#THE TEXTURE IT'S SO GOOD. IT FEELS SOS GOOD TO THE EYE

[aliwritex]

oscar thoughts: college student!reader riding his thigh 18+ 1.2k

notes: he’s a bit clueless in this and it was caused because of this pic. it’s quite silly but i like this don’t be mean

Chess at a house party. Sure, it wasn’t exactly a party and it wasn’t a house. But chess wasn’t really in your plans for the end of semester gathering. Fine, it wasn’t a gathering either, something in between. Your apartment was full of classmates, most of them, dancing, talking or having a drink. But in the corner of the living room sat your roommate and two of his friends, playing chess.

“What are you doing? This is an excuse to not use our brains and you’re ruining it.”

“Oh, come here, you have to play Oscar, he’s too good. Think you could beat him though.”

“Scott, I’m not gonna play chess when I’m hosting a party”

“Cmon, everyone’s set and having fun, have a game, please, Oscar’s feeling a little out of place.”

You were familiar with Oscar, he was friends with Scott, your roommate, and you’d met him a couple times, he was nice, polite and hot. So you sat down, watching the boy replace the pieces to the right spots.

“Best of three?”

“For what?”

“Don’t know yet, i’ll decide while we play” you teased and watched him nod and sign at the table, letting you know you had the white pieces.

Oscar won the first match, you the second, gathering low cheering from your two friends that watched.

“Right, if I win this one, I get to take you to my room for ‘seven minutes in heaven’ or more” you teased.

Said and done, you won the last round. Maybe he let you but you didn’t mind. You both got up and you took his hand in yours, guiding him to the other side of the apartment as your friends cheered on him.

You sat him on the bed and he just stared up at you.

“Are you a virgin?” you bluntly asked the boy and watched him blush uncontrollably.

“I- what? No!”

Watching him stutter made you smile. You walked across the room, taking off your shoes and looking around your vanity for a clip to hold your hair up.

“You sure act like one” you told him through the mirror “relax a little”

Oscar could swear he got a peak of your underwear when you bent over to do so.

“Seeing I’m the winner, think I'm gonna claim my prize. And I’ve wanted to do this for a while”

Your confession made him choke on his breath as he watched you walk over to him. Your finger reached out for his chin, making him lift his head, brown eyes staring up at you through lashes. You kissed his pouty lips, sitting on his thigh. Your action knocked the breath out of his lungs, he could not respond to your kiss for a second.

“C’mon, don’t be so shy”

You guided his hands to your waist, under your flowy shirt. They were cold and slightly shaking but the touch felt good, reassuring. Your short skirt had bunched up around your hips, allowing you to feel his thigh muscles right against your underwear as you kissed. Your hands dived into his already messy hair as your tongue made it into his mouth.

His thumbs caressed your sides softly, a tentative touch that showed him getting more confident. His hands then reached up your back, lifting your shirt to expose your stomach and allowing him to catch a glimpse of a tattoo he didn’t know about, it made him curious.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked when your lips left his to explore his neck.

You chuckled at his question and slowly pulled away from him “Just sit here for me, yeah? Wanna use you for bit”

Your lips met his again and your hands dropped to take his to your hips. Then you started to move.

You had a particularly thin pair of panties on that allowed you to feel the texture of his shorts against your skin as your hips dragged forwards. You moved back, arching your back and letting his hands follow your hips. When you bucked forwards again Oscar understood what you were doing and he was in shock. But as soon as he recomposed himself he spread his legs further, making his shorts ride up.

Then the only thing separating you was your underwear but he took care of that too. His hand carefully and slowly met your middle, tucking your panties to the side. You groaned when you felt your wet lips meet his thigh, his cool skin contrasting with your middle.

Your hips moved faster and the pleasure made your head fall back, letting Oscar watch your body moving, in awe. He could feel your thigh muscles flexing beneath his hands as you moved and he was watching the way your breathing became ragged.

Your hands left his shoulders for a second, just to pull down the straps of your top, it made your boobs fall out of it, right on his face. Then you were back at it, hips moving fast, hands grabbing his shoulders, tits on his face and occasional pretty moans, you were putting on a show for him.

And it was working. He was watching like he didn’t want to miss a second of your performance. And you could feel his hard cock pressing against your knee when you moved. You couldn’t lie, it felt powerful to have him like that, under you, watching so mesmerized. You would love to concentrate on his face to see his reactions but you were already feeling your insides tighten.

Moans started coming out of your lips with no filter, you knew the music in the apartment was loud enough that only Oscar would hear them. Your thighs tightened around his and almost stopped you from moving. You were about to lose your high when his hands met your hips again and helped your movements.

You squeezed his shoulders tightly when you came, legs also tensing up around his till he was trapped. He made sure to keep his eyes on you as you did, watching your face contorting with pleasure, head thrown back and mouth open, a strangled moan making its way out.

He sighed when your head finally dropped to his shoulder and your body relaxed on top of him.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo” he whispered to the side of your neck as his thumb caressed the mark on your stomach.

“I don’t go around showing it to everyone. Maybe you could see all of it some day though.” you teased as you pulled away, kissing his lips quickly.

A string of wetness connected your cunt to his thigh when you got up, the view making him groan. He watched from the bed as you pulled your straps back up and your skirt down but instead of straightening up your panties you took them off. You thought about it for a second before throwing them on his lap.

“You sort yourself out,” you told him through the mirror again as you let your hair down this time, now allowing him a view of your wet cunt when you bent over, “see you outside”

Oscar just watched you walk out of the room, he couldn’t say anything, just throw his body back on the bed and think about what happened.

[tactical-jellyfish]

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part two :)

Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.

You spent most of the night following the surgery in a light doze, after a certain man named Gary walks you to your room, only slightly entertaining your efforts to walk upright on your own two legs.

Of course, he can't stay, he's got things to do, and he's not your fucking nurse, but he still makes you unlock your phone and watches you set the timer so you take your antibiotics first thing in the morning.

He still leaves to fill up his own water bottle, and sets it by your tiny, shitty nightstand, and he still brings the thing to your lips to make you take a couple sips, even as you try not to drift off right then and there.

When you look up with tired eyes, he offers a small, sympathetic smile, and leans down to gently bump your forehead with his own.

It's... an oddly endearing gesture, considering that's a grown-ass man, but your delirious smile seems to inspire more of that gentle treatment, because when his hands are free again, he's finger-spelling to you once more.

I googled some stuff for the recovery. Should I send you the links to the articles?

You melt, just a little bit, but nod, tiredly resting your heavy head on the pillow beneath it, just really soaking in not feeling like you're dying. Feels great, you've gotta say.

"Yeah. That'd be real sweet of you, luvie. Thanks for all the help."

He beams at you. You hate to admit it, but you smile, too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day after is slow for you. Seeing as you're one organ down, it feels perfectly fit to work quietly in your own small office space, finding more information for prospective ops down the line.

It's comfortably-paced, much unlike how you'd been before your mistake. Back then, you were frantic, under a deadline you knew wasn't realistic trying to find documents that didn't ever exist.

Your job feels so much better without Price and the team on your ass. They never understand how discovery works, they think it just happens in a way that's frankly, stupid.

And, you're no liar, you'll say that getting periodic texts from your new friend really does brighten your mood.

Roach was a riot. And you forgot how it felt to be with that energy, the spark of new meat that you had felt yourself losing in the team.

He's a good lad, might have to get him a dinner, as-

Your train of thought is (rudely) interrupted by your door opening, without a knock or anything, and an irritated Johnny standing behind it.

"Mind tellin' me why ye werenae runnin' feckin' drills today? Ye said ye'd fuckin' spot me."

You're not surprised that his voice is supremely annoying to you right now. Normally, that Scottish slang is a comforting noise, a reminder of the company you hold, and how they've always had your back.

This time, you kind of want to knock him in the jaw for it.

This anger, it will pass.

Maybe.

"If you've got an issue, go to Price. It's not my job to fill you in on every little detail of my life, and I have a job other than training that I need to be up-to-date with."

The metal of Gary's water bottle makes a quiet noise on the textured plastic of your desk as you raise it to take another sip, effectively silencing Johnny for just a second as you hear him sputter to himself.

"Th' fuck are you- you're not drinking coffee."

Of course that's the thing he notices. He can't notice when you're on death's door begging for help, but he knows how you take a morning beverage.

You really wanna punch him now.

"Detox."

You answer is terse, not quite like you, and he furrows his brows.

"Ye're hidin' somethin', ain't ye? S' it 'cause of the mission? 'Cause that was a stupid call, an' you can't fix stupid."

What a way to make amends, Soap, show up at my door and insult me after a brief interrogation. Charming.

"My god, would it kill you to shut your mouth just once? Is that too big an ask, now?"

Harsh. That was harsh. You know it was, and that it was a mistake, but when you open your mouth to apologize, Johnny beats you to it.

"Fuck you."

The slam of the door makes you cringe, and look back down to your documents, the little notes you've drawn in the margins and the highlighter that's smudged the pen just a little bit.

Before you dwell too long, there's a quiet ping.

A small, stupid looping video pops up when you open the offending chat.

It's a poorly-rendered cockroach, spinning is stupidly whimsical circles and turning colors as a song you don't care to name plays in the background. The text under it is what makes you soften.

medicine checkk in!!! take the medcine if you havent :)

His spelling is amateurish at best.

You're really fucking screwed, with that one, and you know it, but still, you set the phone down, and open a new tab.

British Sign Language basics. You could do that.

Part One | Previous | Next

[sugarverse]

𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝙝𝙖𝙞𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨!

[ bnha headcanons ]

ft. izuku, tenya, & katsuki !

✩ I. midoriya

From the music echoing from the bathroom, he knew you weren't in the best mood. He'll slide his shoes off, creeping into the room to see you fighting to take your braids down. He offers to help, watching the tears in your eyes fall down your cheeks. You already were having a terrible week and now it felt like your fingers were gonna go numb. 

You literally just wanted to wash your hair and feel clean. But you also wanted it done and out of the way. It was hard to explain the frustration, but to Izuku, you didn't have to. It was his job to take whatever the weight may be off of your shoulders.

It took awhile, but he got the hang of taking them down after a time or two. There were times where your arms got so tired that you fell asleep while he was unbraiding them. He helps you wash it over the sink, asking what to use and watching your hair spring/curl right up.

He never got the hang of actual braiding, fingers too fat to cross it the right way. But he does learn that greasing your scalp feels really good. Feeling you melt into his touch as you sat between his legs in the living room. 

He could wash your hair and massage your scalp for hours. He loved seeing you relaxed. You did so much for him to feel calm when he's had a long day. He always tried to return the favor in ways that showed you he loved you and genuinely paid attention to things that pleased you. It was hard when both of your jobs got in the way so he wanted to do things that really mattered.

He tries to watch when you do your hair to see what product does what, never letting it get too low. When you're out of something? He buys the right brand for you. You also put him onto some hair products to help his hair become softer and smell really good which he was very appreciative of. 

The first time he sees your bonnet? Buying you all different colors. and occasionally wearing one when you'd do ‘spa day’ but wtvr. He just wanted to be helpful ! Even if you didn't need one for every set of pajamas you own. 

He wanted to get all the shit you wanted/needed. More often than not though, he comes home to your hair done and he just marvels at you. He also calls whoever you're going to and pays in advance. If you insist on paying certain bills, this was the least he could do.

★ i. tenya

Once he notices your hair changing length and color, he's going to look up some youtube videos. Not that he's uneducated! He was educated enough to not ask you about it. It would be rude, especially upon first meeting. 

The one time he asked what your hairstyle was called, You told him you had cornrows in. You knew he hadn’t been talking about your braids wrapped into two buns. He was looking for a more technical answer as he does with everything, so you gave it.

From that day, he studied things like ‘Why cornrows are called cornrows’. The boy had a lot of questions and didn't want to bombard you more than everyone else was. However, he thought it was absolutely gorgeous. 

If you mentioned something about wanting your natural hair longer? He already found a growth oil that should work for your hair texture. Wanna dye it? He knows the best brand and best conditioner to make sure your hair doesn't break off or feel too harsh. 

When you two had started dating and he found out how expensive hair was to get done, let alone buy? It's no longer in your hands to pay for it. Money to get your hair braided by whoever you wanted, wherever in Japan you wanted. He loved seeing you come back to him, smiling and showing your new hair off before asking him to take pictures. 

Gifts start being more centered towards you than what he just assumed you'd like (lip tint, lashes, nails) because he found so many other useful things. That super expensive shampoo you use in bulk, a new bonnet, silk laced hoodies and beanies. Small things he went out of his way to look up before you had the chance to ask. 

Of course, he still gave you the money when you would mention a time or two when you were out of something, but mostly he pays for your hair every month or so.

One day you came home with a star braided onto the side of your scalp and quickly turning to show him. “Look, Look!” He never looked more in love, seeing you smile like that. ��It's amazing, How long did it take?” He asks, taking your bags from you so you could sit and rant on the couch about your appointment. 

⛦ k. bakugou

Not the most patient man by ANY means, but he does try to take time to learn your hair routine to help. He’s determined to learn how to braid your hair, no matter how frustrating it might be. He was good at.. Well, mostly everything. So it stumped him that he couldn’t learn how to do something so seemingly simple right away. 

His first few tries are hilariously messy. Uneven, bumpy, and hair coming out the sides of whatever he thought a braid was. He doesn’t let you help his stubborn ass until he finally gives up about 10 minutes later. He watched your hands work fast as hell to braid downward in awe.

He ends up taping three pieces of string to the table and trying to braid it for hours, wanting to impress you the next time he could braid your hair.. but you walked in on him when you were trying to ask for help with something and he was BRIGHT red. “The hell you doin’ bursting into my room!?” 

Of course, this was when the two of you first got together and were getting comfortable around one another. When he finally tries again with this intense concentration on his face that makes you crack up, He’s so excited he almost screams in victory. He stared back at you through the vanity, smirking and putting his hands on his hips in satisfaction.

He loves the pops of color you have in your hair. Whether it be braids, beads, or wigs, he’s always asking “Where’s the orange? Where’s the green?” It’s not like you went out of your way to avoid the colors, it’s just that you didn’t have many clothes to match. 

On one of your dates, you show up with bright orange and army green bows in your hair. You bought a pair of camo pants to go with the black shirt you wore, opening your front door to see him absolutely melt. He stutters for the first time in awhile, telling you how stunning you looked representing him and his colors. 

He goes out of the way to buy you clothes and different accessories to match. If your hair color is slightly off than most of your clothes, he’ll buy you new ones.

He was super confused at all your product though. “Why do you need oil in your hair?” The blonde will scrunch his nose, “Doesn’t that shit make your hair greasy?” The look you gave him was enough for him to sit on the bed and grumble until you were done. 

You explained you wanted to prevent feeling dry and itchy, especially in the winter months. You rub in the oil, glancing over at him as you spoke. He slowly got up, watching you rub oil into your freshly parted hair, helping you finish in the back of your scalp. He watched the way you leaned into it, smiling to himself.

From then on his questions weren’t as abrasive, but he still asked you because he wanted to hear it from you. He could easily look it up, but you explained it in a way he graped immediately. Detangler spray, heat protector spray, all of it sounded very easily explained but he couldn’t understand exactly why you needed that stuff. 

“Ya can’t just brush it out?” He’ll ask, watching the comb get stuck in your natural hair after asking such a question. He helps you apply whatever you need, helping you flat iron the kitchen of your hair very carefully.

[softlypaintedseafoam]

🍓ー thank you for your patronage at the strawberry witch's bakery! here's your order!

requested by: a lovely anon! 🍓 -> luffy + strawberry milk (i love you)

"Tired," you question for the sake of conversation.

Your lips quirk into a smile when Luffy makes a grunt of agreement in reply. 'Tired' is an understatement. It's no overestimation to say the lot of you are exhausted; Whole Cake Island, Big Mom and her vast array of children just barely behind you.

'Exhausted' is best word to describe the feeling of those present on the ship. It's barely the morning but it still feels like you all should be asleep. It would have been nice if the night could have lasted a little longer. You release an audible sigh, at peace. Even with your exhaustion, you're at peace.

Sanji has returned and even with the crew separated ー miles and miles of sea in between ー it feels as all is once again right in the world. Sans the oddity in part of your crew missing, it's like nothing has changed.

Nami draws her maps, plotting calculated yet safe courses for the crew's trip.

Chopper replenishes his supply of medical goods.

Sanji cooks up a storm of seasonings and aromatic fragrances.

Even Carrot's laments that Brook's bones are too hard to garchu properly has become part of your normal. It's nice to see the rabbit mink in better spirits, all the events that transpired at Whole Cake Island considered.

What's important is that you're all alive.

A lot has been gained, a lot has been lost.

Who knew where Jinbei was. Was he already trailing the Sunny to Wano or was he still within the confines of Big Mom's sea? Your guess is as good as anyone else's. You choose to trust in his promise to Luffy regardless.

Looking at the captain in question, your lap as his pillow, you don't fight the affection bubbling beneath your skin. He's battered, bruised but he's alive and he's yours. In the rare moments Luffy is quiet and not bouncing off the walls, it's almost as if he is in a state of meditation. Pondering things, worlds, you're not sure you entirely comprehend.

"You should get some sleep if you're tired," you murmur, lips brushing against his forehead. Whatever he is thinking, you treasure the moments when Luffy simply wants to be alone together even if not many words are exchanged between you.

"I'm not that kind of tired," Luffy protests softly, brow furrowing. Eyes a brown so dark they may as well be black give you a look too stern for the situation.

"Yeah, yeah," you card your fingers through messy black hair, with a chuckle. You remember distinctly thinking two years ago that his hair must be softer than it looks. You're pleased to tell your younger self that their assumption was correct. Luffy's hair is a texture softer than soft. "My mistake, Captain," your tone has a playful lilt to it, nothing a fraction close to serious. "I don't doubt you at all."

Luffy beams, eyes crinkling at the corners and his smile brighter than the sun. "Good!"He nods with his exclamation. "I love you," light as his tone is, the words he says are never meant lightly. He says it blithely, joyously, like freedom itself has finally been gifted upon humanity. His words are a treasure.

Your index finger and thumb glide continuously over a particular strand of Luffy's hair, a grounding sensation. You have to or you'll float far, far away from the Sunny and back into the realm of the sky islands. I don't think you'd let me, though. It's too easy imagining a stretchy, rubbery arm latching around you after looping your waste ten times over. Wherever you go, Luffy is sure to follow not far behind. "Love you too," you kiss his forehead again.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ||

A/n: Reader is Pacifica (can be biological or not, looks are not described)

Stan wasn’t proud of it, but he was staring. Hard.

It wasn’t like he meant to—hell, he’d braced himself for a lot of things when he saw Y/N Northwest again. Shock, fear, maybe even that cool, detached scrutiny you were so damn good at. But this? This he hadn’t been prepared for.

You stood before him, poised as ever, your hair swept into an elaborate style that left a few elegant curls cascading over your shoulder. The deep emerald of your gown hugged your figure in a way that made something in Stan’s stone chest tighten, the rich fabric shimmering faintly under the dim lights of the forest clearing. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, effortless.

God, you moved like a queen.

And maybe that was what did it. The way you carried yourself—like you owned the ground you walked on, like you knew you could command attention with the smallest of gestures. Stan had spent a lifetime bullshitting his way through high society, tricking people into thinking he belonged in places he had no business being. But You? You didn’t try to fit in—you just did.

And it was really messing with him.

Stan shifted, trying to ignore the way his wings twitched involuntarily behind him. He was a seven-foot-tall gargoyle, for crying out loud. He had claws, fangs, glowing eyes, and actual wings. He was supposed to be the intimidating one here.

But you? You just looked at him like he was something worth admiring.

“Y’know, I don’t get it,” Stan muttered, trying so hard to sound casual, even as he felt the heat creeping up his neck (could gargoyles even blush? Because it sure as hell felt like he was blushing). “Most people would take one look at me and run the other way. But you? You’re lookin’ at me like I just walked outta some fancy cathedral.”

You tilted your head slightly, considering him, and damn if that didn’t make something in his stomach flip.

“Maybe that’s because you remind me of something ancient and enduring,” you said, stepping closer. The faintest, knowing smile played at your lips. “Something carved from stone, meant to watch over and protect.”

Stan swallowed hard. “You’re makin’ it sound a whole lot prettier than it is, sweetheart.”

You hummed, your gaze slowly trailing over him, taking in the rough texture of his arms, the faint glow of his amber eyes, the massive span of his wings. And then—because apparently you had no mercy— reached out and traced a slow line along his bicep with your fingertips.

Stan tensed. His heart, which he was pretty sure shouldn’t even beating right now, did something very stupid.

“You don’t see it, do you?” You murmured, your touch feather-light against the cracks in his stone skin. “How powerful you look. How striking.” You let your fingers trail down to the edge of his forearm before finally pulling away. Biting your lip, you ran your tongue slowly over your lip. "How strong."

Stan exhaled through his nose, loudly. “Lady, if you keep talkin’ like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you got a thing for scary monsters.”

You smirked, your eyes practically glowing with mischief. “Who says I don’t?”

Stan’s wings jerked back in an involuntary flick, and he immediately scowled, stepping away before you gave him too many feelings at once.

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his very solid, very stone chest in a weak attempt to regain control. “Next thing I know, you’re gonna start gettin’ ideas about climbin’ onto my back and ridin’ around like some kinda fairytale princess.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Would you let me?” You got close as you possibly could to the man, your hand on his chest batting your eyelashes up at him.

Stan choked.

Meanwhile, hidden behind a very inadequate hiding spot, Mabel was vibrating with pure joy, clutching Pacifica’s arm.

“I told you!” she whisper-shouted. “She’s totally into the monster thing!”

Pacifica, who had not been prepared for this, groaned. “Great. Now I have to live with the knowledge that my elegant aunt is flirting with a gargoyle.”

Mabel grinned, eyes shining. “You’re welcome.”

Pacifica let out another groan, wondering why she was friends with Mable.

[betterinvienna]

but even though you're killing me | childe x gen!reader

chapter 2: wine

prev / masterlist / next

synopsis: Ajax is most attracted to the things that hurt him: combat, heartbreak, and you. Inspired by Chainsaw Man’s Angel, reader possesses deadly, unwanted power; to touch reader’s skin is to shorten your lifespan by an unspecified, varying amount. For this reason, reader resides in a secluded spot of Dragonspine and wears heavy, impenetrable clothing – well, up until reader’s life is impeded by a moment of weakness. Luckily for the lovestruck redhead, he’s here for a good time — not a long time.

[ 1.4k words — fluff & angst — warnings: scars around wrist area ]

ac: rainsword01 on twt

taglist: @usagiarchive

author's note:

doing an overhaul of 01 because i hated how i started it so im gonna delay 03 in interest of bettering the prologue!!! quite surprised i was able to pump this one out in 2 days. tell me if u wanna be added to my taglist just found out the thing existed :-) haha hope u like it

To breathe, to speak, to think, and to perform. The perfect pillars of your self-curated world – a gorgeous mantra of survival. It’s what got you here, and what gets you there. Life is ultimately straightforward. Live and sleep today, so you can live and wake up tomorrow. There is no end goal until it comes; your life was never yours to decide. As if you were a full wine glass, the only designation you feel in this life that is solely yours is to feed other mouths – pour sweet, red wine into other beckoning glasses, and hear the monotonous rumble of a thank you and chatter about your manufactured well mannerisms.  

What do you do when you run empty, a thin red liquid left uselessly sloshing around at the bottom? Are you sure that you are the only distributive glass?

Childe – or Ajax, you learned from a couple of pastime “Are we there yet?” conversations he had with Scaramouche, another name you picked up – yanks the reins, eliciting a haughty, synchronous neigh from the two mares and pulling the carriage to a firm halt. You reach up and use the base of your palm to push into your eye cavities, leaving the area hot with irritation. You can’t fall asleep. Not now. Now, your free, around-the-clock schedule is as good as a newsboy – obsolete. Sleeping all day, whenever you want to, isn’t an option when isolation is ticked off the list. They went hand in hand, their absence simultaneously leaving you stranded, confused, and definitely –

“Tired?” Childe pops his head into the cushioned, back portion of the carriage. The seats are lined with a nice crushed velvet texture, dipping only with the flat, hard dots methodically drilled into them in measured intervals. You choose to ignore him, fiddling with the plush of the cushion and flaring your nostrils to avoid an open-mouth yawn. Already accustomed to your silence, he gives up and mumbles, “I take that as a yes.” 

The minute you step out of the body of the creaky carriage, cold air bites at your lungs, threatening to freeze the two, and the crunch of your trusty boots finally awakens you – or maybe it was the other way around. You slip your hands into the sherpa-lined pockets of your coat, picking at the lint balls and feeling for runaway wood chips. You lower your gaze to the ground. It’s… nice. It’s pure white, sparkly, and clean. You take your hands out of your homely pockets – rough palms and stubby nail beds pale blue from the subzero temperatures – and stare a hole into the infinite, long scars on both hands that circle where your wrist and palm meet.

You take the mittens out of your back pocket and tug them on, treating the snow a little kinder this time as you follow behind Childe, footsteps lighter than before. How different would have life been if you weren’t this? Would you envy the cold still?

The worst thing about being shown mercy is not the cruel thievery of your independence – no, you’d already gnawed your lip clean raw over this gripe – it was the annoying constant surveillance of your savior. Childe looks back once, twice, observing your gait and making sure you don’t book it off the mountain. 

The ephemeral atmosphere around Albedo’s open lab is slightly warmer relative to the mountain and harbors an inherent chemical, pungent smell. Both attributes lift your chin to meet Albedo’s inquisitive eyes. 

However, the silent question is utterly transient, and he autonomously answers it. “And now?” Albedo pulls off his gloves and clears a spot on his center table amongst the clutter, motioning for you to sit.

Except you don’t. Because Childe is looking at you now – prompted by Albedo’s phrase that made it appear as if perpetual injury was but commonplace for you. Quite oppositely, it wasn’t a look of disgust, and that’s what irked you the most. He’s unnatural. It was the same look people gave you when you had told them you lost the same tooth they did, back in your fleeting elementary days. When your family wasn’t yours, but it was family. All you had known.

Now, there is none, and Childe’s eyes still ask, “Are you me?”

You tell him “no” in your head, but he doesn’t hear. Nobody is like you, no matter how damaged they may be. You silently apologize for indirectly invalidating his experiences as if you were in some trauma quasi-war (if you’re being honest, the tale of his face dictates his premature victory in this case), and you hope he somehow senses that bit. His gaze is averted from its previous position by the time you pass him by, and if not for the newfound blooms of heat on your cheeks, it almost makes you think the interaction was a hallucination – a passing hologram of sorts.

You prop up on the uncomfortable wooden table, unbuckling your tattered leather boot and allowing Albedo to examine the decorated wound. Scaramouche huffs, bored, and leans on the pillar of the entrance. You allow yourself a glance – he’s short, shorter than Childe – and his eyes are intrinsically noxious. He’s undoubtedly gutsy for his build as he meets your gaze with precision and unshadowed ire. You rip your gaze from his almost instantly. Not everyone is going to like you – and it’s something you were made well aware of very early on.

“This is…” Albedo starts, thumbing the edges of the wound. You wince. “You’re sure this is from a lone trap?” Childe nods. While you were lost in your head, they’d been talking. 

You search Childe’s face, but he doesn’t want to meet your eyes any longer. Why? “That’s what we found at the tent, at least.” He motions to your foot aimlessly. Albedo puffs out a curious middle ground between a huff and a scoff, and you finally look down at your wound, having grown weary of begging for reciprocation of interaction from Childe. You decide maybe you’ve been too harsh on him. Perhaps the wolfish bite of your incessant silence finally sank deep enough to puncture something vital – something fundamental. Either way, why should you care about his emotions and what he thinks of you? You don’t care for him, his feelings, or his vestigial viewpoint on your otherwise indifferent character.

If that were true, you wouldn’t have been staring at him – no, burning a hole into his cranium – searching for answers. Searching for reasoning, a backing logic, as to why you feel that his validation trumps the greater mass of the mental and emotional training decennial isolationism had served you on an oxidized platter. Your expression soured at the thought of such vulnerability, and you returned your binary focus to the portlier momentous matter at hand. Childe still looked ahead, staring at your foot. He was silent, but you could tell he saw the ordeal through his peripheral. His eyes seemed remote – as if he were there only in person, not soul, and it’s only now that you notice what human aspect he’s missing exactly – a luminous fleck in his eye.

“It should heal in about a week,” Albedo finalized. “In your convalescence, I advise you to stay off the foot and remain well-fed and hydrated. The wound isn’t as bad as you think – but it was festering.”

You mumble a thanks, allowing Albedo to help you off the table. You capaciously hobble and waddle your way toward Childe and Scaramouche. Scaramouche turns before you hit the center mark of the lab, starting towards the carriage early and unmistakably irritated. It seems as if Childe has snapped out of his trance, and he plasters a grin on his face – but you still notice the crucial lack of light in each eye. 

You allow him to aid your journey to the carriage, desperately grabbing onto his forearm with a thickly mittened hand when he turns to shut the door of the carriage’s cabin. The touch somehow seeps through the impregnable fabric and burns your palm. You grip a little tighter as if he’s going to slip between your fingers, away from you. “You’re not normal.” You analyze, vaguely. 

Childe merely chuckles and shakes his head, ignoring your candor. “Not even a thank you?” Oh. Right.

“Yeah – thank you.” You reluctantly pull your fingers up, segment by segment, allowing the sleuth to escape with your riches. It wasn’t worth pressing him over; besides, what could you subsequent such a blunt phrase with?

You let him go, but, somehow, in some curious way, your palm still felt seared through the thick glove.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Maybe some autistic reader and Mick or Estie Bestie headcanons?

-💙🩵

How about head canons for both of them!

Both Mick/Esteban with an autistic partner

They both would be amazing,kind,understanding,loving and patient with you!

Have a problem with a texture that makes you wanna peel off your skin? No problem because they would ban it from your home!

They both are the type to Immediately do research on autism and stimming/fidget toys after learning that your autistic

Loose your earbud/headphones no problem they both carry an extra pair so you don’t have to worry about anything.

Have a favorite meal you wanna eat everyday till it wears off? No problem they’ll gladly make it for you. Even if they can’t eat it due to their dietary restrictions the still would be glad to cook it for you.

If you have specific clothes that feel good (soft fabrics, tagless shirts, specific brands), they’ll buy multiples so you always have a backup.

Mick, in particular, would keep an eye on when your favorites start wearing out so he can replace them before they become uncomfortable.

Esteban is very mindful of loud places and will always make sure you have your noise-canceling headphones or a quiet escape plan before going anywhere overwhelming. If a place is too loud, he’ll immediately offer to leave with you, no questions asked.

Mick would find quieter activities, like nature walks or cozy cafés, so you never feel overstimulated.

If deep pressure helps, both of them would love to cuddle you! Mick would wrap you in his arms under a weighted blanket,

while Esteban might surprise you with a new compression vest or a soft, heavy hoodie for extra comfort.

They know social situations can be exhausting, so they always make sure you have time to recharge. If you need alone time they respect that without feeling offended. If you want quiet company they’ll sit with you in comfortable silence.

If someone talks over you dismisses your needs, or makes ignorant comments about autism they will step in. Esteban has a more direct approach calling people out immediately

while Mick would pull them aside and educate them patiently—but both of them will make sure you’re never disrespected.

If you struggle with verbalizing things when overwhelmed they’re super understanding. Mick would gently encourage alternative communication (texts, gestures, AAC if you use it)

and Esteban would quickly pick up on your body language and help translate what you need to others.

Now onto separate head canons

Mick

Mick is incredibly gentle and never rushes you. He understands that sometimes socializing or change can be overwhelming, so he always checks in on how you’re feeling.

He immediately knows something is off if you’re overstimulated

Holds your hand 24/7 it’s comforting for the both of you Mick is more about gentle, reassuring touches and quiet support

When your feeling overstimulated and nothings working mick will read to you’ve

Want to leave an event early? No problem with that the two of you have a code word say it and then he’ll drop everything and and the two of you will go home

If someone makes an ignorant comment about your autism, he won’t get aggressive, but he will firmly shut it down with a polite but pointed response. If it really upsets you, he’ll comfort you afterward with soft reassurances and maybe your favorite snack.

You could talk for hours about your special interest, and he would listen so attentively, asking thoughtful questions because he genuinely loves hearing you talk about things that make you happy.

Mick respects your need for predictability and is happy to adapt to your schedule. If you have specific rituals (like eating the same breakfast or needing a quiet moment before talking in the morning), he fully supports them.

Esteban ocon headcanons

Esteban is the type to hype you up and make sure everyone knows how amazing you are. Either way, they love you completely.

If you have happy stims, like flapping your hands or bouncing, he adores seeing you excited. If you need to stim when anxious, he’ll gently hold your hand or help you find a calming one.

Esteban is great at stepping in when conversations become overwhelming. If someone asks you a question you don’t know how to answer, he smoothly jumps in and redirects the conversation without making it awkward.

He carries extras of everything—your favorite fidget toy, noise-canceling headphones, sunglasses for bright lights, and even an emergency snack if you struggle with food textures or low energy.

The moment he learns you’re autistic, Esteban does research, but more importantly, he listens to you about what makes you comfortable or overwhelmed.

[bloodsalteds]

goosebumps decorate freckled and inked shoulders soon as that grip in his locks becomes something so teasing with the tips of fingers grazing through thick strands to taunt his scalp. he hums, mouth full and muffled, against the hardened and velvet skin between his lips. heart thundering in his ears from something so fresh, so new and shared with him--dean falls into tasting him as if he's an addict that's been denied their fix to the point of breaking. head bobbing, mouth devouring every texture and inch he can swallow. fingers spread across crowley's thighs til his right hand drifts off to pat for and locate the little black bottle that was discarded earlier. after a few blind swipes and pauses to dip his head and pull back, lift up to swirl his tongue around the tip--he locates what he was searching for.

the bottle's in his palm when he hears the damn you breathed into his ear. enough foreplay, darling. a soft grin with puffy lips greets crowley when the hunter turned demon lifts his head--a brow cocks high as he glides his tongue over his bottom lip--screw him already? "gladly," voice husky and deep--he swipes his tongue one last time over the swollen crown for good measure. knees between crowley's legs--green eyes force his gaze away from the flushed face below him to the bottle that he clicks open and he coats his right set of fingers with the slippery gel. left hand curls around the backside of the closest knee, glides it up over his shoulder.

dean's breath is warm against the corner of crowley's mouth before his lips press there. a bent elbow keeps him propped up--his slickened fingers disappear between the demons thighs. face hovering damn near nose to nose with crowley--long lashes frame darkening eyes as that finger teases and taunts the tight muscle guarding the opening he's aching to slip inside of. they roll white when a tender push tests what it feels like then focus intently upon the pair of dark eyes so so close. "oh fuck..," he murmurs as that finger breaches the rim and pushes in to the first knuckle before pausing and judging crowley's reaction. "so tight..." god, he's so stiff between his own legs that he can barely take it but he doesn't want to hurt him. so? he takes his time and begins to thrust only when he feels him loosening. a second finger's added once he's sure he's not going to be too much.

by now, dean's panting softly when an eager tongue starts to explore a stubbled chin and neck. in no time; it locates a thrumming pulse point and presses against heated flesh. he's so warm and coated. grips those fingers so well. even when dean pulls them out and takes hold of himself--his tip barely slips inside. hunter turned demon loses his breath--chest heaving in a gasp of attempted recovery. "the way you feel...," he groans--nose pressing to the thick vein where his mouth left a wet stamp. "tell me if you want me to stop." and with that--another push of his hips sends him slipping fully past that tender circle punching a sheer moan of delight from the freaking pit of his stomach until he's seated halfway in, pulls out and thrusts in deeper--another jerk of his hips and he can feel the walls around him give--crowley's name fills the room, wantful and hungry.

Pillow princess play isn't exactly the Crowley brand. Being the cherry on top, quite literally a topping, at every orgy, one could say he has a problem giving up control. Ever. In every situation. Look at Dean turning the tables here and all it took was dying a little, returning as a demon. Well, a little bit of making the king of Hell fall in love with him, too, perhaps. And all Crowley can do now is relish in the caresses peppering his skin, maybe run his fingers through the loverboy's thick hair in the meantime. Do something, anything aside from exhaling raspy groans and panted breaths. Thanks to that skilled tongue accompanied by warm breaths flitting across goosebump-blanketed flesh, he's hard as a rock in no time all over again.

How slutty of him to spread his legs (for a Winchester no less!), to clutch around strands of hair and impatiently rolling his hips. To enter that damp heat already teasing him good. " I- I told you- " Only gasps make it past gaping lips. Full sentences? Forget it. That head is lost in a haze easily dumbing down the most brilliant minds when primal instincts run the show. Damn that bloody mouth! It feels too good to repeat demands Dean seems to creatively ignore by sucking his cock as if he's never tasted anything better. Which is probably right.

In lieu of distracting Crowley from his brave request prior, those efforts only fuel that ache, that yearning, for his lover to take him. To dip into untouched territory. A privilege no one ever received before; this must be love at its finest. Tingling sensations keep ripping through his meat suit, more and more lust pooling between his legs to spur the rocking motions of his hips into that sinful warmth. Trying to keep his eyes open is useless. They'll flutter shut by the next swirl of lover's tongue around his throbbing length anyway, the grip of his fingers around Dean's hair only loosening a tad to run their tips over his scalp. Such a good boy.

" Damn you ", lacks that breathed swear any and all edge. " Enough foreplay, darling. " Does he hear him? Crowley barely even hears himself, somehow dull as if he were underwater; mind spinning. " Screw me already. "

[beeholyshit]

I'M GONNA START CRYING I'M SO ILL RN

[b4kuch1n]

siren

[fbfh]

just woke up from a baby dream and I'm a sobbing wreck :) anyway Logan Huntzberger doesn't expect much from his future besides monetary success, partying, and a lot lot lot of sex. he definitley doesn't expect to look up one day and realize he's sharing a home, a life with someone. not only that, but he's the one that instigated it. he told you in college he didn't like you being around other guys. he stopped caring about the girls that he would go between, because now he just seems to care about you. everything else falls to the sidelines. so he comes back to his big fancy house after an important business meeting on the golf course, and he sees you there. some old sitcom is marathoning on tv, and you're wrapped up in fluffy blankets, hair up and out of your face. you look so cozy, so comfortable. you keep adjusting the blankets, fussing with them as you hum softly. he walks closer, overcome with a feeling of love and swelling pride and... paternal instinct he's never felt. your son Henry, just a month or two old is bundled on your arms. you look up at Logan and smile so warmly he could cry just from the look on your face when you see him.

"hi," you breathe softly. Henry's settled down, so you don't want to rile him up too much, but he's not all the way asleep.

"hey ace," he breaths, sitting next to you. he wraps you in his arms and kisses you, meeting forgotten as you both admire you baby boy together. you rub his tummy gently, soothingly, and Logan smooths his hair. it's short and fuzzy, and a little prickly. it makes him laugh softly. Henry is wearing the white and blue onesie Honor got for him at the baby shower. he makes a mental note to take some pictures to send her of him wearing it. the soft fabric of his polo shirt and the smell of his cologne mixed with the distinct remnants of golf course air is so comforting. he watches you admire your son, trace the shape of his cute little nose, copy the faces he makes, babble little noises at him. he watches you smooth his hair and help him get comfortable in your arms, watches you place your finger in his hand so he can hold onto it with that surprisingly strong baby death grip. Henry wiggles around, getting comfortable in your arms, and you kiss his forehead again. once you're sure that he's settled, not too warm and not too cold, comfortable and lying safely, you can finally relax. you rest your head on Logan's shoulder, closing your eyes and finally letting yourself relax and rest a little. you take in a big deep breath of his masculine scent, somehow both spicy and refreshing, and sigh. you're content. you're more than content, he realizes. you're happy. Logan... made you happy. he found out what you wanted and built you a life you want, a life he wants. it hits him like a ton of bricks in one overwhelming, amazing moment, and he soaks in the feeling, watching the way your sleeping babys face and yours mirror each other.

[mellohd]

my pen for my pc broke midway through this doodle which SUCKS cuz i wanted to make a doodle page not just one big study cuz thats basic sigh but anyways heres this study i did of gavin and the doodle that my pen decided to kill itself on. really it wa smore like a slow death its been so annoying for months now

I lov ehaving free will

peak was ripped from my hands tonight but blood wont be forgotten, im coming for you gavin reed in more ways than war and art

[frameconfessions]

The nsfw artists are taking too long to get those file rips of the Hex. I need povs of my hips getting pulverized by the Hex ladies.

These aren't necessarily the in-game models and unfortunately they probably don't come with bones (who wants to start a Garry's Mod WF RP server together) or textures obviously, but there is the minifig models FOR FREE that could probably be edited to Hell and back until someone rips/datamines the official in-game protoframe hex syndicate models for SFM and other uses.

https://www.warframe.com/news/printable-protoframe-miniatures-from-hoku-props

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/19M3AR8nP2zbKwsR2QXZrkZytB1U-cOY0?usp=sharing

[sirenemale]

everything abt the httyd remake feels like such a deep insult to the first film. Insulting animation as an artform, insulting the texture and lighting work that still holds up so so well. Insulting everything they put in to make it such a tightly written and skillful film. Like what could you improve with this scene, the amount of character you get from toothless here and seeing his thought process, fhe mix of accepting his fate, weariness and curiosity, you're just sucking the life and intention out of it for what. To see the dirt in between toothless's scales? Guess what you can already see that in the first movie. To flatten the lighting, remove all mood so you can see how good they modeled his new scales? Show you how real the mulch looks. Whatever. They do this all the time but this is personal (autism) you're being shown up by a film from 2010. She is eating you ALIVE. Even the other httyd films couldn't quite re-capture what they did with toothless in this first one, they remodeled him ever so slightly and he lost that edge of intelligent Animal, and became a Slightly more condensed version of himself now that his personality was established.

[jrueships]

anybody else have a food they're allergic to but still eat anyway

[cursed-rat-of-homosexuality]

local man reads physical comics for the first time and is irreversibly changed

no more news at 7 because he fuckin died