#this is so bad i’m sorry

[iclarye]

What is a home if not the first place you learn to run from?

WHOLE CAKE ISLAND ARC.

Anna Kamienska, A Nest of Quiet / Ocean Vuong, Night Sky with Exit Wounds / Sophocle’s Antigone, Adapted by Lewis Galantiere; From the play by Jean Anouil / Sophocles, Electra / Stephen Adly Guirgis, The Last Days of Judas Iscariot / Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects / Charles Bukowski, Sweet / Janet Fitch, White Oleander / Fatima Aamer Bilal, I Mother It / Ross Gay, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude

[mikasnazz]

He asked for a 13 but they drew a 31?!

Save me uni au jontim. Save me Jon mechs au. Save me. Deny canon. Deny anything bad happening to them ever.

[ryomaandgundhamkin]

So I went to my friends house and we got to paint, I didn’t know what to make so uh here (VOX)

[rosielots-writing]

short ace4ace travnat thing !

around 1k words. ace4ace travnat, pre-transition travis, teen timeline, happens during the wilderness but they’re actually good at communicating for plot reasons, internalized aphobia/acephobia

(might rewrite/rework eventually to have more plot lol…feedback is much appreciated!!!)

Travis was used to feeling inadequate. His father constantly berated him for his less-than-masculine attributes or for his hobbies and interests. Travis knew from the age of seven that he would never be enough for his father. He also knew he wouldn’t be enough for his peers, as Bobby Farleigh and the other asshole kids in Wiskayok spread the rumor that he had surgery so he could suck his own dick. The implication was there, loud and clear.

Travis did this so he could suck his dick. Travis sucks dick, and he knows no girl will ever want to suck his.

Perhaps the rejection Travis faced from a young age could explain why meeting Natalie was such a breath of fresh air for him. Nat was in a similar boat to him regarding a lack of parental and peer acceptance. Her peers spread nasty rumors about her, ones saying that she was a slut, or that she was the one who shot her father, having gotten away with his murder.

Travis didn’t really care about her past. All he cared about was how she sat and listened as he told her what Bobby Farleigh did and that she had helped him get the ring for Javi. He cared that she didn't look at him like some sort of freak, as if nothing was redeeming about him. He cared that she looked up at him, her face flushed and her dimples showing, before they both leaned in and had their first kiss.

Travis didn’t care what other people thought about her. Nat didn’t care what other people thought about him. It was a mutual agreement and attraction. So, when they got close enough to the point where there were mentions of their sexual relationship, you can understand Travis’ anxiety about the situation.

Travis had never been enough for anyone but Natalie. He had also never slept with anyone before and, much to his chagrin, never even considered the idea that he would want to sleep with someone. Travis had never had sexual feelings, dreams, or anything else the boys his age spoke of. In truth, he could care less about sex. Still, it was a necessary part of any relationship—he would put up with it if he had to.

But the anxiety crept in, and he found himself feeling inadequate once more. Travis had never slept with anyone, but Nat had. Nat probably had many wonderful experiences with smarter, more handsome, experienced guys. He convinced himself that Nat would only be disappointed by him, so he had been avoiding the topic for as long as he could.

And now, here he was, making out with Nat. Usually, he was much more relaxed, but he couldn’t help but be nervous. He was scared, sitting rigidly and fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Eventually, she pulled away, looking him directly in the eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Travis stares at her lamely, nodding his head. He tries to look more into it than he is, but he feels no attraction to what they’re doing. He loved kissing Nat, but right now, he’d much rather lie with her in bed, with Nat running her fingers through his hair. Travis shifts uncomfortably.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, the question coming out much harsher than he intends. He’s defensive, nervous that he’s already screwed it all up. Nat looks down at him softly.

“We don’t have to, uh, do anything. If you don’t want to, I mean,” Natalie says, and Travis’ face flushes.

“I can do it,” he says guardedly, pride slightly hurt from the insinuation that he can’t. Nat’s brow furrows.

“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying you don’t want to.”

Travis squirms under her intense gaze. She’s surprisingly adept at reading him, despite how briefly they’ve known each other in this way. He averts his eyes from hers, unable to handle the eye contact in his vulnerable state.

“I just– I don't want to, like, ruin our relationship if I’m…not good at this,” he admits, cheeks tinged a crimson color. Nat’s eyes soften further, and she runs her fingers through his hair, something she knows will relax him.

“But…you want to?” She asks, a curious lilt to her voice. Travis thinks for a minute. Does he want to? He’s always been told that his first time will be great, a marker for when he truly becomes a man or some bullshit. But…thinking over the entirety of their relationship, Travis finds that he hasn’t thought about sex with Nat once.

Nervous that it’s some sort of trap, he asks the counter-question, “Do you want to?”

She blinks in confusion, almost as if she’s not used to being asked if this is something she wants. The idea makes Travis feel a little nauseous.

“Not really, “ she eventually mutters, “I could care less if we have sex right now,” she shrugs, although her hands are shaking, and her bottom lip is twitching like she’s ready to apologize and take back everything she’s said. Travis stares up at her. He can’t decide if it’s because she knows he’ll be bad or because she genuinely doesn’t care.

“Do you…not like sex?” He asks. Nat flinches, staring at the wall.

“No,” she mumbles, “I don’t.”

They’re both silent for a minute, Nat staring at the wall and blinking back tears while Travis stares at her in fascination. He’s never actually met anyone else who thinks the same way he does about this.

“Me neither,” he eventually stutters. Nat’s head snapped in his direction, and she looked at him, bewildered.

“What?”

“I don’t– I don’t care about sex. It, uh, doesn’t really seem…appealing?”

Nat nods, urging him to go on. Travis swallows nervously.

“I’ve never really thought about it, other than something I had to do. So, uh…if…if you don’t care, and I don’t, we can just, like, kiss instead?”

He’s afraid he’s messed up when she doesn’t say anything and just stares. Then, she kisses him gently and tenderly. He reciprocates, and the two hold each other close. Maybe they were weird. Perhaps they were freaks of nature. Despite it all, neither truly cared. As long as they had each other, they could be strange together in peace.

[angel-eyes]

Little Sentenzeah fic bcs I’ve never actually written anything for them.

Leah’s cell in the old building didn’t keep heat very well. Even if she was using two wool blankets there was still a chill that soaked into her bones which make her movements delayed and lips numb, despite this, Leah tried her hardest to fall asleep by tossing and turning eventually finding that curling into the wall by her bed would at least knock some of the chill off. As the heavy feeling of exhaustion finally reached her eyes Leah’s attention was caught by the noise of her window sliding open, breaking the silence brought on by the cold December air.

She lay there unmoving, the jingle of spurs against the wooden floor melted the weeks of built up anxiety away. Sentenza’s footsteps were careful and quiet purposely avoiding parts of the floor he knew would creak. For a moment he shucked his boots and most of his clothes off before Leah felt a dip in her small bed, then his warm heavy hand gently stroked the side of her face pushing stray hairs behind her ear. All Leah could offer was a small noise in return, she had no energy in her for a simple “Hi,” she was hungry, cold, and exhausted. Sentenza settled in before feeling around for Leah under the blankets hooking an arm across her chest and flipping her over onto his. The fur of his chest was prickly against her cheek, and he was so solid, and so warm.

Leah started crying, her body turning stiff as she tried holding sobs back. Sentenza’s forearm came up and pushed her head deeper into his chest, “You’re leaving with me tomorrow morning.” His voice was low and rumbled in his chest like the hooves of a mustang, All she could muster up at the moment was a pitiful, “Okay,” now the exhaustion was really getting to her. But before she finally fell asleep a kiss was placed on the crown of her head, Sentenza whispered something to her but the hunger and cold made it hard to understand. Leah drifted off and left Sentenza staring at the far window, the men weren’t but two miles away waiting for them to leave the earliest they could manage. Then this place would be burnt off the map along with the horrible people inside of it.

[bimalewife]

[bioshzrd]

this random ass guy who’s entire bit is that he can move like this is the only good wesker fan ever

[charbies]

linktober day 17 - dragons

[liorlen]

gale origin playthru from astarion’s pov or smth like that

[tanjir0se]

I’m so sorry other character stans but Toph Beifong is THE character of all time

Disabled, doesn’t “overcome” it but adapts and forces others to adapt instead.

Spoiled rotten rich kid with refined rich kid manners but chooses not to use them unless weaponizong them, can should and will kick your ass, but honest and good at her heart

A PROFESSIONAL WRESTLER EARTHBENDING MASTER AND HUSTLER AT AGE 12

Literally the definition of swag from womb to tomb

Do I even need to bring up metalbending?

INVENTED METALBENDING

Violence to show affection

Aang and Sokka quite possibly the only thing holding her back from straight up murder several times.

Definition of “do you want me to kill that guy for you? Cause it seems like he sucks. And I’ll totally kill that guy for you”

^ this is the real reason we never got a Toph and Zuko teamup, it would probably take her 3 minutes to convince Zuko to just kill his dumb lame dad already

I’m soooo sorry but she is UNMATCHED. Toph Beifong for President

[veryberrybad]

i NEED the sexy poll to be real in universe, it’ll never not be funny to me

[matchamiko]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Lucky Undies

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Warnings: oral sex ( f -> receiving) m.masturbation, mentions height difference (reader implied shorter than Aizawa), reader implied big belly, thighs + ass (ie. not skinny), prev. established relationship, sooooo self-indulgent don’t look at me

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Note: disgusted with myself honestly.

“What are those?”

You stop in your tracks, toothbrush lodged in your cheek and foam threatening to drip down your chin.

Aizawa stands behind you in the bathroom doorway, eyes trained dark on the tug of your sleep shirt over your ass. Spitting into the skin, bending lower and offering more of a view, you finish washing your mouth with heat all over your face,

“I didn’t have anything else clean, s’all I got,” you explain yourself, eyes connecting with his in the mirror,

“And they’re your last resort because?” Arms folded over his broad chest sprayed with dark hair, Aizawa cocks his hip against the doorway, eyes never leaving the peak of your asscheek from beneath the t-shirt. It’s his and it’s soft and he offered it to you on your first sleepover years ago, a little tighter round the middle now but still long enough to pass as a nightie.

“They don’t fit!” You resort with embarrassment, “they pinch my hips and they go up my butt ‘nd roll down my belly if I bend down or even move,” you feel as though there’s steam hissing from your ears, suddenly regretting even putting on the offending underwear. You’d miscounted your laundry days and found yourself wearing either silky lingerie or old high legged cheeky style undies that were a very adorable baby pink and sported a little red rose at the front. Usually you wore comfortable high rise with a trusty band and often times sensible colours so to not show through your chosen trousers or skirts of the day. Maybe you’d wear a thong if you felt adventurous but comfort was key in your relationship with underwear, and being with Aizawa for so long helped you not only explore that a little bit but also enabled you to stay comfortable without judgement or ridicule.

And Aizawa liked your plain underwear, didn’t care much for it really because all he often wanted was them off or not even on in the first place. Complaining about his partners choice in underwear was beneath him; he’s a man, he’s mature and he’d much rather eat your pussy than muse over what’s covering it.

But these? He’s not seen these before.

“Cute,” he says with a gravelly voice, stalking forwards slowly, “you look cute,”

Biting your lip, you shake your head,

“I’ll just put some gym shorts on and do a quick wash, s’stupid to even try to do anything in these,” you grumble dejectedly, turning and even in your limited movements, the seam tugs over your cheek and makes you cringe.

But Aizawa is as sturdy as he is stubborn, a wall preventing you from leaving and a large hand sits heavy and inviting on your hip.

“I said you look cute,” he says pointedly, “not just the underwear, but you in general, seeing your skin makes me - desperate,”

That hand smoothes under your sleep shirt, fingering the thin, stretchy band of the panties with a heavy breath in his chest. The harder he pulls the band, the higher up your hip they go and the further up your -

“They’re just panties Shouta,” you blink up at him, leaning closer to ease his fondling, “stupid uncomfable panties that is,”

“Shh,” Aizawa kisses you quiet, a peck to keep you satisfied while his other hand drifts over to your ass, fisting the fat and spreading you meanly, “just - lemme look for a sec,”

His eyes catch the flash of your asshole in the mirror, panties caught taught and high over your ass and he groans low and deep from his belly. You clear your throat and whimper when he buries his face into your neck, teeth scraping the delicate skin there. Then - his hand rounds to your stomach, fiddling with the little silky rose before tickling the exposed skin of your belly from where the panties had dislodged and folded down.

He doesn’t often explore you this selfishly, having listened to your qualms and insecurities over your body, doing it to prove that no weight could distance him from desiring your body. But he touches you with a filthy selfish agenda and filthier moans.

Thick fingers tease you over the fabric, slippery with your arousal, sliding between your folds and circling your clit with loud little click. It’s shameful how turned on you are at his exploration of your underwear, but he’s no better; hard and heavy and leaking against your hip. ‘Nd when you look down, mewling at the thick forearm jammed between your cushiony thighs, you can see the flushed tip of his cock peaking from the sagging waistband of his underwear, black and tight and baring a hole just above the seam on his thigh.

And suddenly you understand exactly how Aizawa feels with you in underwear he’s never seen before. Because those are boxers you bought him three christmases ago and are also a result of not doing laundry often enough. And when you look up at him with your hand squeezing him through the thin fabric; your shameful desperation is reflected in his eyes.

All too suddenly, Aizawa is on his knees and your lower back is cradled uncomfortably against the bathroom counter, and he’s all up between your thighs with devastating groans and grunts.

“Taste’s fuckin’ divine,” his tongue is hot and so wet against the gusset of your underwear, pulled tight over your cunt and practically frothing with how aroused you are. One hand cups your ass and spreads you, the other is crude and sharply tugging on his cock. At the taste of you. At the smell of you. Nipping your clit through the fabric and sucking hard enough to send you shuddering and shaking right down to your toes.

“Shouta ! S’too much !” You grip the top of his head, hair tangled from sleep but the tugging of the knots seem to encourage him, groaning into your cunt and huffing deep agonising breaths against your pubis. You’re on your tiptoes, one leg lifting a little even to give him space and Aizawa shuffles closer on his knees, haphazardly throwing your leg over his broad, sinewy shoulder.

It’s almost like the sensations are muted, dulled through the thin fabric of your panties. But they’re still there and you fumble with your shirt for a moment before lifting it and tucking the hem beneath your chin so you can look down, down at your boyfriend so eagerly and so messily slurping at your pussy.

He’s feral like this, eyes fluttering and nose pressed hard into your clit, tongue trying to rip through into you but failing miserably. Or not, as it seems that wasn’t his goal, simply content with tasting you through the panties that had entrapped him so suddenly. You couldn’t even feel confused and weird at his random bout of arousal over your too-small panties, too thrummed with pleasure and the shivers of an orgasm to really deep dive it.

It rears its head slowly, but with a strength you’d yet to experience before. All suction and desperate licks, moans and grunts vibrating you just enough to send you jerking into his mouth. Hips moving on their own, tits falling from the grasp of your shirt and shuddering with your movements. Your underwear slips and tugs harshly as you grind through your orgasm, pulled taught only by Aizawa’s insistent tongue and fingers. He seemed to have given up on his own pleasure, or got enough from watching and tasting you, both hands clutching your thighs around his head.

“Let up, oh my god, give me a sec Shouta,” you’re still panting hard, limbs boneless and belly throbbing with every aftershock, cunt fluttering against the sodden and stained panties, “you’re such a - now I really don’t have anything to wear today,”

Your words die from a telling off to a small sigh at the sight of him, drunk on the sight and taste of you. His eyes are heavy, mouth open and shining with your spend, cheeks flushed and chest heaving,

“Good news for me then,” he stands with a grunt, coming in close enough for you to smell the remnants of your orgasm on his lower face - but he doesn’t kiss you. Instead massaging your hips and the tangled band of your underwear, “I’m having you on my face next, ‘nd keep these on,”

He’s a pervert really, snapping the band and making you tut in disapproval. But as you follow him into the bedroom with a sheepish grin and nervous lust building in your chest; you realise you are too, for letting him indulge in this and letting him.

all rights reserved © matchamiko. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[rosielots-writing]

first drawing of bowie / attempt at pixel art i’ve made :P

[dclovesdanny]

Dead Serious

4/4

Danny had made peace with the fact he did not have a soulmate. He had! After several years of no response to the countless drawings and writing notes on his skin, he had grown resigned to the fact that he was part of the 5% who did not have soulmates. He was fine with that.

(Dash would tease him about how no one would ever love him, adding salt to an already irritated wound. His parents were soulmates, and he remembered when he was drawing on his father’s arms and watching as it appeared on his mother’s. Jazz had been drawing and writing to her soulmate for years. Her soulmates name was Jason, and she always talked about how he was with her. She was one of the few people who comforted him when he stopped drawing or writing to soulmate. )

Damien taught at an early age that there was no use for soulmates. They were only distractions. He knew grandfather had no soulmate, and his mother had never responded to her own. He never responded to the drawings on his arms notes the notes in English on his (and he didn’t try harder just because he wanted to read his soulmate writing that would be ridiculous.)

Damien never told his family about having a soulmate. Even as he slowly got used to the differences between them and slowly learned how his grandfather was he could never bring himself to respond to the slowly lessening drawings and messages.(He couldn’t bring himself to respond because deep down he knew he didn’t deserve a soulmate. He was a monster, a demon. He didn’t deserve it.)

Danny stopped trying so desperately to contact his soulmate at age 11(the age he held his sister as she cried, her soulmate’s last message scribbled in desperate frantic writing on her arm. He never resented his parents so much when they didn’t even leave the lab for two days, not paying any mind to their sobbing child on the floor above them.)(it was the first time he didn’t envy having a soulmate.)

He was fourteen when he started drawing on his arms again.(it was shaky, much more than the older drawings, but even if he didn’t have a soulmate, he wanted to leave them a mark, just in case, the same way Jazz wrote quotes from different books on her arms.)

(When he found out Vlad didn’t have a soulmate, he refused to acknowledge another similarity they shared. He refused to think about how Vlad’s desperation made Danny think of his own desperate writing for his soulmate. Soulmates were a topic he never spoke of, and Vlad must have known, must have found out about how Danny didn’t have one, but he never commented on it. (It was the only boundary that was never crossed.))

(Damian wasn’t disappointed when his soulmate stopped writing to him. he didn’t trace over his arms, wishing that he had the confidence to write back. He didn’t spend hours wondering if his soulmate was gone without knowing Damian had seen him. He didn’t trace over the drawings his soulmate made with awe after four years of silence.)

Damian always covered up, so he was the only one who noticed when his soulmate started writing to him again. Never sentences never notes like they were before, but shaky drawings appeared on his skin. They were less detailed than before, almost shaky, as if the person drawing them couldn’t hold a pencil, steady, but they were real. Damian never said a word.

It was October 15 when Damien saw something on his arms that made his blood go cold. A message that he read over and over while commandeering the plane and ignoring the rest of his family yelling for him to explain himself. He desperately calibrated the jet while staring at the words, praying to a God he did not believe in that he would not be too late.(Unaware that Todd was following going in the same direction with the similar message written on his arm from a girl that Jason had deemed too good for him.)

Dear soulmate, even if you aren’t there. Everyone in Casper high is writing on their arms and I might as well try to warn someone. I am from Amity Park, Illinois, and we are under attack. The GIW have cut all outside communication. We are currently hiding in Casper high school, barricading the entrances, but it will not last long.

According to the government, we are not legally sentient or human. The agents outside want to dissect us, citing that we are scum. I don’t want to see my classmates die at the hands of my parents. I don’t want to see my friends and my sister die.

I don’t know if you are there, or if I really don’t have a soulmate, but I don’t want to die (fully) without leaving some sort of note.

My name is Danny. I love you. I’m sorry.

[dingledraw]

It’s them

Wait, Jane Austen wrote books?

[artaintfart]

More ashfurs incoming