intimidating in terms of my size, and I’m not racialised in the way many Black and dark-skinned men and boys are. Sometimes, I’m using a mobility aid like a cane, and that makes a difference, too.

But as a rule, I’m pretty. I wear make-up — I often wear face stickers and have visible “tattoos”. I’m fussy about my hair, and it shows. I dress in bright prints and florals, I wear silks and satins, I wear waistcoats and high-waisted jeans, I wear block heels.

When I walk, I sashay my hips. I hold my hands in a delicate way — I gesticulate freely, and I move my fingers when I do so in an effete way. If they hear me talk, people often guess from my accent that I’m English rather than Welsh, and that I’m more educated than I am, not to mention significantly posher.

The average cishet stranger in the street absolutely sees me as a man — and they exclusively see me as a gay one. No one ever mistakes me for a straight one, and that absolutely affects the way I’m treated.

I couldn’t possibly pose a threat of sexual harassment in many women’s eyes, because I’m obviously gay, and many cis straight women feel very comfortable with — if not entitled to — gay men’s companionship, especially white gays with effete mannerisms.

When talking about gender-based privileges for trans men and mascs, we don’t tend to consider any impact that perceptions of our sexuality can have, but because of the way gay men are sorted into a different subclass of cis masculinity than straight men, there’s a noticeable impact.

Straight people sometimes roll their eyes or look amused when they think I’m being particularly dramatic or gay; occasionally straight men wolf-whistle at me or make comments about how gay I look; people strike up conversations with me about RuPaul’s Drag Race, start chattering to me about drag, because they just assume that’s the sort of thing I would be into. I get looks sometimes on the bus if I’m chatting with friends or on the phone, or sometimes if I’m just there in front of them and I look very gay.

Most of this isn’t incredibly malicious — is it homophobic? Sure, sometimes. A lot of it is just straight people trying to understand what they think is gay culture the best way they know how.

Parents with kids actually make me the most nervous — not because there’s any danger posed by the kids themselves most of the time, but because parents can be the most vicious when it comes to homophobia. They’ll accuse gay men of being paedophiles just for existing in public and seeming a bit fruity, or they’ll get nervous about how gay someone looks in case their kids ask questions about it.

And kids do find how I look interesting — all the time, I’ll be out in public, and a kid will notice that my nails are painted or that I’m wearing high heels or that they see tattoos on my face, and they’ll ask their parents about it.

It’s anxiety-inducing for any parent when their child starts acting about a stranger’s appearance where the stranger can hear them, because they get worried about the potential impoliteness — when that stranger is a faggot, some of them get angry at me, because once again, even without their knowing I’m transgender, I’m interrupting their worldview of what the correct gendered behaviours are, forcing them to think about it, forcing them to explain aberrations to their kids.

A “normal”, “real” man is straight, after all, and does straight men’s things, like dress badly and sexually harass women and get ugly haircuts. It’s confusing, if I’m out on the streets looking fuckable.

The last time I was travelling, I was sitting in a restaurant in the airport, and some boys at the next table were staring at me.

“Dad, why is that man wearing makeup?”

“I don’t know, some men wear it.”

“How come?”

“…”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that wherever a faggot goes, little boys will be asking their mildly homophobic but well-meaning and liberal parents questions about that man’s physical appearance.

A classic response, and one that I overhear often, was this man’s retort: “Why don’t you go and ask him?”

Sometimes teenagers and kids laugh at how I dress, especially if they’re in groups together — and especially, too, if there’s a bunch of us visible queers together.

One thing I’ve noticed about wearing crop-tops is that some people get het-up about how hairy I am and the hair visible on my belly, or under my arms if I’m wearing a vest — because some straight people see a white twink and want to reclassify him as being part of the woman subcategory instead of the man subcategory (based on his assumed sexual availability to men), they then apply women’s rules of physical appearance to him.

After all, if I’m wearing makeup and high heels and high-waisted jeans and a crop-top, that’s like how a woman dresses — and if I’m going to dress like a woman even though I’m obviously a man, I should be held to the standards a woman would be too. I should be hairless and odourless, like a sexy child, because “sexy child” is the ideal for an attractive woman, right?

Some cishet women also hate how I dress and instead of laughing or grumbling about it in the way that cishet men do, they wrinkle their noses and get really quite scornful about it.

Some of those women’s husbands are secretly on Grindr (I know because I have sex with them), and I believe this is the closest they get to facing their suspicions as to their husbands’ bisexuality.

A photo of me from earlier this month, age 26.

I started taking testosterone some months before the pandemic started, but experienced the bulk of my second puberty’s physical effects over the course of the following years.

Subsequently, when I went to a queer event being run after about two years on testosterone, many people there hadn’t seen me out in some time. I got a lot of looks and a lot of interest, especially from other queer men, in a way I never had before — I always got a lot of engagement and looks, but many cis gay men would take a little while to warm up to the idea of me as a man if they knew or suspected I was trans.

Maybe it’s just because I’m hotter, though, right? I’m hardly the only person to go through a glow-up on HRT, and I certainly feel more attractive.

Except that several of the older men looking at me were men I’d known casually for years — and a bunch of them came up and introduced themselves. Said hi, what’s your name, I’m x, it’s nice to meet you, are you new to the city?

Because up ’til then, they really hadn’t much looked at me in much detail. Many of these men had heard me give talks, had talked to me in queer bars, had met me at one event or another, and I just hadn’t stuck in their minds — they certainly hadn’t come up and spoken to me before, let alone with such enthusiasm.

And I do want to say, like —

None of these men would call themselves anti-trans — they’d try to use the right pronouns, they’d say that there should be trans events on, and so on. But there’s still going to be unconscious biases there — whether up ’til now they saw me as a woman (and therefore just looked past me) or saw me as trans (and therefore just looked past me), suddenly I was a fully realised human being. Maybe I was attractive and fuckable to some of them — but crucially, I was also another gay man, and therefore real and worth talking to.

And I will say that this isn’t all older gay men in my community or even like, a massive majority of them — but it was enough older gay men to be noticeable.

Even entering into new gay spaces, queer men tend to be friendlier to me than they used to, more outgoing in conversation, chattier, etc.

That’s obviously not necessarily because I’m trans — like I said, I’m also hotter than I used to be, I’m older, more educated, I dress better and more confidently, etc. There’s other factors at play, and I’m not comparing friendliness to cruelty or coldness — I’m comparing it to polite apathy, which was often mild enough that I wasn’t hugely affected by it pre-T.

Some men do treat me a little coldly, but from what I can tell it’s not usually because they suspect or know I’m trans — a lot of the time it’s actually because I’m so faggy and effeminate, or they just don’t trust that I’m gonna be cool because I’m so young.

Mixed queer spaces can be another story.

Other queer people my age have often found me intimidating — I’m a pretty outspoken person, my politics are more aggressive leftwing than many people’s, and as a autistic, I speak plainly and directly in a way that a lot of people don’t care for, or can find scary and overwhelming.

Now, though?

The response to my perceived aggression is a lot more dramatic and avoidant — because now they assume I’m a cisgender man.

People often interpret me as angry or aggressive when I’m not — I can sometimes be somewhat flat in my affect, I can be a very blunt communicator, I don’t tend to beat around the bush when it comes to my opinions. All of these are pretty standard as an autistic guy, and a lot of other people have experienced the same thing I have — the interpretation of those personality traits as aggressive or argumentative.

But it’s been interesting experiencing the negative response ramp up so much as soon as I’m perceived as “really” male, even by other transmascs, queer people, and trans men.

It can be strange at times navigating broader trans spaces as someone who doesn’t look trans in the way even other trans people expect you to, where they just assume that you’re cisgender, or that as someone who already passes and has therefore “finished” your journey as a trans person, there’s less reason for you to be in community with other trans people.

Especially when it comes to trauma like…

There is an assumption by many young queer people that cis gay people are just fine now, that homophobia doesn’t impact them in the traumatic way it did older generations, or that homophobia is no longer an active impact on people’s lives — I obviously am transgender, but to be brushed off with the assumption I haven’t experienced the same extent of bigotry or negative experience because I appear cisgender always strikes me as fucked up when of course a lot of cis men have had similar life experiences to me, or worse.

I will say that again, the negative responses are from a minority, just big enough to be noticeable, and the more people talk to me, the more they relax a little about the whole thing.

It’s still funny though, like —

I met some trans friends of a partner recently, and I came downstairs without a shirt on because I was hurriedly multitasking, and watched her do a double take at my chest.

I laughed and was like, “Did you not realise I was trans?”

And she went, “No!” and we had a giggle about it.

Most of the time meeting other queer people across the board, I’m extended care and compassion and love — it’s just weird, I think, being so aware of the gendered differences in how people speak with and apparently perceive me, and how things have and do change, especially because people assume transmasculinity means a one-way journey to Male Privilege, and all the benefits it can come with.

As with any and everything else, these matters come with nuance and layers, and nothing is as simple as A to B with no complications.

[milfs69420]

You Belong With Me - Part 1

Natasha ran from her home country when she was 18, and has since been working at a stripclub in NYC. One night she spots a woman who seems all too familiar and turns out to be her childhood lover. While getting to know each other all over again, they discover new truths and old lies.

- Natasha Romanoff x Katya Petrova - Wordcount: 3K - Warnings: none I think - A/N: Sooooo, I wrote a fanfic about a fanfic. This stripclub AU idea has been floating around for a while, but I finally managed to get a part done. Thank you @katyaromanoffpetrova for letting me borrow your babies🫶 I hope I did them justice. If you're curious about who Katya is, check out the forgotten ghost series here!

Do not repost my work as your own or translate my work!!

The bright light above the mirror casts its hideous yellow hue down on Natasha’s face. She could hardly tell the shades of her various lipsticks apart in this setting. Some days she hardly bothered with her makeup, the dark circles around her eyes were far too visible for any concealer to hide. Today though, something told her to put in some extra effort. Who, or what, was telling her, she didn’t know. Very few things harnessed the power to make Natasha Romanoff listen, but she would never go against her intuition.

The redhead stepped out of the dressing room and into the dimly lit hallway. After sitting under that bright light for so long she had to squint her eyes to see where she was going. She hardly needed the ability to see here at all. Natasha had walked this very path so many times that she was doing it on auto-pilot by now. She knew every crease in the dirty, stained carpet. She knew exactly where to place her heel adorned feet as she made her way to the stage area.

Natasha liked dancing, loved it even. As a little girl in Russia she had danced nearly every single day. Even the extremely strict ballet teacher hadn’t been able to break her and her passion for letting the rhythm guide her body. Of course, this wasn’t the type of dancing career she had imagined for herself while growing up, but it’s what paid her bills and kept her alive.

Moving, or rather, running away to another country when she had just turned eighteen hadn’t been easy, and it certainly hadn’t been cheap. So when she met Clint, her best friend and one of the bartenders at the club, she took the opportunity she was offered and started working there as one of the dancers. Originally it had been a temporary solution, just to get her on her feet in this new life. However, she quickly realised these people were much more than just coworkers, they’d become her found family before she even realised it.

So here she was, in her high heels and the skimpy bits of fabric you could hardly call clothing. She heard the music start and let her body take over from her brain, as she made her way to the centre of the stage, complete with pole and all, she took a quick and subtle look at the crowd. At first glance it was the same as every other night, young guys who’d just gotten their paycheques, middle aged men who most likely told their wives they’re working late, and the same old men smoking cigars and eyeing her up.

But as she was about to shut her brain off and let her limbs move themselves, she spotted a woman. All alone and mysterious in the darkest corner of the club, with what looked like a martini in her hand. Thanks to the darkness, Natasha couldn’t make out any clear features. All she could see was dark hair, seemingly brown but she wasn’t certain. And all that she felt was an overwhelming amount of familiarity, like she hadn’t only seen this woman before, but like she knew her. Natasha could not see the woman’s eyes in the darkness, but she knew they were focused on her.

Whether she meant to or not, Natasha’s dance was focused on this woman now. If she looked into the crowd at all, she looked at her. She put some extra effort and seductiveness into her movements, and she enjoyed doing it. Dancing for men whose attention she hardly wanted in the first place was just a job, and not one she was always happy to do. But this woman brought out her true passion for dancing, motivated her to truly let the rhythm guide her and just enjoy the moment.

When the redhead finished her dance, she left the stage almost immediately and made her way towards that dark corner. The crowd didn’t let her through nearly as fast as she wanted, and she was disappointed to find the seat empty when she finally got there. If this had been any random person, Natasha would’ve assumed they got flustered by just being in the club and ran. However, something told her that wasn’t the case here. Her mood now having been ruined by not even catching a glimpse of the woman, she didn’t feel the need to stick around.

She went to the backstage area, walked that barely lit hallway again until she reached the door to the stairs. She was one of three people living above the club. Her, Clint and Maria each had their own spaces and enough privacy to not be bothered by each other, they did however share a kitchen together. The rent was incredibly cheap due to their employment and it was a nice spot in the city as well. Unbeknownst to their boss, Fury, Natasha had a dark haired, four legged roommate upstairs.

She found Liho in the street when she was still a kitten. She was looking about as miserable and hopeless as the redhead was feeling at the time, so the only logical option was obviously to take her home. Part of Natasha had been afraid that the cat would abandon her over time, but Liho seemed better than the humans who’d let the woman down time and time again.

That night, sleep did not come easy to Natasha. She overanalysed everything she saw, or didn’t see of the mysterious woman. For some unknown reason, she was a hundred percent sure that she knew this person. When or how they met, she didn’t know, but she was certain that they had.

………

Every night that she was on stage, Natasha looked at that corner, hoping to see the person who’d been keeping her up for weeks now. She’d almost lost hope that she would see her again at all, until today. As the redhead went through her entry routine on stage, she spotted that mystery person in the corner. Before she could stop it, the slightest smirk appeared on her face.

You see, Natasha had spent her sleepless nights coming up with a plan to prevent this woman from escaping again before she could truly see her. So she made her way to the front of the stage, which had stairs connected to it, and she went into the audience. Now obviously she couldn’t just walk straight to the corner, so as she moved through the various seating arrangements, she stopped a few times. She danced at some tables and gave some extra attention to men who seemed well off enough to throw her some extra dollar bills, until she finally approached that corner.

The lighting in the club focused on Natasha, and therefore started lighting up this usually dark area. As she moved closer, the redhead could see the woman more clearly by the second. The first thing that got her attention wasn’t the clothing that she was wearing, but rather the skin left exposed by it. Tattoos that Natasha couldn’t make out quite clear enough yet, decorated smooth skin as far as she could see. She found herself imagining how many more of those she could find underneath the black slacks and white dress shirt combination. The black blazer had been hung over the chair, and her white sleeves had been rolled up. As her eyes made their way upwards, she didn’t fail to notice the amount of buttons that had been undone on the shirt, before finally getting a look at the woman’s face

Brown, shoulder length hair surrounded what may just be the most gorgeous face she’d seen in a long time, if not her whole life. Piercing blue eyes had locked onto her green ones as soon as she’d left the stage, and hadn’t looked away since. Now, Natasha was by no means shy or introverted, but she found a surprising amount of difficulty just to hold eye contact. The woman however, seemed to radiate nothing but confidence.

Where most, if not all, men would be eyeing her up like a piece of meat by now, she found what seemed an awful lot like admiration in the brunette’s eyes. She was definitely staring at Natasha, but in an oddly respectful manner. There wasn’t just lust in her eyes, she seemed enticed by the way the redhead moved her body. The way this woman was looking at her made Natasha feel good. It made her feel sexy in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time, and it filled her with newfound confidence.

Since the brunette was situated in a single chair and not in one of the booths they had in the club, Natasha took the opportunity to circle around her before settling in front of the chair. As the redhead moved her body to the music, the woman uncrossed and opened up her legs in a swift, but elegant, movement. Natasha took this as an invite to get closer, and as she did so she bent over just enough for her mouth to end up near this woman’s ear.

“Are you planning on running away again, darling?”

As she moved back to stand up straight again, she held eye contact with the brunette and found a smirk adorning that mesmerising face. Natasha could’ve, and had, imagined many different responses to her question. She’d thought about it far more than she should have probably. However, what came out of the woman’s mouth was far from anything she had expected.

“I think I’ll stay this time, I’ve missed seeing your face, Natalia.”

Shock and confusion overtook the redhead, and it was a good thing her performance time had ended at this moment. The spotlight went out as she made one last gesture to the crowd before turning around to face the woman again, what she found was that same smirk still on her face. Now though, Natasha didn’t think about how attractive that face was, she only focused on how the hell this person knew a name she had left behind all those years ago.

“How do you know that?” Was the first of many questions she wanted to ask, but for now it was the most important one. She recognised the features of the brunette’s face, but had a feeling that the time they knew each other was far in the past. What was starting to get to her though, was the smugness all over the face opposite of her. She seemed to know nothing about the person in front of her, who seemed to know a whole lot about Natasha.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?” The brunette started to get on her nerves now, Natasha wasn’t in the mood for any of these games, she wanted answers right now. “Am I supposed to recognise you? You seem to think you’re quite memorable.” At that, the woman smiled, not a smirk, no smug looks, a genuine smile.

“I thought people always remembered their first kiss.”

Now seemed like a great moment for Natasha to sit down in the chair opposite of the brunette, mainly because the shock of this all gave her some difficulty with standing up straight. “Katariina?” She couldn’t find the right words to say, so instead opted for just her name. She hadn’t seen that gorgeous face since they were both teenagers, so it made sense she didn’t recognise her right away, so many years later. Now that she knew though, she couldn’t stop the flood of memories that came over her.

Natasha had moved around Russia far more than she would’ve liked when she was a kid. Her mother had passed away when she was a baby, and her father just left her on the doorstep of the nearest orphanage. Little Natasha was far too rebellious for her own good, and this resulted in being kicked out of foster homes time after time again. The longest she ever lasted was a little over a year, and it wasn’t the family she was staying with that got her through that time. No, it was that beautiful face she found looking back at her now.

“It’s just Katya now actually, but good to know you remember, Natalia.” And remember, she did. She recalled the first time that she saw Katya, her foster parents quickly tugged her the other way and told her not to play with the girl, to never even go near the huge house on the other side of the street. But something about her had already intrigued Natasha, even if she had only seen her for just a second. From that moment on, all that she wanted to do was get to know this girl. As she did so, she found that she craved to be much closer than friends were supposed to be. She wanted to know her in far more intimate ways than society deemed acceptable for them.

“It’s probably my hair. It’s not blonde anymore” Natasha looked at her, took her time to take in this new appearance. “I can see that, the ink wasn’t there either.” Now it was Katya’s turn, to take in her own appearance. Smiling, she looked back at the redhead. “I suppose you, of all people, would’ve known about any ink on my skin.” At that, Natasha couldn’t help but blush. Memories of their secret meet ups filled her head. Some nights had been spent exploring the rural areas around their town, where nobody would find them. Other nights, they explored each other instead.

While they were both enjoying this seemingly light-hearted conversation, Natasha had questions to ask. “So I guess it’s not a coincidence that you found me, is it?” Katya smiled at her now, no longer hiding behind a facade of smugness and false confidence, powerful as she was, she’d been terrified of how the redhead could’ve reacted. “No it’s not, though I’ve got to give you credit where it’s due. You didn’t make it easy to track you down.”

“So how did you manage to find me anyway?” Natasha had changed her whole identity, finding her was supposed to be nearly impossible. “I have my ways.” Is all that the brunette gave her.

“Still being mysterious, I see. Nice to know you didn’t change too much.” She hadn’t meant to let that out as angrily as it did, but this was a lot to handle.

“I couldn’t afford to tell you anything back then, it would’ve put both of our lives at risk, Natalia.”

“And you still can’t tell me now?” For some reason, Natasha didn’t feel the need to correct the brunette when she used her old name. She was sure that Katya knew her new identity anyway, but simply chose not to acknowledge it. Plus, she didn’t mind the way her name sounded, rolling off of her childhood lover’s tongue.

“I could, and I might, but this isn’t the time or place. I’m sure you understand that, don’t you?”

“So when and where do I have to be, to get some answers out of you?” Again, Katya smiled at her, and this time Natasha couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous she looked as she did so. It seemed as if that magical charm that had intrigued her when they were teens, was still there all these years later.

“You seem quite eager to spend more time with me milaya(милая).” To hear that term of endearment coming from the brunette, seemed to bring back far more than just memories. Natasha felt as if her stomach did a backflip as soon as the word reached her ears. It shouldn’t be that easy, for Katya to make her feel anything at all after all this time. But neither of them could deny that they had a special connection, one that ran far deeper than just childhood love.

“I’m just eager to know how you found me, and why you wanted to in the first place.”

Katya just looked at her, a more serious expression on her face now. She seemed to be taking in every detail of Natasha’s appearance, studying her so attentively that the redhead started feeling shy under her gaze. Before she realised what was happening, Katya started getting up. She put on her jacket and Natasha would never admit how much she hated seeing all that skin being covered up. Right as the brunette was about to walk away, she turned around one last time.

“Saturday night, nine PM, be ready and wait outside. I’ll have a car pick you up.”

With that, Katya walked towards the exit, leaving Natasha to gather her thoughts as she made her way upstairs. The rest of the night was spent thinking about Katya, and that damn smile of hers. The brunette was the only person she’d met in their home country, who didn’t hurt her. The only person who made her feel like life may not be all that bad when you have someone to share it with. Leaving that town had been one of the most painful things she’d experienced, and she’s been through a lot. Being forced to leave the only person she had truly loved and felt connected to up until then had felt like someone ripped apart her heart. The worst part was that she wasn’t given a reason, her foster parents seemed to have decided overnight not to want her anymore.

She’d since learned to live with all the abandonment she’s had to go through, and she’s worked on becoming a better person ever since she left her home country. While she was well aware that this was much too early to think about having Katya in her life at all, she couldn’t help but feel excited at the prospect of getting to know her again.

That night, Natasha went to sleep feeling hopeful. Maybe she would’t end up alone, doing this job, after all.

[murciafire]

Lady Lazarus

Jason Todd Angst

Summary: “You don’t get to die and be reborn the same. You come back, but you come back wrong. This is the price you pay for resurrection” – Nathaniel Orion

Warnings: angst, the poem is about Plath's attempts but nothing explicit

Words: >1000

Notes: The thought of Jason dying and then being resurrected often led me to think of “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath. I find that it’s even more appropriate considering that Jason’s died twice now (1988, 2024 – please let me know if I have it wrong). Since we all know that Jason reads classics, I felt that his thoughts might as well be as dramatic and poetic as seen in classic lit.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

I have done it again.

There was a chipped tile in the corner of the wall where it met the smooth surface of the bathtub. My eyes would always catch it on the days I found myself lying in the bathtub, but it was so indiscernible that I didn’t think anyone else would remark it. (Not that I would care if anyone did, nor did anyone visit me, nor did I want anyone to). It was like a scar hidden under a chin that wouldn’t be evident until you tilted your face to where God should be (but perhaps in His absence, you could stare at the sun and the rays would make the sliver of cut skin silver, brilliant and hideous).

But such a break, where it was so insignificant, would bother no one unless you knew where to look for such fractures. And I, being that I am, often find myself wandering in an agonizing game of self-loathing where I’m drawn to discovering broken things like me. Which is why I think—and when I do think these thoughts, they’re often coupled with a heaving dry chuckle—I must cover the bathroom mirror. This game, or perhaps self-torment, is one that I often lose even when I win.

I put out my cigarette on the side of the tub—I had forgotten I had lit it. My nerves were so frayed that I didn’t think nicotine could absolve me any more than drowning myself in this bathtub hoping that a self-made baptism could bring me any closer to my father. I sighed, closing my eyes while dropping the crumpled cigarette on the floor beside me. My heart beat steadily in my chest, but I was already limp like I had given up. I felt a smile curl my lips into something cruel because here I was, in rose water which I wasn’t holy enough for, but damned enough that I was swimming in my own blood.

The bathroom, I thought, was a state of purgatory where all my thoughts merged into a state of expiatory purification.  Because I was alive and somehow—“One year in every ten I manage it—”

I groaned as my bones creaked and my muscles strained as I leaned over to pull the stopper. My eyes fixated on the swirling water, taking my blood with it. I blinked a few times, looking at my hands, no longer stained but very still. As if silence was a word to describe a motion—I wasn’t sure I was breathing. But I was.

And again I find myself moving, peeling myself off the floor of the tub, stepping over the edge. A sort of walking miracle, my skin bright as a Nazi lampshade, my right foot a paperweight.

I stood in front of the mirror and in my hesitancy, I found some courage, or as if reality took form and guided my hand to rip off the towel I hung over it, so I had to face what I saw in that tile: something broken. My face a featureless, fine Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin, O my enemy. Do I terrify?—

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh the grave cave ate will be at home on me.

I smiled, my laugh hollow as I wiped my face, continuing to recite Plath. “And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty and like the cat, I have nine times to die.”

I tossed the towel onto a hook on the wall before gripping the sink to stare at myself. “This is Number Three. What a trash to annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd shoves in to see them unwrap me hand and foot—the big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies—” I pushed off the sink, throwing my hands over my face. “These are my hands. My knees. I may be skin and bone, nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.”

I slid down to my knees, my chest heaving. “The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant to last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut as a seashell. They had to call and call and pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.”

I shut my eyes, feeling my body crumple to the floor and curl into itself. Silence, I decided, was a word to describe action. Because here I was, living silently.

“Dying,” I whispered, “is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.”

 

I rubbed my arm with my hand, my fingers brushing over scars—new and old. My body was littered with wounds, but no one could ever see the scar under my chin. Or perhaps, the one I wanted most to notice was the crack in my heart that shattered my soul.

“It’s easy enough to do it in a cell,” I muttered. “It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical. Comeback in broad day to the same place, the same face, the same brute amused shout: ‘A miracle!’”

I laughed or cried; I wasn’t sure. But air came out of my lungs and clawed at my throat to make some sort of sound so I knew I was still here, lying on the bathroom floor very much still alive. But it’s a miracle that I am, isn’t it?  That knocks me out.

There is charge. For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge. For the hearing of my heart—

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge for a word or a touch or a bit of blood or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus, I am your valuable, the pure gold baby that melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—

A cake of soap, a wedding ring, a gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer  

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

[stevesjockstrap]

I Hear the Morning Calling

For Monsterfucker May better late than never

Heavily inspired by @safk-art demo!Steve art 😍

Steve/Eddie | read on ao3 | rated E | post-Vecna, demogorgon Steve, monsterfucking, blood and gore

“We’re losing. She’s not able to do it. We have to do something,” Nancy hissed next to him. Vecna had been shaking violently from his viney suspension but now he was eerily still. El’s plan seemed to be falling apart at the seams.

Steve looked around for anything he could do to save his friends. They’d already used all of the Molotov cocktails and Nancy’s shotgun shells.

Vecna’s eyes popped open and stared directly at him for a long heart stopping second before they widened and closed off again. They were running out of time.

He looked desperately around at Robin who was clutching at her bag. He would never let anything happen to them. Then he heard Dustin screaming over the walkie. Everything was going to shit.

A burning hatred ran through him, sizzling through the exhaustion and lightheadedness he’d been pushing down since being attacked by the demobats. Before he realized he’d moved, he was sprinting towards the hideous hanging figure with a roar. Ignoring the girls’ cries from behind him, he leaped higher than he’d ever done during a basketball game, catching a vine in his hand before his open mouth closed over Henry Creel’s throat.

The hot thick blood shot down his throat, gagging and choking him but he held on. Taking multiple swallows of the bitter sludge automatically, he forced his jaw harder into the spasming muscle. Spindly fingers scratched across his back and legs, trying ineffectually to tear him off. The spurting of blood into his mouth slowed and he allowed himself to suck in a breath, yanking the vine in his hand.

Coming back to himself on the floor, he didn’t think he had been out very long. He could hear Dustin again on the walkie, Robin trying to get him to slow down to try to understand his loud rapid cries.

“They! Are! Coming!” Dustin’s staticky voice echoed through the empty room.

“Who?” Steve rasped. But then he felt it. In the back of his mind, a scurrying almost slippery feeling that was getting stronger. “The bats. They’re coming for us.”

“What? Steve, what the hell is going on?” Nancy’s no nonsense tone made him try to rethink what he had said.

“I don’t know. But we gotta get out of here.”

Scrambling to sit, he was pushed back down to the ground by Nancy and then Robin.

“Settle down. If the bats are really coming, we’re better off inside.” Robin made sense, but something was telling him they needed out of this house. Out of this room.

He looked around, and saw Vecna’s body. It was essentially ripped to shreds, his head barely connected to his neck and several bones poking out in cruel angles.

“Um, yeah, there’s that question, too. But I think I’m just going to erase that from my memory,” Robin winced.

Getting out of the upside down after that was a blur. The bats circled them, screaming wildly and zooming over their heads as they ran towards the trailer park, but none of them touched the group.

Eddie was a mess. Nearly grey, almost as torn to shreds as Vecna. But Steve was able to feel a very slow pulse, so he quickly slung him over his shoulder and they somehow got everyone hoisted into the correct dimension.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Steve’s head popped up from where it had slumped into his chest. He’d not left Eddie’s bedside once he’d been released from his own hospital bed more than a week ago. Nancy was propped against the doorway with a wry grin.

“Talk about what?” But Steve couldn’t meet her eyes.

Nancy hummed and pulled a chair over next to him.

“You can’t hide it from me, Steve. I’ve been on the receiving end of your overbearing self.”

Steve groaned, looking immediately at Eddie’s face. But just like every other day he’d spent looking at him, his eyes remained closed.

“I’m not sure I have words. Even to myself. Yet. But you’ll be one of the first ones to know, I promise,” he huffed.

“After Robin,” Nancy nodded.

Steve laughed. “Yeah, I mean, probably. And, uh, hopefully someone else is ahead of both of you in line.” He rubbed at his face, then raked a hand through his disgusting hair with a grimace.

“Go home, Steve. I’ll stay. I know your number. You need to take care of yourself before you can take care of the rest of us.”

After he showered, he flopped across his bed in just his towel and was asleep before he had another thought.

He stood above Eddie, the taste of blood in his mouth again. The bitter thick sludge that had come from Vecna. When he’d killed Vecna.

Eddie was wailing below him, fighting against him. He leaned down, catching his flailing hands with his own and felt his face split into sections, opening impossibly wide as he bit hard into Eddie’s neck.

He woke up sweating in his bed, tangled in his sheets. He ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror, feeling over his perfectly human face.

“What the fuck,” he breathed.

A quick call to the hospital confirmed that Eddie was fine. He chugged a glass of water, pacing unseeingly around his kitchen, still rubbing across his face.

For the next week, he would get these quick bursts of pain in his head, and pressure like a migraine but none of his normal tricks helped. He didn’t have a fever, actually his temperature seemed to be going down.

Finally he just pulled the curtains in his room, covered his head with a pillow because still the dimmed light felt like ice picks and went to sleep.

The shrill constant noise woke him, and at first he couldn’t place it at all, pressing his pillow over his ears more forcefully, sitting up with a curse as it echoed through his house.

“What??” He groused out into the phone.

Thankfully not reacting at all to his grumpiness, Dustin cried out, “Steve! It’s Eddie. He woke up!”

The nurses were insistent they go into Eddie’s room in small groups, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes at the huge congregation of people who were adamant about seeing their friend.

Steve, Robin and Nancy stood surrounding his tiny frame in the hospital bed, somehow this sleep looking more peaceful than the last. Steve shifted on his feet, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the nauseousness from the hospital smell.

“Eddie?” Nancy whispered, unable to help it.

Their friend twitched, his eyes flicking open quickly before closing again. “Why’s it so bright?”

Steve chuckled, thinking the exact same thing, and went to turn the lights off in the room.

“Thanks,” Eddie grumbled. The lack of use showed in his voice. Robin held out a cup with a straw and helped him take a few deep gulps. “Fuck, can you give me the Reader’s Digest version? Did I get hit by a train? A UFO? Did I eat the mystery meat in the cafeteria?”

They all snickered, Nancy sobering first. “You don’t remember at all? What’s the last thing you can think of?”

Eddie frowned, looking down. After a few moments of thinking hard, he looked up, shocked. “Chrissy, oh god. Chrissy is… and then Patrick in the lake. Fucking hell. Okay, I’m getting pieces now. The bats- is Dustin?”

Steve interjected quickly, unable to take the look on his face, “Dustin’s fine. You saved him.”

Eddie nodded, pulling in deep breaths. Steve reached out, taking his hand and breathed his own small breath of relief when Eddie held onto it.

“Everyone else?” Eddie grimaced.

“Banged up, stitched up, but alive and well. Well, uh, except for Jason.”

“No loss there,” Robin and Eddie said at the same time, grinning sardonically at each other afterwards.

The nurse came in the room and explained the teens were not waiting very patiently in the waiting room, and they agreed to swap out.

“Going straight to hand holding, huh? King Steve and his kindergarten moves,” Robin elbowed him.

Even more weeks later, Eddie was finally released from the hospital and Steve helped him up the steps to their new and improved government issued trailer. They’d offered them a house but both Eddie and Wayne had quickly declined. They were used to the trailer and the trailer park, but they could use another bedroom.

“Home sweet trailer,” Eddie laughed as he bounced on his new bed. Steve winced, worrying about his stitches still. “Don’t give me that look, mother hen. I’m fine.”

Steve sighed and waved him off, plopping his meager bag of stuff down on top of the dresser.

“Hungry?”

Eddie grinned at him. “Always.”

“Come in Eddie, helloooo? EDDIE COME IN, over.” Dustin’s loud voice echoed around his nearly empty room. Groaning, he sat on the edge of his bed for a second while the stars cleared from his vision.

“I’m here, Dustin,” he sighed.

“You’re supposed to say over. Over.”

Rolling his eyes, he laid back down with the walkie. “I’m over this conversation, Dustin. What was the voluminous emergency?”

“OH! Have you seen Steve? No one’s been able to get a hold of him for more than a week, and we just got to his house and it’s… weird. Even for us. Over.”

Eddie frowned. He actually hadn’t seen Steve in a while, which was not like him. After Eddie had been discharged from the hospital, Steve seemed to take over his watch, volunteering to get him back and forth to all of his appointments and therapies. Standing now, nerves quickening and his stomach tightening, he looked down at the walkie.

“Weird how? Over.” Ah shit, the kid had gotten to him.

“He’s built like a creepy nest, with leaves and sticks, but, uh-“

The silence hung heavy in the dark of his room, and Eddie shivered. He pulled back his curtains to peer out the window, suddenly feeling like he was being watched.

“Spit it out, Dustin,” he grumbled.

“Alright, but you asked. There’s a lot of your stuff in the mess… like a few of your shirts a-and the vest you gave him? It’s like he’s been sleeping with them. Over.”

As his eyebrows shot up at this news, something moved in the shadows outside the window. There was a flash of reflective eyes, too far off the ground to be the stray cat that he fed. Human’s eyes don’t reflect.

“O-okay Dustin, thanks for the nightmare fuel. Get home, it’s already almost dark. I’ll let you know if I hear from him. Over and out.”

He nearly dropped the walkie when the shadow moved again, closer to his window and he got a flash of jeans and brown hair. Thinking quickly but somehow not at all, he shoved the walkie into his back pocket and rushed out the front door.

Not allowing himself to call out to him, clearly he didn’t want to be found if he hadn’t spoken to anyone in a week, he tried to sneak as quietly as possible around the side of the trailer.

A noise a few feet away had him pausing, opening his eyes wider to try to see in the darkness towards the woods. It was eerily quiet, usually the trailer park was full of noise, even at night, car doors and people laughing and chatting, dogs and birds going on and on. All Eddie could hear now was his own heart beating in his ears.

His eyes jumped to follow the next quick movement, just inside the edge of the woods. Another flash of that perfect hair. Like Steve was beckoning him to follow. And Eddie was dumb enough to be lead.

Inside the tree line, Eddie couldn’t see much. But he could follow the small noises and what was surely intentionally snapped twigs under Steve’s feet.

Panting, he stopped to lean against a tree, “Fuck, where are we going, man?” He was getting irritated. Steve would know that he’d graduated from PT but he still couldn’t be walking miles through the woods.

There was a small huff that sounded close, almost sarcastic. Very like Steve. Then a cold hand was pushing his hair away from his face, resting on his sweaty forehead.

A stream of moonlight or a stray streetlight fell across the face in front of him, and he almost screamed. Steve’s eyes piercing into his own and that attractive mess of hair on his head compensated well for the rest of it, the petaled mouth and rows of teeth that appeared as he was apparently breathing in Eddie’s scent.

“Steve? Wh-what happened?” Eddie was proud of himself for not bolting away, seeming frozen to the spot at Steve continued breathing him in, the clawed hands running through his hair and grasping his hip.

One shoulder was raised and lowered, like the world’s most apathetic shrug. As if his newly transformed self wasn’t even worth discussing. But the way Steve was looking at him and touching him was sending warm buzzing down his spine, tightening his belly. And his own jeans.

Steve seemed to figure this out quickly as well. Could he smell it? Eddie groaned and then gasped when his giant wet mouth descended onto his neck, grazing those dangerously wicked teeth down his skin.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed. “Why is that so hot? I should be like running for my life. Ah!” His hips bucked forward as sharp claws ran down his chest, instantly shredding his already hole filled shirt. He could only pant and throw his head back against the tree as the assault continued down his front, then as he felt the cold hands approach his jeans he gasped out, “Hey, okay, let me do that, huh? My favorite jeans, you know.”

The salacious look he received in response could only be from one Steve Harrington. He almost laughed but instead moaned as the gaze went down to follow his hands, the shaking hands fighting against the button and zipper of his jeans. Maybe he should have let him rip them to shreds.

An inhuman growl left Steve when the jeans and his plaid boxers were kicked off his bare feet. Unable to help himself, Eddie wrapped a hand around his dripping cock as he watched the terrifying mouth open, saliva running off the petals and rows of teeth.

“God I am a freak, after all,” Eddie chuckled. “I’d apparently feed my dick to a wood chipper if it was attached to Steve Harrington.”

A vaguely appreciative noise rumbled out of the mouth in question, and Eddie couldn’t believe this was real as the monster in front of him lowered slowly to his knees, looking up under his still gorgeous eyelashes to peer at his hard length.

“If you kill me, can you make sure no one finds my body? I don’t want Uncle Wayne thinking I got myself into even weirder shit than usual.”

His train of thought quickly evaporated as a rough tongue came to slide up the underside of his cock. Trying his best to hold completely still, wary of all the teeth, he just watched as Steve wriggled closer.

“Don’t judge me if I come or pass out instantly please. I, um, I’m not the most experienced. And this is, well, this is a whole lot to take in.” He knew he was rambling, filling the uncomfortable silence between them and the woods.

The eyes staring up at him seemed unbearably patient and forgiving, however.

“How much of you is in there,” he wondered aloud.

Steve blinked at him and what could’ve been a smirk passed over his features before his cock was enveloped by the petaled mouth. His own mouth flew open, ready to scream at the pain he expected. But he only gasped as he realized the teeth were only just grazing him, creating an almost pleasant scratching tingly feeling, and the tongue was able to keep sliding under and around the head.

“Oh my god, Steve,” Eddie panted, unaware as his hands slid into the feathery locks. “Oh, oh sorry!” Yanking them away, he received the first actually scary noise and look.

The mouth left him and an indignant huff resounded from it. “Want it,” Steve growled.

Eddie nodded quickly, holding back the laugh at the petulant frown and statement. “You got it, Stevie. Just please keep going.”

With another small grumble, Steve waited for the shaking hands to return back to his hair before he allowed his mouth to wrap around his cock again.

He was glad the tree was there to hold him up, since it seemed Steve was going to give everything he had to this supernatural blowjob. Eddie didn’t direct him with his hands so much as just hold on for dear life, while moaning and gasping along.

“Please, gunna-“ Eddie almost screamed as the mouth was instantly pulled back.

“Not yet,” Steve rasped. “Turn around.”

Clawed hands assisted him pivoting to push his forearms against the rough tree, widening his stance to allow the wicked mouth behind him to — “Holy mother of Zeus!”

The rough tongue circled his hole as a wet hand wrapped around his cock, the other pulling at his thigh to encourage him to rut back and forth. He whimpered, unable to collect enough brain cells to form a sentence now.

“P- oh, please. Steve!” Everything stopped and a soft questioning noise came from behind him. “Can I come on your cock instead? Or, uh, next time? Sorry, didn’t mean to, uh-“

What could only be described as a giggle left the terrifying mouth behind him, and Eddie’s hand was pulled from the tree and licked.

“Yours.”

The hand was then pulled back towards his own hole and he tried to nod his understanding. He did not want the claws inside of him either, thank you.

“Jesus Criminy,” Eddie whispered as Steve used his own fingers to push into him, licking around the digits to encourage him to open up. The feeling of the rough clawed hands around his wrist as he fucked his own hand into himself was almost too much. Finally when he thought his brain was going to leak out of his ears, his hand was pulled back and released.

Then a blunt object was pushing against him and he saw stars. “Slow, oh my god, a little slower, baby.”

The name didn’t seem to phase him at all, but he got a soft noise and the cold hands held onto his hips as he pressed forward.

“Want it hard, but just- ah, once it’s in. God you’re big. Is that, like, a monster thing? Or just you?”

The cocky laugh he received didn’t exactly answer the question, but then he was pressing further in and he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He wrapped his own sweaty hand around his leaking cock, whining and crying out as Steve fucked him hard yet holding him so gently with his clawed hands. As he got closer to coming, he leaned his head back onto Steve’s shoulder. He came spectacularly just as he bit into his neck.

When he could breathe and see again, jumping into his jeans, he found the walkie still shoved into his pocket. With a simpering look at demo!Steve sitting naked against their well-used tree, he pushed down the button.

“Hey, uh, Henderson. I f-found Steve. But, well, he’s a lot different now. Over.”

Title from Waiting in the Garden - Noon Shift

[epicfroggz]

Oh that’s a very interesting analysis, especially since the BonfireVN vid has the more viper looking Serpent display the internal label as Abyssal Serpent while Messmer gets Base Messmer. So it’s most likely the reason Messmer is infested with “child” snakes is because when Marika sealed the Abyssal, she/it was pregnant and it’s forced to (somehow) lay and hatch its eggs in the sealed space… Do you think Messmer was aware of the eggs/child serpents prior to the seal shattering?

Also, as you pointed out, Messmer presumably doesn’t have a womb/vagina combo to allow himself to excise the festering brood in a “natural” way. Do you see any way he might be able to give himself and the rest relief by getting them out, or is he going to have to live with it?

Hello, thanks for the ask! (This is referring to this post, in which I propose that the Abyssal Serpent is pregnant. It also pertains to the future of my Messmer ending AU which can be found here!)

To clarify, vipers are viviparous and bear live young, so the Abyssal Serpent’s children are not within eggs. Is Messmer aware of this—yes! The serpent within is in anguish at being sealed, and torments Messmer with nightmares of its festering brood crawling inside him, unable to break free. He carries the burden of its suffering alone. Many times it has made him doubt his mother’s decision to implant the seal—there is beauty in birth, is there not? But she had always reassured him the seal was for his own good, despite the long list of painful side effects…

In the phase 2 cutscene, Messmer does not seem shocked or surprised at the “hideous new form” he takes when he removes the seal, he immediately accepts it as his own. I think this is because, while on the outside he never aged or changed over time, Messmer was aware of the slow degradation of his true inner self. His sealed form was a permanent mask hiding the horror, agony, rot—the abyss festering underneath. “Base Serpent” Messmer has always been him, and he finally gets sick of hiding it. Sick of this stagnation. He needs to feed it.

But I digress. On the fate of his brood: I joked about his 300 snake children, but I believe only six or seven of them actually survive (the ones he is able to summon). The Abyssal Serpent is starving, languishing in its neglect, and has been reabsorbing its own children just to keep itself alive, a horrific fate that brings it great pain. Messmer is desperate to save the few who are still alive, but considering they’re several hundred years past their due date and partially fused with him, he needs a bit of help.

That’s where Radagon’s egg comes in. (For the record, I have no clue why Radagon has an egg or where he got it from, but it certainly exists, so I’m gonna use it.) After consuming his mother and the Elden Ring, Messmer acquires knowledge of the Great Rune of the Unborn that resides within the egg. He convinces Rennala to let him eat it (Rennala pls you have to let him go), and with its powers of rebirth, he is finally able to expel his children. The egg also passes through him and comes out the other end, although, it has acquired some shadowy properties along the way… More on that later, but yeah, that’s how I think he can save them!

- Froggo

[garr9988]

Rise of Red: The Prank Theory

(aka it was Ella but it wasn't what you think)

So, it's pretty certain that whatever the Castlecoming prank was, it was done by Ella instead of Uliana and the rest of the old VKs. Thanks to mr-walkingrainbow for explaining why in this post:

TL;DR: The Sorcerer's Cookbook was enchanted so that anyone evil who opened it would be instantly frozen, so even in the original timeline Uliana and co. couldn't have been the ones to make the prank; on top of some direct foreshadowing that Cinderella felt guilty for the prank, Red suggesting Ella would know exactly how to stab her in the back, and that Ella not being at the dance/the book being taken out of Merlin's office was thus the only real change to the past made that led to the prank not happening.

As for the theory itself:

Whatever the prank was, Cinderella still considers it just "a stupid prank" even after knowing what it did to Bridget.

Whatever the prank was, it turned Bridget "into a monster in front of everyone".

We know that Ella despised Castlecoming and royalty:

Ella: "Castlecoming is an outdated, elitist tradition." and "Bridget, will you go to Castlecoming with me? (...) Yeah, I despise everything it stands for."

BUT, we also know that the only exception to Ella's disdain (aside from what attraction she had to Charming) was Bridget:

Ella: "(...) but you know how royalty is. Well, except for you, B."

And we know that the prank had to have involved the recipe from The Sorcerer's Cookbook that transformed whoever ate the cupcakes into hideous monsters:

Uliana: "We’ll bake our own treat. And turn her into a monster!"

The obvious conclusion to be drawn was that Uliana (or, if not them, Ella) would have fed a cursed cupcake to Bridget and transformed her into a terrifying monster in the middle of the dance, making people scared of her - but Ella would have never done that to Bridget, she was the one royal she actually liked.

Everyone else, though...

So, my theory: Ella managed to find and open the Sorcerer's Cookbook because she was "the right hands", a good person. And, at an elitist dance full of spoiled royals, she decided a harmless, "stupid" prank was to curse all the cupcakes Bridget handed out to everyone, turning everyone else in monsters - and then all the blame fell on Bridget.

What if being turned "into a monster" wasn't literal like Uliana planned, but metaphorical? If everyone believed Bridget pranked them all, then they would certainly see her as one, as they would with all the other villains - and it would seem perfectly justified.

But don't the Queen of Heart's lyrics in "Love Ain't It" suggest that the prank was pulled directly on Bridget by Ella?

QoH: "I saw through her. Cinderella and I were classmates. I spent way too much time in this place, so I had to escape. The people here might smile, but they’re two-faced and too fake."

It certainly sounds like it, but then so did all the red herrings pointing towards Uliana and co. being the ones to pull the prank. It's not out of the realm of possibility that her disdain for Cinderella here isn't for pulling the prank on her, but for being the kind of person to do such an awful thing in the first place (and get her caught in the crossfire by using her and her genuine attempts to make friends). Bridget was kind to everyone, but Ella... wasn't. She was the image of a kind-hearted person, but ended up hurting people, including Bridget.

(I'll also throw in the possibility, whether the monster transformation prank was pulled on Bridget herself or on everyone else, that part of Bridget's descent into evil was deciding to use the Looking-Glass that night in hopes of seeing that everything would turn out okay - but in seeing a cemented future of herself as a feared and hated tyrant, she felt there was no point in trying to avoid that future, and dove into it wholeheartedly - pun intended).

[lietomevpr]

just keep swimming - ART DONALDSON! short blurb

description- ever since y/n moved in to a new house with a pool, the caretaking of the pool started to take a toll on their schedule and something had to change. their pool company offers to send a pool boy out for maintenance. unfortunately for y/n, he’s blonde and SUCH a charmer. a universe where art probably never went to summer tennis tournaments and instead was a gorgeous pool boy!

warnings- 18+ (vulgar language) but really just so much flirting!! i'll decide later if I want to write smut if you all like this so far :)

•*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* *•* •*•

Summer came around again like clockwork. I can tell by the way the sun torches the pavement and the bugs fly around you no matter where you are. I had just moved in about half a year ago, and unpacking has been slow. Usually my Saturday afternoons are for cleaning and organizing, and even clad in shorts and a tee shirt with my hair tied up, I was still sweating. On my pathway to the kitchen, I pass my sliding door window out to the backyard. All I see is my covered up, likely hideous underneath, swimming pool. Annoyance etched my features. I've been avoiding the pool because I just got a new job as well and my schedule has been busier than I ever imagined it being. The idea of chopping off the time to take care of the pool myself this summer seemed like such a hassle. Setting my laundry basket down with a plop, I look up the nearest pool service company and give them a quick call. The representative assured me they’d send out one or two “fellas” out tomorrow, as the gruff old man told me during our conversation. I’ve been swimming all my life. My parents taught me to swim really young, and I continued competitively throughout college. I am as much fish as I am human. It was only natural that when I searched for my own place at 25, I wanted a pool to continue my love for the activity. However, the relief that flew through me when the call was finished was enough to allow me to move to the next room to clean.

THE NEXT DAY was somehow even hotter, if it was possible. Once showered and dressed for the days events, I was making my lunch and watching my comfort show when there was a knock on the door.

“Oh great, those must be the pool cleaners", I thought to myself.

Giving a quick glance at my appearance, I was satisfied with opening the door. Smooth, shaved legs, blue denim shorts, and a yellow tank top with sandals seemed to be appropriate for guests in the back yard to me. Upon opening the door, there are two older aged gentleman a decade or so older than me.

“Hello Ma'am! We’re Marcus and Devin and uh…”

One turns around with eyes squinted from the sun and gestures back to the service van where there is a figure messing around in the trunk with heavy equipment or something.

“That’s Art back there in the van, new intern.” Says Marcus, who I now can see the name tag of.

“Well alrighty! Thanks so much for coming, let me show you out back and assess the damage.” I take them out through the side yard and show them the monstrosity of a chore I've been putting off.

The two gentleman eventually wrestle the pool cover off and look around to see what needs to be done. They're talking amongst themselves, and hopefully it's not too much of a big project. Having an in ground pool was a luxury and I knew it. Thats why I was so appreciative of them coming out. They told me in general how much it was gonna cost, and said they’re ready to start whenever the intern made his way on over.

“Well I will leave you guys to it, knock if you need anything! In a hour or so I might bring out some lemonade for you all, it’s so hot!” I say, shooting them a smile. They beam appreciatively and I set for inside.

Busying myself while people were making loud, machine sounds in my back yard was harder than I thought. I liked to watch it all get done. But in general, watching people out of the window was frowned upon. After I finished eating my sandwich, I decided the best use of my time would be to just veg out in the living room. After roughly three or four episodes of a show pass, I figure it's time to make my signature lemonade and bring it out to them. These gentleman won't know what hit them. I've been complimented on my lemonade recipe before, so I was excited to see the final opinion. Setting four glasses on a wooden tray, I make my way out of the front door and around the side yard, as to not walk right up into their space by using the sliding door. I don't get very far into my backyard before I almost drop the tray of lemonade because I collided abruptly with a body. A warm one. Pool company shirt drenched in sweat, I looked up at the figure obstructing my path. I was met with someone roughly around my age, maybe a year or two younger. A simply gorgeous man, one of paler complexion, but sporting a full, fluffy head of blonde hair. So bright it makes the sun look like a dying flashlight. His eyes were so breathtaking and his lips looked so soft and pink, he was a sight to be had. When he smiled at me before he opened his mouth to apologize, that was even brighter. I step back and laugh sheepishly.

"I am so sorry!" That barely gets out out my mouth because this beautiful pool man standing before me says,

"Holy shit, I am so sorry are you okay?".

He backs up, and gives me a once over. Something that was probably just him making sure I wasn't hurt or covered in ice cold lemonade. But the once over brought out some sort of stirring in me, and I questioned if my outfit was actually okay or not because now it mattered that the man in front of me liked what he saw. The genuine concern in his voice was refreshing to hear though, so I recover from the initial embarrassment.

“Yeah I’m fine, it’s alright! I'm Y/N, Y/L/N, I own the place.” My cheeks blush because now I’ve bumped into the most beautiful man and he’s here to clean my pool. It almost looks like he smirks at my coloration. But it could've been the sun's glare playing tricks on me.

“Lovely pool you got out there ma’am. And yard too while we’re at it.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his forearm and sticks that same arm out to shake. Watching a sweaty hardworking man was one of my favorite past times, and the fact that he used the same hand made me insanely hot in the face. His hands in mine feel firm, but respectful.

“I’m... uh, Art Donaldson, by the way. Im the…”

“The intern?” I tease.

He gives a look of panic when he whips his head around and shouts to his older crew mates.

“I told you guys to stop introducing me like that!”

I can hear deep chuckling somewhere in my backyard and I smile at the interaction between the three gentlemen. Art spins back around to me, laughs, and rolls his eyes.

“Sorry about those guys. They mean well of course. I think they’re just jealous of my amazing pool skills. What I was going to say, is that I’m the person who’s going to be doing routine checks once we clean it out completely. Every three weeks I come back without my two friends over there, and I deep clean and treat the water. Or more often, if you want to upgrade your plan. ”

These words weighed on me. This man would be in my back yard by himself and I had the option to make it more often? I would be lying if I said I wasn’t considering it. But having him around so often would be a personal distraction right?

“Well thanks for being my pool cleaner I really appreciate it. I love to swim but I’ve just been so busy lately and I haven’t had the time to maintain it.” I tell the guy, hopefully not looking as upset as I really feel. He looks at me in a way I can’t decipher.

“Don’t worry about it you did the right thing calling us.” He says, offering a stunning smile. Not sure where to go from there, his eyes shoot anywhere but mine it seems, and lands on the lemonade tray in my hand.

“Oh my god please tell me that is for us I am sweating like a dog out here.”

He leans his head over and shakes his blonde curly hair that I am already fond of and I watch as the droplets drip down on my patio brick. My throat hitches at the strange sexiness of the action and I awkwardly cough it out and hand him a glass.

“My speciality! Enjoy.”

He basically chugs it and leaves a cliche and comical "Ahh", after the sip.

"Thank you, it's amazing", he says out of breath from the gigantic sip he took and grins.

"It's just so hot out here ya know?", he spoke softly, lolling his head to the side and glancing up and down at me with a smile that punched me in the gut. Whether he's talking about me or the weather was really up to debate with the look he gave me.

Art looks down at his lemonade, and back at me. Well, back at my tits it feels like.

"Matches your tank top", he says nonchalantly

Then Art grabs the tray from my hands, something I wasn't expecting. When the exchange happens, our fingers brush over one another's. We snap our heads up at the same time and look at each other. The electric jolt of his touch and the comment about my choice in clothing made my brain spin. He smiled to himself, like I wasn't supposed to see that one.

"Let me take these to them for you. See you around Y/N." He turns around but doesn't get far before shouting,

"LEMONADE! GET YOUR FRESH LEMONADE!"

I spin around to go back inside but not before laughing at this energetic, and playful man romping around my yard to give his coworkers my lemonade.

An hour goes by and now that I know what Art looks like, the itch to look out the window was increasingly difficult to resist. Eventually I cave and pull back the curtains slightly and look down at the back yard from my bedroom window and see them out there, standing on the perimeter of the hollow ground. They're almost finished actually, just about ready to turn the water pump on if I had any guess. I spot Art easily, and watch as he lifts up a heavy trailer cart of material away from the pool and to what I assume is the front yard to take to the van. He stops his trek and drops his cart and though I can't hear him too well from the upper floor, it seems as if he lets out an expletive.

"FUCK it's hot." It sounds like.

In a matter of milliseconds, Art's company shirt gets tore off and all that's left is a devastatingly handsome body, covered in sweat from working in the conditions. He looks like can use a dip in the pool himself he's so hot. Nothing could've prepared me for seeing him shirtless in my back yard, but yet here we were. It was bordering on ogling at this point, but the abs to blonde hair ratio nearly made me collapse. I guess I picked the right time to do this because Art looks up at the window AS IF he knew I was watching. His face brightens up at the sight of me, sees where my eyes landed and smiles to himself. Then waves to me with the shirt in hand and I wave shyly back and watch the man return to his journey with the cart of heavy things. I start to tear my eyes away from the window and retreat, pretending I wasn't checking out the man who will be cleaning my pool for the next short while. But not before noticing a boyish smirk placed on his lips as he turns out of vision. Having a beautiful pool boy in my yard was going to be a lot harder than I think I would ever anticipate.

•*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* *•* •*•

let me know what you guys think! i wrote it for fluffy long hair art but the gif i chose matched the hot summer day and sweat aspect of this blurb.

•*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* •*• *•* *•* •*•

lietomevpr

[geode-crystal]

Control

The boys are back baybeeee

A late submission to @snakebites-and-ink's Seven Songs of Suffering event (thanks for the tag!)

Day one: Control- Halsey

Characters: my Prince and Knight duo, Mianu and Darius

Content: Magic/fantasy whump, injury (but it's all very vaguely described so no gore or anything), uncertain fate for a nameless whumper, taking a hit/heroic sacrifice, andone very, very angry Prince who just so happens to have shadow magic lol

Lyrics inspo: “And all the kids cried out/‘Please, stop, you're scaring me’/ I can't help this awful energy/ Goddamn right, you should be scared of me”

_________________________

It wasn’t the first time that Mianu and Darius had found themselves caught in an ambush. Hell, Mianu had staged an ambush or two himself.

But these attackers were well-prepared.

A trio of swordsmen and a single sorcerer should have been easy enough to deal with. Together, Mianu and Darius had conquered far worse. And at first, it was almost easy. Mianu faced off against the sorcerer with his own magic. He effortlessly matched them spell for spell, raising an instant shield made of pure shadow whenever something happened to slip by. Not that anything slipped by often.

Darius, meanwhile, easily went toe-to-toe with the swordsmen. He’d once singlehandedly taken down an entire squadron of the same shadowy monsters that Mianu could now call to his aid. A few human warriors were no match for the knight.

Not when it came to swordplay.

It was such a simple misdirection. A trick Mianu might have used himself, not so long ago. A variation on a tactic he still used: never let your opponents see your every possible move. Don’t let them know what they’re up against until it’s too late.

One of the swordsmen had magic of their own. And spells flew faster and farther than any sword ever could.

Darius had no defense against an attack like that.

Especially not when the attack was aimed at Mianu.   

Mianu felt it coming. His own magic was so heightened that the foreign spell clashed against it, sending an unnerving feeling down his spine. But he wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t defend against his own opponent and the curse that was flying right towards his back.

He turned just in time to see Darius leap in front of him. And to watch, wide-eyed in sheer horror, as Darius was blasted off of his feet.

The knight crashed to the ground several feet away. Dark magic coursed through him, surging around his sword arm, blazing like fire.

He didn’t get up. He didn’t move.

“No…” Mianu choked out. “NO!”

Mianu knew that pain all too well. Darius should never suffer like that. He was too good. Too kind. He didn’t deserve that. Not the way Mianu did.

That might have been why Mianu snapped.

Even now, even in the heat of battle, Mianu had wanted to hold his own power back. He knew how much damage his shadows could do.

That didn’t matter anymore.

There was a howl, the sound of wind and wolves all in one. Mianu’s power burst free. A monstrous shape leapt from his fingers, bowling over the sorcerer who had dared to hurt Darius.

And that was only the beginning. More shadow beasts swarmed into the alleyway. They simply appeared, formed by the darkness around them and Mianu’s own energy. They prowled towards the remaining attackers, a pack of bristling, ink-black wolves. The burning red eyes of the beastly shades provided the only color in the small space. The glow flickered over the faces of the attackers, painting them crimson.

Mianu was the eye of a storm of shadows. His own eyes glowed as his own power threatened rip right through him. And he was very close to letting it. Everything he had was poured into his magic. His pain. His desperation. His sheer, unbridled fury.

His power was completely out of his control.

And for the first time in his life, he didn’t care.

The howling of a hundred hideous creatures echoed around him. He fixed his attackers with a glare sharper than any dagger, nearly strong enough on its own to cause them to drop.

All three of the warriors who still stood warily stepped back. Swords were raised. Spells were prepared. But none of them dared to make the first move. Their eyes were clouded with fear. Their forms trembled at the sight of Mianu’s pure hatred. 

A savage sort of triumph found its way into Mianu’s heart.

They were terrified. Good. They deserved it after what they had done.

The power of his magic made his voice as deep and threatening as any of the snarls of his shadowy summons as he growled out one single word.

“Run.”  

_________________

(tagging @tildeathiwillwrite and @whumperofworlds because they said they liked the boys and wanted to read more of them lol. Thank you both for your support!!)

[headfullof-ideas]

All right, before I post the first two chapters sometime this weekend, I’m posting the rough reference sheet for the first original dragon species that will appear in this series, and the dragon that Kari rides, known as the Dreadraptor.

The Dreadraptor is a dragon species not native to the Archipelago, only showing up and participating in the region wide raids in the last decade, so the people of the Archipelago don’t really know much about them. They’re a slightly less common species in comparison to the species such as Monstrous Nightmare, Gronckle, Hideous Zippleback, and Deadly Nadder, which can be found almost anywhere, but the Dreadraptor can be found in nearly all of the same regions of the world as the aforementioned species.

The trait that makes them stand out amongst other dragon species are their eyesight. Dragons have good vision, better than a humans, especially when it comes to seeing in the dark. However, most species don’t have true night vision, except for when it comes to the Dreadraptor. There’s no hiding from a Dreadraptor when it’s dark out, their night vision impeccable. They’re a Strike Class dragon, though arguments have been made to make them a dual-class dragon in order to be placed in the Tracker Class as well, largely duet to their night vision and they’re slightly better sense of smell in comparison to most dragons.

They come in nearly all the same colors as the common species of dragon, with the same occasional variety of red and purple eyes. Yellow eyes are the most common color, with blues, purples, and dark green being the most common colors, though lighter colors of other varieties aren’t necessarily uncommon. When it comes to determining gender, the only real difference is the crests and horns around their faces. Males will also more often than females have spikes on their chests, but some females will too, like how a ‘beard’ on a Monstrous Nightmare isn’t conclusive to the sex of the dragon who has it. Dreadraptors also come in a variety of patterns, some solidly striped, while others have spots, and some can even have a combination of the two.

I pulled a lot of inspiration from the dragons from Reign of Fire for the Dreadraptors, and started writing this story before I had either a name or even a solid design in my head. I couldn’t initially decide what dragon I wanted for Kari, nothing really fitting the picture in my head, so eventually I just made my own species. I already have plans to introduce a ‘false dragon’ species later on in the story, so an original dragon species didn’t seem too far fetched. I hope everyone likes them.

[smokbeast]

fun facts about lewis cause I’m going through it and these asks are keeping me sane

Lewis isn’t really a skeleton, rather he’s a fire demon. His skeletal appearance is his armored skin (almost like insectoid chitin ) but he has a real skeleton and organs and all underneath example below on his anatomy (cause ngnh yeah I’m insane)

The reason fire demons look like skeletons is because of an ancient folklore about their creator the goddess of the sun burning their skin off for trying to escape her unjust wrath, So now they’re all “deformed and hideous”. But they all think they’re pretty sexy hehe :)

fire demon insides are kinda like crystal flesh geodes. You hurt them and their flesh will be almost crystallized but soft somehow at the same time.

Lewis CANT swim, most fire demons can’t. It’ll snuff their core out and kill them slowly and painfully. So he prefers to stay away from water or rain (rain is fine but it’s not comfortable)

lewis is usually always very warm, not unbearably that you can’t touch him. But if you get him mad or he don’t like you, he will heat himself up to hurt ya (that’s only if your on his bad side, this is really hard to achieve, if you did, congrats your getting a third degree burn)

Fire demons have most of their magic in their tails and cores, lewis used to have a tail :)

Lewis is overall a player, but he’s actually quite respectful and prefers it to be mutual on both ends, he’s might be horny, but he’s not a scumbag. But he will steal your wallet and walk out of you after he’s done :)). Unfortunately he is a con artist and a bit of a manwhore, sowwy this is his job. BUT he’ll treat you like the biggest princess ever.

if he gets to know someone he likes, Lewis moves MUCH slower relationships wise and move wise. He like to savor the moments, make them count and be sure it’s genuine. He wants to treat you right and not rush anything

lewis used to date Craig:))))

lewis vents, claws and spines are A bit of a hazard. Sometimes you’ll notice they’re nubby cause he files his spikes and claw to not injure others. As of his vents, he’ll definitely warn you to be careful

lewey is pretty sturdy and strong, but magic wise he can’t quite do much. He tries to avoid using magic as it drains his energy immensely due to his “situation”. However he will flare up in flames given the chance if it’s for emergencies

Certain ways of how he steams up or smokes reveal how he feels. If he’s flaring fire, he’s a bit upset. If he’s flaring sparks you got him by surprise. Pink steam means he’s a bit nervous or flustered. GOD forbid you catch his whole head on fire, you’ll have to run :)

he’s actually decently fast despite his size, those legs of his can have him running for a damn long time, it’s scarier when he’s on all four, but you’ll never really see him do that ever, that’s like.. if he’s absolutely feral

last But not least, he’s self conscious about his tail! He tends to hide it. Always does, and sometimes it wags under his clothes when he’s a bit happy, his face will be stern or smiling tough but you see that stinky lil tail nub moving the fabric of his clothes behind him if you so happen to make his day heheheh

WAIT edit: one last thing. Cause this is important. I made Lewis inspired after cool undertale artists I saw on twitter! Especially mothipixie and others that I followed before bringing back my tumble, cause I saw how fun their art was and undertale. So I made him as a mock sans thing based off the cool underfell sanses I saw and then he became his own thing cause I truly don’t know allot about undertale xD now I’m learning more and having fun with the game and the aus tho so hehe if you wanna play with him or slap or undertale aus at him go ahead I love to see anything :D but yeah I just check out all those cool artists they’re really neat and honestly I prolly never gone back to tumble without getting inspired by them and undertale and fnaf stuff x)

[abstractdiagram]

Hi Tomarry darlins!!! I have a new snippet. Again this started as “this will be smutty smutty smut smut” but it’s … not. It is multiple chapters away from where we’re at story-wise but I’m pretty sure I’ve now gotten the Coitus Interruptus bunny slain and the next time I want to get them together I’m reasonably certain they’ll at least get orgasms out of the encounter. Hopefully a two chapter update to come tonight or tomorrow on Ao3. Chapter five again lacks Tom and I know someone commented that they’re waiting for him to show. I hope they didn’t mean “hurry the fuck up and give us Tom, you bitch” because that would be mean. I’m choosing to believe they’re just wondering how I’ll get him started. Anyway. Six will be up shortly after five because six is written. I’m stalled a tad on five for fear of making it too much of nothing but at the same time -I- would like to know how he gets from A to B.

Sorry loves. Work has been making me use so many spoons just to not strangle my patients that it’s been hard to write. But that’s a diatribe to come later. Here’s your snippet:

One of them split their lip on the othe’rs teeth. Neither knew or cared who’s blood flavored the moment.

Hands tangled in each other’s hair. Blue black and deepest mahogany - almost red black. They panted and whined into one another, mouths almost clashing rather than kissing. Their legs tangled, desperately trying to chase and provide friction and keep them upright, eventually landing them together in Harry’s bed. Tom pulled back enough to look into Harry’s face, to study the flushed cheeks, blown pupils, the rivulet of blood that was now evident from the kiss-swollen lower lip. Tom’s eyes flashed red in the dim lamp light and he brought his face down to lick slowly at the blood, tasting it and relishing the look of lust he’d seen as he closed the distance.

“Episkey” Tom whispered in parseltongue without pulling fully away. He sucked the healed lip into his mouth and returned Harry’s squeeze of thanks with his own grip on Harry’s hip slipping up under the untucked tail of his shirt. He rolled them from their sides, bringing Harry to his back, straddling his lap and grinding himself into the hardness he felt there. Harry’s thighs were so strong, so muscled and thick and the split of Tom’s legs felt deliciously naughty. He sat up and shifted his weight to Harry’s thighs. The other man huffed in annoyance but let Tom create the distance between them.

“Tom, I, -“

“Harry, no. You have made it abundantly clear that I have the reins as it were. And I don’t want any apologies or questioning if I’m sure. If I’m not sure I won’t be doing it. If I don’t want you to do what you’re doing you’ll know. Clear?”

Harry sucked his lower lip into his mouth and bit it before nodding. His eyes were dark and Tom could see the want in his face. Merlin knows I want too… but at what cost?

Tom rocked against Harry’s lap again and began to rapidly undo the buttons on his shirt. Harry’s hands came up to grasp at Tom’s hips and he allowed it, writhing a little more under the touch. He pulled his shirt off and he felt himself blush - a hideous feeling of vulnerability that made the blush deepen and creep down to his collar bones. Harry’s rumbling chuckle didn’t help and he wished for long shaggy locks like Harry’s for once to hide behind.

“You’re so sexy…”

He stilled momentarily, the parseltongue words not making sense at first. Then he grinned and if it wasn’t sheepish then he was a hippogriff. Fuck, this man makes me feel so bloody human. There was a time when that would have angered him but now he just shivered slightly and his nipples pebbled. Harry’s hands slid up his waist, over his ribs, thumbs tracing under his pectorals like he was cupping breasts. His fingers splayed along Tom’s ribs and he skimmed his thumbs over Tom’s nipples, renewing the shiver and keeping them hard. Tom couldn’t help the soft moan he made. Couldn’t stop his head from lolling back, his arms from reaching down and behind himself to knead at Harry’s thighs. He rolled his hips, leaned into the touch and Harry rewarded him with a light pinch and tug of his sensitive skin. At Tom’s quick inhalation he did the other side.

Merlin who knew he was so responsive. The cold, aloof, inhuman Tom Riddle, panting and practically begging for my touch. Harry had a sudden blast of subconscious thought that worked its way through and he forgot to breathe as his mind whispered He killed them though. Your parents. Your friends. Dozens. Scores. Hundreds. But he didn’t… he hasn’t - but he did kill Myrtle. And his father. And his grandparents. I know. But I can’t save them. They’re already gone. I can save everyone else though.

Tom noticed his sudden stillness and, confused, he scrambled to sit upright, to regain control. “What’s wrong?” The sibilant hissing words were even more strained through clenched teeth.

Harry shook his head, almost violently, as though dislodging something. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. You’re just so -“

“Don’t” He flung the word like a dagger, the rest of the words icily venomous, “lie to me. Or this is over here. And not just for now.” He started to swing himself off of Harry’s lap but Harry’s hands flew to his hips and held him.

“Don’t” Harry’s words were quiet and just short of pleading as he whispered, “leave like this. Please. I want this. Want you. I just sometimes … remember things and I can’t always reconcile what I know with what is now.”

“That I’m a murderer.”

“You are.”

“That I’ve killed your loved ones.”

“You haven’t.”

“But I did. Once. I became that thing you showed me in your memories.”

“Again. You haven’t. We’re not on that track anymore. You’re not Lord Voldemort. I, in that sense, haven’t even been born yet.”

“You killed me in return.”

“Not you. Him. Yes. I did. But, Tom, you’re not him. And I don’t think you could be now if you wanted to.”

“And why’s that?” Tom leaned forward and crushed his mouth to Harry’s, reigniting the wild reckless heat that had pulled them into bed.

Because you know love now… I… I think I love you. And I think you love me too… but without the bond of Legilimency Tom didn’t hear it.

He did hear the loud pounding on the door though. With a frustrated curse he flung himself off Harry and accio’d his shirt. His hair and clothes were immaculate and he was seated at the desk before Harry answered the door.

“What the fuck do you wa- want, professor?”

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Bogeyman

CR 10

Neutral Evil Medium Fey

Bestiary 3, pg. 42 (pic taken from Adventure Path: Extinction Curse: Legacy of the Lost God, pg. 79)

For years, FOR! YEARS! I’ve wanted to do an article on the Bogeyman. This monster has a very special spot in my heart, because around 10 years ago when I was just getting into tabletop stuff, I found a copy of Bestiary 3 on a game store shelf and flicked it open. After flicking past Behemoths and Asura, the most striking image to hit my eyes was what appeared to be a clown in a jaunty tophat and an absolutely menacing set of chompers. While by no means my favorite creature in Bestiary 3, my earliest memory of Pathfinder content was seeing that garish purple-and-red beast masquerading as a human, and as such the Bogeyman held a special place in my heart.

Which made it absolutely heartbreaking when my every attempt at extracting its picture from the PDF for use on this blog ended up looking HIDEOUS in a way my brain couldn’t reconcile with. As such, my first-ish exposure to Pathfinder languished... up until recently, with the release of 2nd Edition and a whole host of updated art for a WHOLE bunch of critters! While this Bogeyman isn’t my favorite--I’ll always love the bright purple bastard from 3--it certainly still portrays the mood of the Bogeyman in a way I enjoy. There’s plenty of Fey who cause fear for their own amusement, more than a few who eat it in some fashion, but Bogeymen are fear. They’re terror incarnate, they’re living nightmares, they’re the villain of a thousand stories and they know it, they revel in it, they wear it on their sleeves!

Bogeyman delight in finding singular victims and haunting them for days or even weeks, silently lurking under beds, within closets, in attics, or in basements, occasionally using Ghost Sound to create eerie noises, Darkness to cut the lights, or even Invisibility to quietly stalk their victims from their very own shadows until the haunted soul is on the verge of a breakdown. They’re artisans of terror, delicately crafting every moment of their target’s life of fear, plaguing them with Nightmares by night and by day whispering horrid thoughts into the victim’s ears from an invisible vantage point, making them lash out against friends and family to assure they’re entirely isolated when the malevolent Fey finally decides to end their lives. 

Like many creeping terrors, Bogeymen prefer to keep out of combat unless they’re sure they can win, remaining in the background otherwise. Unlike many creeping terrors, this should by no means make you think they’ll fold easily. They have high saves for their CR, DR 15/cold iron, and 21 SR, but their most infuriating defense is their ability to go invisible at will. Bogeymen are as maddeningly patient in combat as they are when seasoning their victims, flitting in and out of sight with Invisibility and exploiting their titanic +35 to Stealth checks to slither among combatants and find out where they’re weakest, physically and emotionally. Even an invisible Bogeyman can make use of its +28 to Intimidation checks to shake up anyone who can hear it speak as it waits for an opening, something it’s very keen on doing because as you may expect, Bogeymen are all about fear!

They live for fear, gaining Fast Healing 5 if someone within 30ft of them is suffering from any level of it. 30ft is, coincidentally, the range of their Deepest Fear aura, and illusion that shapes itself into the worst fears of anyone who views it. Failing a DC 25 Will save means you’re shaken as long as you’re in the aura, but succeeding the save renders one immune to it for 24 hours... but that just won’t do, will it? We can’t have someone NOT be afraid, so if someone succeeds and maintains a brave face, the Bogeyman disappears once more to Intimidate them, either through the skill check or with their claws. Their 1d8+1 damage claws aren’t really all that scary, but the burst of +6d6 from their Sneak Attack will probably make both the character AND the player jump. Both claws crit on a 19 or 20, and being critically hit by their claws causes Striking Fear to mount up. Failing another DC 25 Will save while already suffering from a fear effect compounds the fear, moving shaken to frightened, frightened to panicked, and panicked to paralyzed with fear (and thus vulnerable to being torn to shreds by Sneak Attack). While relying on crits is... well, unreliable at best, someone being hit even once while already shaken removes that person from the fight for several rounds, as frightened creatures must flee unless cornered, potentially giving the Fey deadly amounts of breathing room so it can recover and slip away... or savage a different, more vulnerable target.

Or just instantly kill someone who’s proven they’re a threat to it. For whatever demonic reason, Paizo decided to give them 3 castings of Quickened Phantasmal Killer each day! The moment it pops out of invisibility to Sneak Attack someone, it may be able to just take out someone else nearby with a glance! If your party doesn’t have any protection from fear, an encounter with a Bogeyman may go from tough to unwinnable in a single round.

If you can weather their initial Sneak Attack and have a way to counter their invisibility (like a sack of flour), things get much simpler. Adding onto that, anything that’s not afraid of them, either because it passed its save against the aura or was unaffected by it in the first place (in case you needed another reason to put Unbreakable Heart in your spell list), takes an enormous bite out of its offense and its defense and can potentially leave it floundering. Even with that weakness, Bogeymen still have access to Hold Person at 3/day to use against creatures they cannot terrify and Suggestion at will to manipulate them so they’re not ENTIRELY helpless against Paladins; keep that in mind if you’re going fey-hunting!

As a closing note, it’s a little funny to me that Bogeymen don’t actually have Darkvision, so their at-will Darkness--which would otherwise be an excellent tool to get in more Sneak Attacks--is just as much and impediment to them as it is to everyone else. It’s also extremely ironic that they’re not immune to fear effects, so any telepathic creature that succeeds against their Phantasmal Killer can turn it back around against them, potentially killing them with their own ability!

You can read more about them here.