#why it's such a bad blemish for him

[midnightwind]

hhhhuh there's.... there's a decent chance that a Rook de Riva would have been there when Viago took control of the House.... might have even helped....

[lolana101]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒

⤷ VIKTOR: SLOPPY SECONDS

⤷ feat. viktor (arcane league of legends)

cw: 18+ , oral stimulation (m), edging, dirty talk, dom! f reader, saliva, nsfw, angst? enjoy!!

“i don’t do this.”

viktor’s accent was heavy against his tongue, his gaze weighted with an unsure haze. his now useless cane clutched in his hand as he stared down at you, between his legs. you knew you’d find him here, working late, jayce long gone. was hexcore even a shared project anymore?

his bad leg dangling over the work bench, his weight crushing the onslaught of papers and tools beneath him.

“i’ve never- done this.”

his breath hitched, as you softly caressed his thigh. a soft, hum arose from your throat in understanding, as you looked fixedly up at him.

“say something.. please.”

the cane clatters against the floor as he hesitantly reached and touched your cheek - a soft poke. did he think you weren’t real? he probably thought of that possibility once; he is always thinking.

“what do you want me to say?”

tour voice was soft, eyes never leaving his. his gaze flickered at the hexcore, the room enclosed in a soft blue hue.

you continued to softly rub his thigh, inching up and up.. you could feel the soft twitching of his thigh, the needy yet silent urges emanating from him. what did he look like voicing those sins?

then again, that’s why he liked you. you could practically read through him. you started to fiddle with his belt, sliding the leather off with practiced ease.

“you’re hard.”

you voiced, slowly rubbing the bulge through his pants. his breath paused, a soft buck up into your hands.

you leaned down, pressing soft kisses against his twitching, clothed need, humming softly. Your fingers slid up to his zipper, tugging it down and pulling away. With his jeans open, you could get a look. a soft dark patch forming as his pre-cum weeps through fabric.

his face was red now, those soft blemishes over his face highlighted with the blue. he looked gorgeous. his mouth was agape, silently begging. I guess he waited enough.

your hand softly jerked at the pretty, pink mushroom tip. his length astonishing, not too thick but freakishly long. your fingers slick with his arousal as he let out almost pathetic whimpers. his eyes fluttered close, his thick brown eyebrows curving at the softest stimulation of your hands. his semi - hard member rose up quickly, your finger slowly pumping, pulling up the shaft until your plant wrapped around his head, then moving down.

leaning closer your tongue swiped at the base, slowly trailing up until you could taste the salty need pouring out from him. he let out a shaky sigh, as your plush lips wrapped around his head, sucking and licking. your tongue swiping curiously at his hot need, your hand still gently stimulating him, though gradually gets pulled away as you take him deeper.

it felt so good, his legs twitching. deeper, is all he wanted. you soon obliged sinking down onto him, until your nose was pressed against the soft hair of his stomach, your throat contracting against him. he smelled good, the soft hairs under his stomach and lower smelled of soft musk. so manly.

“fuck..”

a breathless whisper, as your head bobbed on his throbbing cock, spit dribbling down his base only to get slurped back up. every movement had him twitching, he swore he would cum under the first minute. he couldn’t help it, his hand grasping at your curls, swiping them up into a bun to aid you into drilling his length into you. his dick twitched, heat pooling in his stomach threatening to spill.

“I-i’m..”

In an instant he twitched, though as the pleasure washed over him he let out an uncomfortable whimper, your tongue pressed roughly against the slit, humming. he huffed, staring down at you with pure need. his body was hot, needy. his hips twitching, your fingers moving to softly caress his bad leg easing the achy muscles.

“please..? why..”

you smiled up at him, his thighs twitching, as you kissed his base, sucking on his balls for a little before letting them go with a pop if your lips.

he was begging, you could see it. your wrist flicked at his head again, twisting, the lewd squelching echoing as he stared down at you. He was going to cum again, as he started to slowly fuck himself up into your palm.

he was getting more vocal, those sweet huffs turning into pliant begs, your wrist not moving anymore as you felt a familiar twitch in his base, before your thumb pressed against his tip.

“….f-fuck please-“

he whimpered, staring into your gaze, you were so evil. not letting him cum, not letting him desperately release that sweet orgasm he’s been holding - saving up for.

after a moment you remove your thumb, pressing a soft kiss against his tip before staring up at him, fingers skipping up his chest to grab his tie, hauling him down and pressing a sloppy kiss against his lips.

that taste, fresh black coffee. he chased your lips like a lost puppy, sloppy, licking up the dried drool off your lips, tasting the salty goodness he left on you.

“want me to make you cum yeah? fully?”

you asked, nipping at his neck before letting hip sit back up, your gaze down at your twitching cock.

“please? please please..”

he begged, your name rolling off his tongue, so close to sweet melody. you smiled up at him, before your gaze snapped back down, his hand wrapped around his base, as he pointed his needy dick to your lips.

that thick accent rolled your name off his lips for one last time, as you leaned down. your lips wrapped around him, head bobbing sloppily around his dick. you could hear him moan and groan, his hand sinking ti your scalp to guide your movements.

you were still in control, you both knew it. yet his needy whimpers allowed him to soften you just a little, to let him fuck your throat. his tip hitting the back of your throat, your hands splayed on his thighs. You could feel your own heat growing wet, pussy twitching just from him fucking his brains out into your mouth.

he let out a almost howl, your gaze snapping up at him, your eyes watered as you gaged slightly. you could feel warmth deep down your throat, his pretty pink cock twitching in your mouth. you came a a little too, your clothed clit twitching softly.

“…nng.”

he was still going through the after shocks, poor little viktor twitching, not even having the energy to form a sentence. he eased his cock out of you, It growing soft as he pulls you up, kissing you softly. he whined softly, feeling your hands softly jerk at his overstimulated sex.

“…good?”

“amazing.”

he pants out, nuzzling himself in your neck.

happy thanksgiving y’all !! hope he on my plate 😫please like and follow, and request!!

my most recent post here

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"I bet on losing dogs"

ok this is like my first time actually writing anything EVER, and I don't know how to work tumblr or make this aesthetic so bare with me pls!! I keep seeing yandere batfam x neglected reader and I have had so many ideas so I'm giving this a shot! The reader is referred to with female pronouns but you can imagine it different if you want :) Reader is 2 years older than Damian and is 15 at the start of the story. Damian is 13. Dick is around 10 years older than reader, making him 25 right now. Jason is 8 years older than reader, making him 23. Tim is 2 years older than reader making him 17. Cass is 4 years older than reader and is 19. Stephanie is 3 years older than reader and is 18. Barbra is around 8 years older, making her 23! Bruce is around 35-40ish??? All just kinda guesses to make the plot and dynamics more clear, lmk if you have any questions!!

This is the prolouge and it kinda sucks so pls be nice. Hearts and comments are appreciated. If it's bad ignore it, english isn't my first language. Chapter one:, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4:

You couldn't understand it. You aren't a bad kid, so why were you treated like one? Why did your father treat you like the bane of his existence? Why did your older brothers see you as nothing more than dirt at the bottom of their shoes, a ghost in the manor, a blemish on their picture perfect family of misfits. You tried so so hard to fit in, to be part of the family. You wasted 11 YEARS of your life trying to get noticed, doing activities and hobbies you hated in the hopes of striking conversation with your "siblings". Batman, Bruce Wayne, your "father", ignored you no matter what. He ignored you like it was his job, from the day you came to the manor on your fourth birthday, your mother's death day, to today, your 15th birthday. You saved his life, his and all those other ungrateful losers who you used to call family. Yesterday, you put you life on the line for them, got bitten by that damn snake for them, and they ignored you and told you to walk it off while coddling the girl who suddenly appeared. Never again would you help them, nor would you brush off their mistreatment, not after this betrayal. Not after they took in another girl, a girl your age, the girl who took credit for your heroic act, the girl who bullied you for years at Gotham Prep, the girl who made your life living hell, and called HER family. They choose Tiffany Maverick to be their supposed savior, they would never believe you had the bravery to help them. They chose her to be Tiffany Wayne and scorned you.

You did nothing wrong, from the day you came to the manor you were perfect. Straight A's, no attitude, no complaints and no demands. All you did was try, try, try, and they never noticed.

Richard "The Dick" Grayson, as you and your friends call him, was the world's best big brother to everyone, except you of course! He was your first brother, he was the kid that Bruce Wayne actually wanted to take under his wing. You were 5 and he was 15, he was busy being Robin and then Nightwing. Alfred assured you that Dick adored you, you were his baby sister after all, he was just busy! In later years you realized he was only busy when it came to you. He made time for Damian no matter what, always attended Cassandra's ballet recitals, chatted with Tim and ruffled his hair, and he even dealt with Jason's snarky attitude and biting remarks. Yet, somehow when it came to you, he never had time. Always brushing you off with a shoulder pat and a "Maybe next time sweetheart!" and rolling his eyes when he thought you weren't looking. He's been making time for Tiffany or Tiffybear, as he loves to call her while pinching her cheeks and calling her his favorite little sister, "Don't tell Cass though!" he'll whisper to her. You don't even think he can remember your name. Or that once upon a time you were his "baby bird."

It makes you sick watching her take credit for everything, she's only been in the manor for 6 months and they've all given her more love than they have to you in the past 11 years. She took credit for all your awards, she told everyone she was top of your class, made them "homemade" cakes and muffins. It was all you. She stole everything.

Jason Todd, the red hood, was so mean to you. You used to admire him, looked up to him, and he took all your kind words and gestures for granted and spit them back in your face. Once upon a time, he was your favorite brother, you wanted to be as confident and unshakeable as him, it didn't matter how mean he was now because he was you brother and you loved him. The bond you had before his death was something you couldn't let go of, he was the only one who loved you. When he first came to the manor he was 12 and you came a couple months later. An adorable 4 year old who followed her favorite brother like a duckling. You were 7 when he died. You were 12 when he came back to haunt Bruce and Dick and Tim. You chased after him and tried to resurrect the bond you had for 3 long years. You gave up when you saw them. You couldn't believe your eyes when you saw him and Tiffany sneaking out the manor on a school night, you almost threw up when you saw him strap her on his motorcycle and leave for hours. They came back with shit-eating grins and cupcakes for everyone from a 24hr bakery, everyone except you. The bakery you asked him to take you to months ago. Tiffany saw the tears in your eyes and your clenched fists and she laughed.

Timothy Drake-Wayne, you first saw him after Jason died. Tim, in your 10 year old mind, was trying to steal your dad. Bruce ignored you even more after Jason's death and shut everyone out. Your bond with Tim was non-existent no matter how hard you tried. After you realized he wasn't trying to replace Jason, and saw how he was helping your father heal in ways you couldn't, you tried to bond with him. You attempted to play his video games and ignored his complete disintrest in you and anything that had to do with you in hopes he might come to appreciate you. You brought him coffee after long patrols, asked him about his day, asked to meet his friends, you picked up all his hobbies like hacking, cooking, reading even martial arts and yet he ignored you. You tried to find him in hallways at school, only to be treated like a stranger when you found him. He was embarrassed that you were his sister. You were chubby and awkward and didn't have many friends, he didn't want his cool kid friends to know you were his sister. For 5 long years you chased after him, for 5 years you chased a ghost, and somehow Tiffany captured his attention using one of the gadget-thingys you made in hopes to impress him. She walks the hallways of Gotham Prep with him, a perfect sibling duo, he even had her lunch moved so she could sit with him and his friends. He wasn't embarrassed of her. You watched them get closer in 6 months than you have in 5 years. And it hurt.

But perhaps what hurt most is her newfound bond with Damian. Your baby brother. You tried the hardest with Damian, almost as hard as you tried with Bruce, and yet he chose her while all you got was a sword to your neck and sneers of disgust thrown your way. Damian moved in when you were 12. You were elated, if you couldn't have good older siblings, at least you could be one! That plan went to hell when you realized Damian saw you as less than him. No matter how hard you tried, returned your love with disgust. You tried to show him around school like you wished Tim did for you and he called you " A waste of space and Wayne DNA" and said that there was no way you were of "Wayne" blood and that your "whore of a mother" had to have deceived his father, in front of your two friends and half the school. You could've handled his cruel words if he didn't begin attempting to duel you to become your father's heir. About a year ago, when you tried to hug him he threw you down the stairs and you broke your ankle, you stopped trying with him after that. He was so possessive over Bruce and now that somehow transferred to Tiffany too. You'd feel bad for her if she wasn't eating his obsession with her up.

Barbra, Cassandra, and Stephanie were the "It girls." All practically sisters, they hung out almost everyday and had sleepovers every Friday. They giggled about boys, hook-ups, missions and bonded over everything. You wanted be one of them, you tried so hard to be cool, to be pretty, and they could only see your flaws. You curled your hair and did your nails in hope you would blend with them, you even attempted to be Batgirl at one point. You were quickly denied after Stephanie pointed out that you didn't have the right 'physique' for it. Barbra quickly agreed and said you weren't cut out for it, Cassandra simply looked you up and down. Thats why it hurt extra when they welcomed Tiffany with open arms. Suddenly, she could be Batgirl. She talked to them about boys and bonded with them over girl things. She stole your sisters.

You figured out Tiffany was a spy almost as soon as she came into the manor. Her apperance and ability to act like it was her who saved the Bats from the Joker and his new radioactive snake was not a coincidence, neither was her becoming a vigilante only two weeks after coming into the manor, and neither was you catching her walking out the Batcave with arms full of Batman's weapons and plans. You couldn't believe your luck and pulled out your phone to take a picture, too bad you left the flash on. Tiffany quickly noticed you and tried to explain that it was a misunderstanding when Bruce came into the hallway. You beamed at the sight of him and began to explain what you saw Tiffany doing, only Tiffany was faster. She was quick to blame you for everything, and Batman, the world's greatest detective believed her. She said that you bullied her at school and you were so jealous of her joining the family that you went to steal plans and took pictures to frame her. It was a shitty lie and somehow everyone believed it. You still remember the cold indifference on Bruce's face, the sadness on Alfred's, the look of pure delight on Damian's, the shock on Dick's, the interest on Tim's and the disappointment and disgust on Jason's. Something shifted in you that night. You didn't feel an overwhelming amount of love and longing when you looked at your family, you felt anger. Pure unadultered rage, rage at Bruce for never loving you, rage at Dick for being a liar, rage at Jason for throwing away your bond and cool indifference and disgust at the rest of them.

Maybe that's why your abilities finally formed. Maybe thats why the place the snake bit you that fateful night began to glow as you cried in your bathtub, after being scolded all night and getting body slammed by Damian for trying to "taint his dear sister's image". You had powers now, the agility of a snake, you could eject venom out of your fingertips, you could walk on walls, now you could prove them all wrong.

okayyyy yall this was the prolouge. Again this is my 1st attempt at writing so be nice. If enough people like this I'll put out part one. Hope yall enjoyed and lmk what you want to happen next in the comments!!!!!!!!!

[pomefioredove]

for a oneshot how about vil gets sick and reader/yuu (your choice) helps take care of him? :3

o7

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ it comes with a fever

type of post: fic characters: vil additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, took a more unique approach to the sick prompt, would say ooc but this is just how having a cold sore makes you act

"He hasn't left his room all day,"

Epel's still got that uncomfortably tight grip around your wrist. He hasn't let go since he dragged you out of Ramshackle.

"Not even Rook is allowed in. It's... damn strange," he mumbles, disturbed.

You stop in front of the Pomefiore Housewarden's door.

The boy looks at you. "I'd go in myself, but... ah, I'd figure you'd have more luck,"

Which you suppose is his way of saying "Vil PROBABLY won't kill you"

"It's got everyone spooked, Prefect. Like a herd 'a sheep without a sheepdog,"

So, it's up to you. Somehow.

Epel finally lets go of your wrist and disappears before you can ask any questions. Your newly freed hand closes around the door handle.

It's probably nothing, you tell yourself. But if Vil won't even see Rook... there's a slim chance he'll be happy to have you waltzing through the door.

You walk in, anyway.

The room isn't dark or dreary. There are no strange smells or messes. Nothing is out of place, except for the bundle of blankets on the bed and-

FWISH!

You drop to your knees just before a cushion-turned-missile can hit you.

"Get out!"

Definitely Vil. At least he's alive? "You're not supposed to take the name "throw pillow" literally!"

The familiar canto of your voice makes that bundle go quiet and still. And then, from its depths, a loud, uncharacteristic whine. "Don't look at meeeee-"

You can suddenly see why everyone in Pomefiore is "spooked".

"I'm not going to hurt you," you say, as if approaching a wild animal caught in a trap. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" he hisses.

"That's not very convincing,"

And, of course, he knows as much. Vil sighs, and you can see the bundle moving. He pulls out an arm and elegantly drapes it over his head. "I'm hideous,"

Did he get hit by a bus or something? You blink. "You're just sick. It's not the end of the world,"

A long, long sigh follows. The bundle moves again, and a person comes out of it- and if you weren't in his room and responding to his voice, you might not have recognized them as Vil.

He's messy. His hair is tangled and limp. His face is flushed and sweaty. He looks...

"See?" he points to his lower lip.

With the general state of him, you honestly hadn't even noticed the small bump on his lip. You blink.

"...That's what you're upset about?"

He glares. "Don't patronize me. I have a standard to uphold. I can't go out looking like this!"

"It's just a cold sore, Vil,"

"Just?" he crosses his arms. "Just, you say? You're either lucky or stupid. This isn't some common blemish I can cover up with a patch and concealer! This is a personal failure! All the supplements, all the medicated chapstick, and the vitamin C and I still-"

He shudders. "...And it comes with a fever, so if you have any sympathy to give, at least let it be for that,"

You sigh, a weary, but fond smile on your face. "Oh, Vil... let me get you some orange juice,"

He crosses his arms and almost pouts. "And the strawberries in the bottom drawer of the fridge,"

"Those, too,"

.

With your service, Vil eventually calms himself down, though he still lies in bed as if he were dying of something terrible.

By the third or fourth bad Neige Leblanche movie of the evening (making fun of them with you is good for his mental health), it's starting to get dark.

"Seven already?" you mutter, checking the time on your phone.

Vil's eyes widen, and he pretends as if he wasn't staring when you look back. "So?"

"So... I have to go," you say. "I have to make dinner. I have to-"

"You're not seriously going to leave me in this state, are you? I'm supposed to avoid stress,"

You blink. Is he really... He's guilt-tripping you?? You almost laugh- it's endearing to see him so...

...Not him.

"You want me to stay?"

"Yes," he says immediately. He clears his throat, and then: "...For my health. Go speak to Rook, get us takeout."

If you were a worse person, you might have teased him about how cute he is when he's needy... But you also know he's not going to be indisposed for long, and you'd like to survive to see next week.

You smile. "Sure. Can't say no to free food,"

"But no chocolate or nuts, and I'd like something with a lot of lysine, some order of tofu and beans. Ask Rook, he'll know what to get,"

A pause.

"...Thank you,"

He really is quite cute like this. Then again, Vil Schoenheit can pull absolutely any look off.

You head for the door, your hand closing around the cool handle once again.

"And Prefect?"

You turn. Vil hesitates, seemingly warring with himself over something. You can't say which side won, because he only sighs.

"Help yourself to whatever pajamas you'd like. And don't bother asking some dimwitted question about where you're going to sleep. You'll obviously be staying in my bed,"

[mochinomnoms]

Can i ask for some NSFW scenes in the PTM universe?

If your not comfortable with that please ignore this ask

sure! honestly im surprised more people haven't asked yet lol

this is a scene that i am debating will go into the main story or be a side story since i'm not sure where i'd place it. it's not the most explicit but i still consider it nsfw

tag list: @ghousus

How you got even got to an empty classroom was a miracle, seeing as the festival was in full-blown swing.

But you weren't complaining, in fact you greatly appreciated that Jade at least had gotten you somewhere private.

“Aah!”

Especially since you were having trouble keeping quiet.

Pretty sounds! Pretty sounds! Make more my pearl, you're so enticing, I don't think I could control myself if I tried~

Jade ground your hips harder into his own, shuddering as you two dry humped against each other.

Your skin felt like it was on fire, like you were burning up from the inside, like you could feel everything twofold.

Maybe you were.

“Jade! Please, we can't—shit—not here, please—mmph!” He crashed his lips against your own, groaning as you tightened your arms around his neck and tugged him closer, pressing yourself as close to him as possible.

You could practically feel his heart beating through all the layers of clothes, right against your chest, rhythmic pounding the same as your own.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

But it wasn't enough.

Why am I so hot? Why do I feel so, so, so much? Why can't I pull away? I don't want to pull away! But I do—no—yes!

Why was the thought of pulling away from Jade so distressing? Like you could never live the thought of molding your skin with his.

I need—please!

Jade's groans were making you hot and bothered, whining as he pulled away to admire you. At this point, you two were quickly building up a dampness in the fabric between your legs.

“P-please, Jade, I'm—” You threw your head back as Jade pressed open mouth kisses against your neck, freeing a hand to pull at your tie and yanked down your shirt to expose your neck and chest.

Mine. Mine. All mine, mine to hold, mine to take!

Jade continued giving you wet kisses down your chest and navel, bringing his gloved hand to your lips, pressing the tip of his middle finger against the plush skin.

“Bite.”

A scrape of sharp teeth at the skin above your heart, a shudder rumbling through your body, a soft, breathless whine leaving your mouth as you did as told.

Feeling you take the tip between your teeth, Jade tugged his hand out of his glove. Moving up, Jade started kissing the pulse in the curve of your neck, suckling as he dragged his now bare hand into your shirt and down your exposed skin.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

“Mmh, Jaaade—” The curve of your back melted into his touch as he caressed your skin, dragging his fingers against every single bump and blemish he could find.

You felt Jade shiver, moving back up to hover his mouth over yours.

“Say—” You think he almost melted as you almost smashed your mouth against him, hands tugging at his tie in annoyance.

Say my name again, pleasepleasepleaseplease—

“Jaaaaaaade!”

Jade let out a soft, breathless chuckle as you groaned into his mouth and finally yanked off his tie and threw it behind him.

“Mm~” You taste so… “Eager, aren't we?”

You huffed, leaning back to glare at him, freeing one of your hands from around his neck to gesture at your open shirt, falling over your shoulders like a lead in a bad porno.

“You did this,”

And I'm not finished with you.

“You let me.” Taking a deep inhale, Jade's gaze drew over your exposed body. It made you feel hot, the need to swallow the drool growing in your mouth as you watched his tongue wet his lips. Slow and sensual, like he was savoring the flavor on the skin.

Savoring your flavor.

As he continued speaking, Jade gently guided you to lay down on the desk, melting along with you and grinding into you hard, making you gasp.

“That says more about you than myself, does it not?”

[yurinaa-world]

Hi hello! I love your writing!!

Could I request Aventurine, Ratio, Jiaoqiu, and Boothill with an s/o whose love language is bitting?

"𝑅𝒶𝓏𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓅 𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓉𝒽"

💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Aventurine, Veritas Ratio, Jiaoqiu, & Boothill x Gender-Neutral

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: with a s/o whose love language is biting

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Fluff, & Spelling Mistakes

💫𝒜𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑒 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝑒𝓃𝒾𝑜𝓇 𝑀𝒶𝓃𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝐼𝒫𝒞 𝒮𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝑔𝒾𝒸 𝐼𝓃𝓋𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒟𝑒𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉"

He’s a romantic guy, words and actions alike, and loves anything you give him but biting was something he didn’t expect at all. Some people have this idea of branding someone with bite marks but you just do it out of your love, that reason alone makes him want all that love since he's a greedy gambler.

Come on, how about he pays you back for it? Forget jewelry this time, how about he returns your love the same way? 

Since you get so joyful when you do it to him, what kind of reaction will you have, flustered? Shocked? Maybe a pretty smile on your face? Who knows until he finds out?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Why so nervous? I'm only returning the favour.”

He's crazy not know why you're so nervous, eyes wide and mouth agape, his face was just inches away from your own. He loved seeing that look on you, it was better than any other expression you could ever make. 

Even better when he leaned into your neck, shrieking the second you felt his teeth nipping into your next.

Before fully sinking his teeth into your neck, leaving a dark red blemish on your skin. It’s absolutely cute! now you're both matching. Forget about matching jewelry or matching tattoos on each other's skin, this was better.

“We’re the only ones matching now.”

💫𝒱𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓈 𝑅𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜 "𝑀𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐼𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒾𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒶 𝒢𝓊𝒾𝓁𝒹

He can’t help but lecture you about those things, and open your mouth as well, who knows you might have damaged your teeth from the obsession you have with biting people (him). Horrified when you first bit him, only until you explained it to him that he understood your nonsense but at the same not really…

But he can’t stop you from loving him, can he? Seeing that happy smile on your face when you lean in to bite him on the neck, the blood rushing to his ear while he hides his face with his book.

 Lecturing again but failing since you won’t listen, what will he do with you? Seeing that loving look on your face even when he lectures you he ends up just taking whatever you give me

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Veritas.”

He hears the giddiness in your voice as you poke his shoulder to get his attention off his book onto you, yet to no surprise he already knew what you wanted, a nice chomp on his cheek as usual, he always lectures you about the harm that can come from yet you refuse to listen using the words: “I’m just showing how I love you.” 

“No.” 

And as usual, He shuts you down immediately, not even looking your way which just makes you frown—which is your second tactic, to make him feel bad that he let you do it and if that doesn’t work then onto the third one, guilt-tripping.

“You don’t want my love, do you hate it?”

Shutting his book so fast you could still hear the slam echoing from the walls, staring at you with a determined look in his eyes, at the same time filled with love. “Ridiculous, I would rip my heart from my chest for you just to have the essence of your love.” He speaks blankly as if speaking scientific facts without hesitation or fear.

“If you love me that much, would you let me bite your cheek?” you suggested clasping your hands together as if you were some kind of beggar—you were acting like one—he was staring back at you with the most deadpan look you had ever seen before “You compare my heart to biting?”

“No, but you did say you’d rip out your heart for the essence of my love.” he cocks his brow before sighing at you, putting his book aside, giving you a chance to bite him willfully. You grin so happily at his words of acceptance, leaning in to gently leave a bite on his cheek as if he were dessert sold in the best restaurant in Penacony. 

“Happy now?” 

The tips of his ears were sooo red! He loves to much to stop you.

💫𝒥𝒾𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓊 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒳𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓏𝒽𝑜𝓊 𝒴𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓃𝑔"

He’s a victim, you’ve made him a victim with your love. At least do something with your teeth, maybe try his cooking, sinking your teeth into his cooking instead of engraving in his skin, leaving such marks that make people look at him funny.

He can’t forget how you love biting his ear—though you’re always gentle with it, like your teeth just graze his teeth, only to close in a little to make it feel like you're biting but it’s always so gentle, instead of pain he could feel the blood rush to his face, hiding behind his fan

Don’t act as if you weren’t the reason he’s like this. Since you like to bite so much, did you know that it’s customary for people to leave bites on their lovers in the Yaoqing, why doesn’t he do the same to you as well? 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

He finally can relax after a long day—he feels his sore body still in pain while sitting down, collar unbuttoned to reveal several bite marks left all over his neck by you. The whole day he couldn’t even dare to think of unbuttoning his collar until he was alone, if anyone saw they would be utterly speechless, and he wouldn’t blame them for what their imaginations would lead them to.

“Jiaoqiu,” 

As if on cue you showed up as if you were reading his mind.

Your gentle voice rang through his ears from behind, wrapping your arms around his neck, before gently grazing his ear with the edge of your teeth, closing down ever-so-gently, like a little mouse in your palms with how easily you left much so flustered over something so small, he can’t help but want to pay back, repaying the love you give the same way. “You’re not too tired, are you?” you worried, acting so concerned for him when you see his ears go flat.

“I’m fine,” sighing in your arms, gently taking your arm around him and biting you gently back. “But I’m starting to get tired from all that teasing from you,” he mutters, turning his head back just to grab the back of your head, and pull you down to chomp down on the skin of your neck. 

“...Jiaoqiu.” you groaned his name, feeling the slight sting from his bite as if he were a vampire instead of a healer, drawing back to open his eyes—the slight of his teeth engraved into your neck made his smile wider, it suited you better then it did him, along with that flustered expression as well.

“Just returning the favour to you. And it suits you quite well.”

💫𝐵𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓁𝓁 "𝑀𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒢𝒶𝓁𝒶𝓍𝓎 𝑅𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈"

You're shattering your teeth if you try any part of his body, like I mean you’re chipping or cracking your teeth for sure and he just laughs at your face when you cover your mouth, whining and complaining about the pain. So you're just getting veneers unless it's his face you're biting.

He’s completely touch starved, he’ll take anything you give him affectionately even the bitting, like he just loves it so much, sucks his face is the only place you can bite.

Imagen bitting his face out of nowhere, he just freezes, feeling your teeth dig into his cheek as if you were some kind of a monster, leaving teeth indented into his cheek. Before he just starts smiling like an idiot, you know what! He’s going to show his love too! Let him bite your pretty self.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You just couldn’t resist from just chomping down on his cheek as if his cheeks were like brownies, there wasn't a taste or anything but it just felt nice doing so, even when you left back to find a boothill open mouth and confused that staring back at you with teeth marks into the skin of his cheek.

When you smile back at him with your pretty smile, he can’t help but get in a giddy mood, a cheeky grin placed on his lips as if you had kissed him—but that just might be his every reaction when you show him some of your love.

 ”Now we’re speaking my mother fudging language.”

The expression on his face looked like crazy murderer and lovesick madman mixed—impressive that he was able to do that so naturally—you could hear his gears grinding so fast, maybe even the fans speeding up as well. He looked like he was going jump you, which isn’t too far from what happens in the next moments.

Leaping towards you, pushing you down on the ground, with a large grin on his face—his sharp shark-like teeth, you probably see your face reflecting from it. Just feeling the sharp sting on your cheek, his sharp teeth just teeth unusual dark red engraved into your cheek, leaving you whining and complaining at the pain.

“You know how much that hurts!”

“I was just shownin’ my love, just like you.”

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot!

[jenneyquinn]

“who do you think you’re impressing with this stuff?”

“everyone. you wouldn’t understand.”

after adjusting his tie, pacifica looks up from dipper’s neck, her blue eyes meeting his brown ones. it’s the very first time she sees him without that lame pine tree cap on, so naturally, her eyes aim a little higher.

upon inspecting the brunette’s tufts of hair, she thinks to herself, he definitely doesn’t shower much, trying her best to not react too visibly to the accumulation of sweat. who knows, making him feel more awkward will just make things worse—after all, that suit must be stuffy enough as it is.

so, she remains indifferent as she continues inspecting his hair. despite a lack of showering, she thinks, he’s lucky to have fluffly hair… for a nerd, i guess.

before she backs off completely, walking back into the party to the ‘problem room’, pacifica notices something about dipper’s forehead. a blemish, perhaps? or maybe, a hint of acne.

acne makes sense for him, trying very hard to roll her eyes at the thought, obviously not the type to spare time for proper skin care, geez.

for all she knew, pacifica soon came to the conclusion that from all that sweat… the pores on his forehead being clogged thanks to his brown hair and that hat of his, she wouldn’t worry much about giving away some facial cleanser, mosturiser, and a trip to pick up some ointment (since she never needed any).

yet, before she could start on a list—first, she needed to know how bad it was.

pushing his hair back, dipper feels his whole body go stiff in a flash. what the heck was she doing?

“i don’t have time to give you a total makeover, but the least i can do is advise you on better personal hygiene.”

pacifica answers, which meant that dipper was definitely thinking out loud.

stupid! now that, he whines in thought, but refrains from physically face-palming himself.

when pacifica fully pushes dipper’s hair back, his forehead now bare to her, she observes it, her face remaining indifferent as she focuses on what lies before her. it’s… a big dipper?

behind that poker face of hers, she’s laughing inside; trying desperately to not let the corners of her lips twinge up and succumb to her amusement.

clearly embarrassed, dipper’s face flushes red, but finds himself staying still as he feels frozen under pacifica’s gaze. his doe-brown eyes are only glued to her diamond-hued irises, then glances a bit down to her glossed lips, awaiting the inevitable mean-girl cackle.

“so that’s why people call you dipper.” pacifica points out softly, showing the smallest hint of a grin on her face.

only, it isn’t malicious—dipper notes to himself. amused, yes, but not in a cruel, insulting way.

feeling awkward enough as it is, dipper breaks away from pacifica’s touch, backing himself away and heading towards the door; laughing inorganically.

“yeah, it’s just a dumb birthmark, started going by dipper so no one could tease me about that anymore, heh,” he tries to explain in a single breath, pulling out the third journal to avoid being further burned in her gaze, “anywaysweshouldgoaheadandfindtheroomwheretheghostwaslastspottedright?”

“i don’t think it’s dumb.”

the confession slips pass pacifica’s lips almost instantly, unable to stop the words from spewing out.

now, they’re both pink in the face, both in disbelief of the blonde’s admission.

[fanficsat12am]

pairing: Obanai x Reader 

wc: 1.8k

prompt: “You weren’t there…why weren’t you there?”

A/N: This is my first kny work so I'd love to hear from your feedback :>

📜 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃!! 📜

It’s hard to think that the face that typically adorned a bright and beautiful smile is now littered with scars and bruises. Tanjiro’s forehead was wrapped with an otherwise white bandage had it not been for the tints of red seeping through the cloth. Despite the gruesome image, his body wasn’t any better. On each arm lay great purple blemishes that peeked over the dressing prepared by Ms. Shinobu. Despite being tended to by multiple Kakushi as well as the residents of the Butterfly Mansion, the metallic scent of blood remained. 

As you watched the boy’s chest rise and fall, you couldn’t help but wish you were there, or another hashira for that matter. Perhaps everything would have turned out differently. The trio wouldn’t have left the battle in such bad conditions, Uzui wouldn’t have lost an eye and a hand, and maybe he wouldn’t have retired from the corps. You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice the presence by the door, heterochromatic eyes staring at your slumped figure. 

Obanai glared at the unconscious boy, feeling the seed of jealousy continuing to grow in him— the albino serpent slung on his shoulder hissing at the scene in front of him. He never understood why you cared so much for Tanjiro. In his eyes, you were far from the women he had the displeasure of meeting. You were strong, determined, selfless, and many more. Perhaps that’s why Obanai had grown to enjoy being in your presence, unaware of how he’d subconsciously always want to be by your side. So to see that Kamado kid steal you away from him made him loathe the boy with a passion.

He scoffs, alerting you that you were no longer alone, with your eyes darting towards him. “You shouldn’t get all bent out of shape about him. It’s his fault he’s lying in that bed right now.” He crosses his arms, gaze hard as it trails to the bandages on the boy with the Hanafuda earrings.

Your eyebrows crease. “What?”

“He’s weak and impulsive. The kid couldn’t even kill a lower moon demon without a hashira’s help. It’s a surprise he got out of there alive.”

“Iguro-san, I know you’re not too fond of him, but he did his best to help and survive. He and Tengen kill the first upper moons after 100 years. That’s a huge step for the corps and–-”

“They got lucky. Had it not been for Uzui, those demons would have just ended their pitiful lives right then and there. At this rate, he can forget about defeating Kibutsuji and just get it through his brain that his sister’s stuck like that. Maybe tell him to kill her already while you’re at it and save us all the time.”

Your eyes widen, unable to believe the words coming from the Serpent Hashira. You pursed your lips, a mixture of shock, disappointment, and disbelief brewing within you, but mostly that of anger. You were no stranger to Obanai’s sharp tongue, his words venomous like that of a snake’s bite. But to demean the work of those involved in the Entertainment District was beneath him. You huff before turning your gaze back to Tanjiro. He doesn’t miss the glare in your eyes as you scan every injury on his body.

“You weren’t there…” you said through gritted teeth. “Why weren’t you there?” 

He took a sharp breath, masking it with a scoff. “They shouldn't have needed me in the first place.” They were trained demon hunters, not children who had to be looked after every minute of the day. 

You couldn’t help but drop your jaw in disbelief, attention now back on Obanai. Despite his harsh words, he looked unfazed. 

“How can you even say that? They could have died!”

“With lives like ours, death is always around the corner. As a hashira yourself, you should already know this”. 

“But—”

“But nothing. We can’t save everyone, (Y/N). The weak have no place in the corps” he said, leaving no room for debate. Why did you care so much? Those who don’t have what it takes only have so much time before a demon puts them six feet under. Seeing how it’s futile to make you see his side of things, he turns to leave, but what you say next makes him stop in his tracks.

“You know… You hate your family for what they’ve done to you, for treating you as nothing more than a mere tool, just a sacrifice for their benefit. But from what I see, you’re no different…”

He was stunned into silence, the only response being the hiss Kaburamaru sent your way.  The expression on his face got darker before stalking off, making sure to slam the door as he slid it close. Walking through the hallways of the Butterfly Mansion, he couldn’t deny the pain brought about by your words. Perhaps he was a fool to think that the suffocating grip his bloodline held on him would ever disappear. 

***

Guilt gnawed away at you as days passed without Obanai. Despite his harsh words towards the others, you knew you went too far. After that day in the Butterfly Mansion, he had yet to talk to you again, no surprise visits to your abode nor a crow in sight. You finally had enough after enduring his silence for a week. Enough was enough, and you needed to be the bigger person here. 

The two-step plan of privately talking to Obanai and apologizing proved to be harder than expected. It felt like hours had gone by as you continued to knock on his door, calling out his name. You sighed, thinking about trying again another day, had it not been for the underlying feeling within of being watched. Sharply turning your head to its presence, you saw a blur of black and white zipping from the trees.

“Obanai!” you call out, immediately following after him. He whisked through the forest, his serpentine-like running style allowing him to maneuver around each obstacle with immense speed. 

“Please! I just want to talk”. Despite his speed, you were able to catch up to him. Just as he rounds a wisteria tree, he disappears from your sight. Darting your eyes around your surroundings, you see nothing other than miles upon miles of leaves and bark. Only when a low hiss from above you sounds do you find Obanai perched on one of the tree’s long, winding branches. You don’t miss the way his eyes follow your every movement—like that of a predator stalking its prey.

“There’s nothing to talk about. You’ve said all you needed to say. Now leave.” 

Seeing how he was about to leave yet again, you quickly leap up the tree and grab a hold of his haori. Wishing to protect his friend, Kaburamaru bares his fangs on instinct. You draw your hand and try to step back, but instead feel your foot slip off. 

A surprised shriek leaves you as you flail your arms around, trying to grasp at anything. Before you could fall off completely, a strong tug on your uniform wrenches you into a tight embrace. Pulling your face back from his chest, you meet the eyes you had been missing for days. Despite both of your feet now flat on the branch, his hold is still tight—one arm securely wrapped around your waist as one reached from one shoulder to the other. 

You both stay like that for a while, not breaking the comforting silence. Staring down at you, Obanai can’t help but bask at how the wisteria flower’s glow encapsulates your beauty. Despite almost memorizing your features, from the rounds of your cheeks to the crinkles on your eyes when you smile, he can’t help but still be entranced by you every time you look at him. 

He blushes at the realization that he has been holding you for far too long. He turns his head in embarrassment, trying to avoid your gaze, but is stopped by your hand cupping his cheek to face you once more. As your fingers graze over the fabric, the hand once by your shoulders shoots up to grab your wrist. 

“Don’t…I’m hideous,” his gaze falls,  “Just like they were…” 

Your heart squeezes in pain. This was your fault—the words you had thrown just to hurt him had done its job. All those times you had reassured him that he was nothing like his family were crushed by your own doing. You could only hope that you could still mend the pieces that remained.

Despite his dissuasion, you slowly take hold of the bandages once again and pull it down. Had it been anyone else, Obanai would have pushed them off immediately. But with you, it was as if the walls he had built around him crumbled with your gaze alone. The band unravels to show the shameful scars it hid underneath, its jagged lines decorating his face from ear to ear. He’d expected you to look away or even squint in disgust. But no, instead, your eyes held intrigue as the pads of your fingers ran across every bump and crevice of his wounds.  

“I’m-” disgusting,  he’d wanted to say, yet you had cut him off before he could say anything else.

“Beautiful. I’m sorry I let you think otherwise, Iguro-san,” you pause before bringing your gaze back to his own. “I shouldn’t have said what I did when it was further from the truth. Please believe me when I say that you are not hideous in the slightest bit. No one in this lifetime nor the next can convince me otherwise.” 

He tries to look for any signs of you lying—dilating pupils, or even a slight flinch—nothing. You lean forward, staring down at his scarred lips, with Obanai doing the same. Before your lips get close enough, you stop.

“May I?” you ask, taking a deep breath in anticipation.

“If you’d have me” he whispers, finally allowing them to meet in a long-awaited kiss. His lips closed on yours, soft yet engrossing, kind yet strong all at once. He felt rough, a stark contrast to that of yours, which was soft and delicate. They fitted together like two puzzle pieces. Obanai pulled your waist to him, drawing you closer. There was no lust, just two souls finally finding one another. Pulling away, your breaths heaved, both wishing that this moment would never end. 

The silence was cut off by a hiss from Kaburamaru as he tilted his head in awe before slithering his way onto your shoulder and nuzzling himself on your cheek. You giggle as you place a finger on the top of his head to pet it, the snake leaning into your touch. As Obanai watches the scene in front of him, a feeling of hope blossoms within his chest. His past may stain the blood inside him, but he will never let it tarnish the future he could have with you.

[alexanderwales]

The spell showed you how another person saw you.

It was expensive, but not so expensive that it didn't find its use. If you were in the burgher class it was expected that you would experience it a few times in your life. One of those was before marriage.

Cordelia went in with great trepidation. She was sure that Aldwin was right for her, but less sure that she was right for him.

And then, two hours later, once it was all over, they had to talk about it, in a way that Aldwin loved to talk about everything.

"There was a sweetness to him," said Aldwin. "But now I worry, only lightly, that you think I make more concessions than I really do. There was more romance to him, I suppose. Very lovey, which I suppose is good."

"Well, that's good," said Cordelia.

"Is something the matter?" asked Aldwin.

"No," said Cordelia. "You can go on."

"I need some time to stew," said Aldwin. "We talked a lot, but I do fear that we got tangled in tangents. I think we could have been good friends, actually, if he were real, though ..."

"Yes?" asked Cordelia.

"He was intelligent, but I knew more than him, which I suppose is an artifact of the spell. He didn't know all the things that I knew, he knew all the things that you knew, except you don't expect me to know much about textiles, so some of those things that you knew were barred from him, and that meant that he sat at the intersection of our domains of knowledge." Aldwin looked at the ceiling for a moment. "I do wonder if there's a way around that."

"Perhaps," said Cordelia.

Aldwin looked back down at her. "Is something the matter? You haven't said what your experience was like. Was she pleasant?" He grinned at her, a winning grin that had made her fall in love. It was heartbreaking.

"Aldwin, I'm ... not sure that I can do this," said Cordelia.

His grin turned to a frown. "Why not?" he asked. "I love you, you should have seen that."

"Aldwin, she was perfect," said Cordelia.

"You're perfect," said Aldwin. He laid his hand on hers.

"No, Aldwin, I'm not," said Cordelia. "And when I've heard you say that before, I've always thought that it was you being poetic, but I met her now, the me that lives in your mind, and she is perfect, she has none of my blemishes, none of my flaws, she's kind and gracious and intelligent and funny."

"My dear, you're all those things," said Aldwin. "That's why I'm marrying you."

"But I'm not those things," said Cordelia. "My version of you, did you think that he was handsome?"

"I suppose it didn't occur to me," said Aldwin. He looked to the ceiling again and considered that. "His hair was a bit curlier, and his nose somewhat broader, but no, I think he looked like me."

"The woman I saw was a goddess," said Cordelia. "I can't compare to her."

"You are her," said Aldwin.

"Won't you believe me when I tell you that I'm not?" asked Cordelia. "And if we follow through on the engagement, and you marry me, how can I help but worry that you'll figure that out one day and leave me?"

Aldwin frowned at her. "Is that what this is about?" he asked. "You think my love is fickle? It hadn't even occurred to me to ask my other whether he was wavering."

"I think you're brilliant and handsome," said Cordelia. "But I looked at her, spoke with her, and kept thinking to myself that I couldn't live up to her. I yelled at her and she calmly defused my anger. When I cried, she comforted me."

"It was really so bad?" asked Aldwin, raising his eyebrows. He had very expressive eyebrows, it was something that Cordelia had always found herself appreciating.

"I fear that you don't actually know me," said Cordelia. "You don't see the ugly, twisted, miserable creature that I am."

"Come now," said Aldwin. He seemed befuddled. "Perhaps I think more highly of you than you think of yourself, but I won't have you talking so poorly of my bride-to-be."

"It's how I felt, next to her," said Cordelia, looking down. She had tears in her eyes. It was undignified. Her other would have never.

Aldwin moved closer to her and tilted her chin up. She looked at him, blinking away her tears, which rolled down her face and made her lip salty. His eyes, that saw her so.

"My sweet, we have our entire lives to get to know each other better," said Aldwin. "I will love you no less if you falter, if you yell, if you cry, if you flop around and fail. If we do this again, ten years from now, I expect that I'll have the same rosy view of you, overly rosy, in your estimation. That's love. That's what it is."

But of course for her, that wasn't true at all. He'd said as much, he'd spoken to his other, he'd seen a more or less accurate portrayal of himself. Didn't he see that? Or would he realize it only later? She wasn't sure. Did she not love him? Is that what it meant? She thought that she loved him.

"I do love you," said Cordelia.

"Good, because we're getting married soon," said Aldwin. He patted her on the hand. "Come, let's dry those tears and find someplace to eat."

She let herself be led for the rest of the day, and returned to herself within half an hour, letting the shadow cast by the spell slide off her, joking with him, engaging him in his interests, putting on a smile that she didn't entirely feel.

But that night, as she lay in bed, the image of the goddess, the woman she was not and could not become, would not leave her mind.

[moominsuki]

really fond of the fact that bakugou is really confident about himself as a hero and a man - he’s at his prime of 24-27 and his body is jacked, like he’s an adonis of a man and he’s objectively hot, all that jazz. bakugou doesn’t really think of his body in that regard: he works out but it’s for the job and he likes the general aesthetics of his body and thinks his scars are kinda cool. and they are!! very cool!! his friends think it makes him look scary (adds to his scary character which they like though :})but he likes the edgy look. a shrewd reporter once tried to insinuate that his scars were boorish and large and he shrugged them off with a snarl and the weight of his body. so yeah, he’s not insecure. not really.

it’s not until he’s interested in you does he start second guessing his physical appearance; the scar across his face looks larger, his hands suddenly feel more rough despite his quirk and he swears the blotchy cicatrix on his chest looks way worse than it did. you’ve even got him flexing in his bathroom mirror, ignoring the highlights of his muscles and fixating on what he’d now call ‘disfigurements.’

the crazy thing is, you don’t even care about any of the blemishes!! and not even getting into the fact that he’s practically blind to the way you salivate over him (that’s a whole other bridge to cross) but one day he unknowingly brings up how big the scar is across his nose, chastising it while you’re both talking by the photocopier, “if i knew the fuckin’ guy was gonna get me across the face, i woulda jumped out the damn way.”

you look at him slightly confused by his tone, eyes wide. “well, i like the scar. makes you look tough.”

“tough.” bakugou repeats, and you double down, nodding.

“nothing wrong with tough. girls - well i like tough. i mean, it’s not a bad thing! it’s kinda sexy on guys. also because you’re a pro hero. it tells a story, y’know?… it makes your face, you.”

bakugou nods slowly at that, touching his face again, your words resonating with him throughout the day. and the next. and the day after the next. and he thinks it’s so silly how worked up he gets over your off handed comment but what you think matters (much to his heart’s chagrin).

he’s so shy and so gruff at the same time. terrible romantic which is why he needs you to tell him how gorgeous he is: even though he appreciates his good looks and even though what people think shouldn’t matter but it’s different with you.

just imagining a shy, gruff twenty-something bakugou blushing at your not-so compliments is soooo incredibly heart wrenching. just imagining.

[ofpd]

1st century roman siege of jerusalem dashboard simulator

🐮 barkamtza

why does this shit always happen to me

#oh my goddd the ONE time it seems like people actually wanna hang out with me. #turns out they meant to invite kamtza instead #everyone hates me and i was SO fucking nice i offered to pay for the party #god i'm so pathetic. kms kms kms #they're gonna pay for this i swear #delete later

0 notes

📜 zekharya-ben-avkolas

Ok so obv it's not ok to sacrifice a blemished calf but the blemish is just on the eyelid? So maybe it's ok? But also and i don't want people to start going around thinking that it's ok to sacrifice blemished animals. But the thing is that if i don't bar Kamtza will tell the Romans we insulted them and that will be bad probably. And like no one likes bar Kamtza anyway will people really miss him..... but ugh neither of these seem like good things to do i don't feel like it's my place to make a decision about this :/

32 notes

🏛 vespasian reblogged

🏺neronero

off to war wish me luck! 🇲🇪🏹

🏺neronero

nvm guys. ✡️✡️

🏛 vespasian

my turn lol

53 notes

🧑🏽‍🦳 not-an-airport reblogged

🧑🏽‍🦳 not-an-airport

Hey everyone! These are difficult times, and some friends and I have put together some mutual aid resources for our community to have access to wheat, barley, wine, salt, oil, and wood! More info below the cut. Take care of yourselves! 🫶

Read more

🧑🏽‍🦳 not-an-airport

fuck

7,235 notes

⚔️ biryonei-yerushalayim

anonymous asked:

Hey, I'm trying to ask this in good faith, and I hope you can take it that way. how can you possibly defend burning our grain stores. I understand that you want to radicalize more people but you're taking things too far. Jerusalem's blood is on your hands.

anon, what you need to understand is that the blame for the carnage in jerusalem lies primarily in the hands of the roman invaders and secondarily in the hands of the rabbis for refusing to resist. would you have told the hashmonaim not to resist their oppressors by any means necessary? just because this is getting inconvenient for you doesn't mean we shouldn't be doing it. it's frankly offensive that you'd imply that we, the defenders of jerusalem, should incur any blame for her current state.

#biryonim.answer #grain storage discourse

231 notes

🛡 goel-yisrael

did anyone else see the "zealot blocklist" going around lmaooo

#how do these liberals expect anyone to take them seriously #do they not have anything better to do.

7 notes

📚 stammaim reblogged

stopbeingpoor-deactivated3830102

ughh why is my servant so incompetent! i deserve the best flour why doesn't he get it...

stopbeingpoor

ykw i'll go get some myself. i'm desperate at this point i gotta do something

stopbeingpoor

EWWWW update: i stepped in something NASTY. this is why i don't fucking go out oh my god im gonna die

stopbeingpoor

gonna throw my gold & silver away for the good of the peasants or whatever it's not like it's any use to me when im literally dying -_-

📚 stammaim

lmao look at this it's exactly what yehezkel was talking about! ur gold won't save you!

#yehezkel #marta b. baitos

162 notes

🕎 yalla-hapoel

🌿 amicus-iudaeorum asked:

Hey, love your posts! They're very informative about the Jewish perspective on this war. I'm just wondering whether you condemn the actions of the zealots? I don't really feel comfortable following someone who supports that.

are you fr.

#if youre seriously concerned about this idt this is the blog for you i fear

28 notes

🛡 goel-yisrael reblogged

📖 ben-zakkai

⚰️⚰️⚰️⚰️ lol

🛡 goel-yisrael

? what does this mean

🗡 abbasikkara

dw about it bestie

🛡 goel-yisrael

ok 💗 yay 💗

6 notes

👩🏽‍🌾 discoursedumpblog

I've compiled a list of some of the most rabid zealots on this website. Remember, don't engage, just block and move on.

Read more

152 notes

🏛 vespasian reblogged

🏛 vespasian

some jew got an audience with me & called me king (im literally not lol thats so disrespectful to the actual king + if i was king then he shouldve met w me much earlier??), i think i should kill him

🏛 vespasian

AND my shoe is being so annoying. horrible day 👎

📖 ben-zakkai

omg just came across this old post

🏛 vespasian

OMG sorry i don't mean it anymore 🙏

14 notes

🫒 a-simple-yid

yirmiyahu tzadak...

#not to pretentiously quote tanakh but literally like. #hashiveinu hashem eilekha venashuva hadeish yameinu kekedem.

3 notes

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Now See Them Burn in Fire | Part 1

Genre: dark fic, future smut, angst

Word Count: 7.1k

 Chapter Excerpt: “Do you let him kiss you?” He asks you, face blank apart from a muted curiosity. He was so close you can see every individual eyelash framing his gorgeous dark eyes, every tiny blemish on his otherwise flawless skin, the elegant slope of his nose, the firm but soft pillowing of his lips. 

You stay quiet, too scared to speak, too scared to unintentionally set him off. What if this is what the star meant? What if it was warning you of your untimely demise and that is why you were the only one to see it? 

“So you have.” He takes your silence as affirmation, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. “Then it’s only fair if I get a taste too.” 

Warnings: fem!reader, DARK FIC, FUTURE NONCON/CON, mentions of people being burned alive, iron age au, supernatural au, yandere beomgyu

_____________________________

Your fingers strum along the chords of the sacred lyre, producing celestial tunes that rise up to the heavens to reach the ears of the gods you’re worshipping through your songs, words of revelation passing through your lips like a prayer as the people of your tribe gather to witness and take part in the ceremony, offering up their own silent prayers for the ones above, wishing for food, safety, a good harvest, an opportune marriage for their children… It all moulds together to encase your song as it moves up to the heavens. 

Usually, you would be lost in it, surrendering yourself as a vessel for the will of the people to reach their gods. That is your role after all. As a priestess, you’re the link between the mortal world and the heavens above and you take your role very seriously. These people have entrusted you to carry their messages to the gods and the gods have entrusted you to deliver those messages, any distraction on your part could result in a failure of this process and the squandering of the people’s goodwill and the gods’ trust in your abilities. 

That’s why you feel guilty right now. You can’t focus your full energy on your job, not when you can feel his heavy, suffocating gaze on you. You look up to the heavens, seeking to gather strength from the stars above to guide you back to that enlightened state of being you usually access when performing the ceremonial prayers, but as your eyes land on the stars, you’re startled to see one suddenly fall down from the heavens in a bright flaming blaze. Your heart stops as you follow the distressing demise, no one else noticing it, all too focused on the song and dance and liveliness that you and your fellow priests and priestesses are putting on for the tribe. 

No one even notices your hands faltering over the strings, blasphemously ruining the perfection of the heavenly song. No one but one. And as the star heads to the earth, flickering its last flames of light as it approaches its demise, it disappears behind the trees, leading your eyes directly to the original source of your apprehension as if it had fallen merely to guide your attention towards him.

But you didn’t require such sacrifice to realise the burden of his scrutiny, you moved through every waking moment of your life entirely absorbed by the feeling of being watched and knowing whose eyes are upon you. 

It’s those eyes that belong to the boy with the long dark hair and even darker gaze. He stands out from the crowd, not for his clothes or jewels or status, but for his attitude of somberness and stillness among the joyful festivities of others which is enough to raise the hairs at the back of the neck of anyone who has the misfortune of noticing him. He stands there unmoving, his heavy eyes locked on you and no one else, and you–under that singular watchful gaze–hit the wrong note, plucking your own heartstring in the process, before you stop playing completely. 

No, this can’t be. You may not know precisely what all of this means but even the unenlightened can recognise such a glaringly bad omen–the star falling out of the heavens to point straight at the ill-fated boy. 

You're jolted out of your spiral when your friend nudges you, shooting you a concerned but sharp look, silently urging you to keep playing, and with widened eyes you quickly pick up your lyre again, looking around to see the concerned and strange looks from the tribes people, and the angry looks of your family. You can’t take your role lightly, not even for a second. You have a duty to your people and every second you’re not joining in the collective song, you’re weakening the prayers and risking their failure. 

You diligently join back into song, but you know your heart's not in it, not when you can still feel his cursed eyes upon you. 

He’s been watching you for some time now, and it wasn’t making only you uncomfortable. Others have noticed it too, and rumours have already started to spread–rumours about his inclination towards you. Some are making fun of you for being the object of desire of the tribe’s outcast–as if it makes you deficient in some way to be wanted by him–while others have started to distance themselves from you because of it, not wanting to be adjacent to the troubling boy even if it’s through the most tenuous connection to you. 

It makes you angry to be so unfairly burdened by the unwanted association with him but you can’t blame them too much. You know where their fear is coming from, and you wish he would stay away from you too. 

It’s not that he’s uncomely. If any of you were to be fair, you would readily admit that he is one of the most beautiful humans you have ever laid eyes upon, his handsome features seeming to have been carved out by the hands of a god… but which one, you’re not sure. A trickster god, perhaps, for the boy’s unrivalled looks that are meant to entice and enthral clash harshly with the unsettling darkness that surrounds him and keeps others away despite that immense beauty that under normal circumstances would have made him one of the most popular eligible young men in the tribe. 

The quiet orphan boy never quite fit in despite his parents having been formidable warriors and therefore much loved and respected members of the tribe. His father’s power and influence at one point even rivalled the current tribe’s leader, a fact that has undoubtedly been the source of the hushed and vile speculation by some of the tribe’s people asserting that that is precisely the reason behind the boy’s parents sudden and mysterious deaths when he was just twelve.

Of course none of it was true. These were just the ramblings of the bored and nefarious, gathered under dwindling bonfires and spouting their ignorant and hateful conspiracies. The leader is a kind and loving man. He would never deprive a boy of his family unjustly.

Just as unfounded are the rumours that the boy himself was at fault for his parents’ death. After all, they failed to bear a live child after him–his mother’s womb becoming a graveyard for multiple of his lost brothers and sisters until it eventually killed her. 

After his poor mother died while birthing yet another departed soul, his father was never the same afterwards. He became cruel and vengeful. He took his grief and turned it to anger–an emotion a warrior was much more familiar with handling. Unfortunately when defending the land and killing the tribe’s enemies wasn’t enough, he turned that anger towards his only son.  

You had felt sorry for the boy to be the subject of his father's anger and resentment. You even went out of your way to be kind to him every time you saw the marks of hate on his body or saw him crying to himself in the woods. For a very brief period, you may have even considered yourselves friends. 

He didn’t appear evil from up close. He wasn’t so quiet and menacing. He was a child like all of you were. He wanted to play and laugh and enjoy himself, and you really enjoyed watching him do that. He was a silly child when you were alone together and for a short while it warmed your heart to see him let go around you. He had a beautiful smile and a tinkling honey laugh. You developed a minor addiction to it and you craved to see it more and more. 

That is how you justify to yourself your traitorous indiscretion of secretly revealing to him some of the magic only those raised under the guidance of the gods should have access to. You couldn’t help it. He had shown such interest in it and you couldn’t refuse to indulge him in one of his very few desires. It wouldn’t do anyone any harm. It’s not like he could ever do anything with that knowledge. Only those chosen and trained by the temple could put that powerful knowledge into meaningful action. 

And so you felt comfortable telling him secrets about the practice that even seasoned mages didn’t have access to–secrets you’d only known by eavesdropping on your own high-ranking parents, and he lapped it all up, pushing you for more and more which you happily provided.

Truth is, you enjoyed divulging such secrets about priesthood to him because despite it being a very respected and esteemed position to hold, it was also incredibly isolating by nature. The arts you’ve learned allowed you to tap into great power meant to help and protect your people, but also necessitated that you guard the secrets to it closely so they don’t fall into the hands of those who have not been taught how to correctly use them, or worse yet, those with ill-intentions. 

Even amongst your fellow apprentices, each of you had your own area of study and weren’t privy to much else. That way each of you would only be skilled at a particular art and that art only lest you become too powerful and think yourself rival to the gods much the same way the great Gija did–an ancient priest so powerful he rejected the rule of the heavens and in his arrogance thought he could bring down the gods and take their place instead. His greed was like a sickness that spread through the tribe and corrupted your ancestors, convincing them that if they directed their duplicitous charges at the heavens, they could fell the gods and rule in their place, revelling in endless riches and heavenly desires, only for the gods to strike him down, leaving him to a fate worse than death and laying waste to your people–turning them from a once prosperous and opulent civilisation to one that is barely surviving amongst the wilderness. 

Many of the secrets of that ancient power were lost then, only a few ruins from that time remain guarded in the heart of the sacred temple and even fewer taught to you and your fellow apprentices in bits and pieces that are intentionally scattered amongst you to prevent another Gija from rising. 

That is why there are now so few priests and priestesses who have been allowed to learn more than one art of magic and why you’re forbidden from sharing secrets about your practice even amongst yourselves. 

But no one in the tribe knew you were meeting him in the woods under the cover of darkness and therefore no one could stop you from divulging all your secrets to him. It was harmless. What would he even do with that knowledge? He’s a warrior just like his parents–not a very good one much to his father’s chagrin, but it meant that he wouldn't be able to do anything with the secrets you were exposing to him even if he wanted to. He did not have the gift. 

Still, he understood your frustrated and disjointed ramblings well–a part of you secretly worried that he may have understood them too well for he would then make off hand alterations to incantations that would help you crack a spell you'd been struggling with for some time or bring you rare ingredients from the forest that were very hard to come by, maybe even dangerous, and would be the missing touch to a potion you’ve been slaving over to no avail. 

You didn’t understand how he knew what was missing each time but you selfishly didn't ask because you didn't want to ruin it. Not when his help was setting you apart from your peers and enabling you to make a mark for yourself as the most promising young priestess of your generation. 

For his part, Beomgyu's eyes would light up every time his help would cause you to advance further in your training. He never cared that he couldn’t claim credit for it in front of others. He would just smile and make you his special wildflower and mushroom soup to celebrate which tasted like nothing out of this earth and made you crave it almost as much as you craved his smile. 

That smile–that cursed smile he would wear as he looked at you while you gushed or complained about your training. He didn’t care, seemingly happy to listen to you talk either way, and your foolish young heart liked to think you could see a special fondness in his gaze. It was a stupid passing fancy of course. You couldn’t possibly consider him seriously, not with the dark rumours surrounding him even then and especially not after his father too passed in a uniquely gruesome way. 

As the story goes, he had been out drinking his sorrows as usual. At some point during the pitch black night, drunk and disoriented, he left the group of men he was drinking with to head towards his abode but he never made it back. He was found in the morning impaled on a spear that had gone through his eye and out the back of his head, his lifeless corpse suspended by it. 

It was deemed an accident, an intoxicated man tripping and falling on top of an improperly stored weapon. There was no evidence of a struggle, and even his own men could testify he was not walking straight when he left them. There was no reason to think anymore of it, they said, but between themselves the people talked… yet another death around the dark child. It scared even you. You knew he hated this father. You knew he had an inexplicable knowledge about magic. You knew many have died around him. And so as the whispers grew stranger and more fearful, and stories of curses and dark magic swirled around, you silently stepped away from the boy, your friendship living and dying under the darkness of the night. 

He tried to seek you out, tried to find out why you were suddenly gone, tried to win you back–but it was difficult for him to get to you when usually you were the one who would go out to meet him in the forest at night, away from prying eyes. He couldn't approach you when you put others in his path and so he tried to express himself through gifts and flowers that he would hide in your home, hoping they would help him gain back your favour.

His gifts were beautiful and precious–a stunning bouquet of wildflowers, an iridescent stone adoring a delicate ring, valuable ingredients for your potions… all carefully thought out and picked just for you which made you feel all the worse for rejecting them but you had to. This had gone on too far and for too long. You had both grown too attached to each other and you needed to end it. He must not think he has a chance with you. It was not fair to either of you so it was best to end it quickly, even ruthlessly. 

And so you threw his gifts away–you cut up the bouquets, scratched the jewelry and burned the ingredients, leaving them out in the woods where you knew he would find them and get the message that you wanted nothing to do with them. 

And he did get the message, for shortly after you stopped receiving any more gifts. The boy fading back into the unknowable abyss where he belongs. For years he stayed there. For years you knew peace–a guilty, lonely peace but a safe, secure one. He wasn't there to light up your nights anymore and you weren’t there to make him smile, but you were also spared the rumours and gossip that had long surrounded him and were threatening to infect you. 

It hurt you more than you liked to admit to lose him but it was necessary. There was just no future for you together and he seemed to finally understand that. 

Until now. Now it seems like those once familiar black eyes were watching everything you do once more, but you no longer had silly fancies about any imagined lost innocence in them. Instead they scare you the same way they scare everyone else, maybe even more. He has grown somber and serious without you. You haven’t seen his smile in years. He has abandoned his family’s legacy of fighting and heroism for the feared but respected path of foragers. It fit him. After all, he was always in that forest doing the gods only know what and now he has made a tenuous but necessary place for himself in the tribe by it, wading into that same forest to harvest or hunt for things and creatures unknown from treacherous regions that no one else dared to wade into. 

As part of the mysterious foragers profession, he has made himself indispensable to your people as they depended on him and his few peers to bring them the rare and crucial supplies that numerous factions of the tribe–the priests included–depended on in order to do their job. And he was the best of them. He could get you anything you had need or want for, no matter how remote or dangerous, for the right price and as long as you didn’t ask any questions. 

This, of course, caused more rumors to spread around him than ever before, the tribes’ people coming up with all sorts of tales about how he managed to find these things and what he had to do to procure them–whispers of dark pacts, evil ceremonies and dancing with demons dominated the imagination of your people, but no one dared to say anything directly to him. Not anymore. Not now that they needed him.  

You on the other hand were scared, not just of him but for him. Every time he would disappear for days on end in that wretched forest, you would wonder if he would come back, wonder if this is the last time you would ever see him as he inevitably makes his last trip into its dreary darkness like many other foragers have done before him. It’s a perilous, lonely life and so many do not make it for long. Yet he does. He always comes back, and you’re always relieved and scared to be met with his handsome face, the shadows under his eyes taking on a new layer of darkness every time.

What does he see when he goes in there? What creatures does he encounter? What horrors does he face? How close does he come to death and how does he manage to outwit it? 

You do not know for you could not ask him. He hasn’t even met your eyes in years following your pointed rejection of him. Even when he would drop off supplies at your temple, he would keep his eyes downcast as if meeting your gaze would reveal all his secrets to you.

Yes, he has avoided your eyes for years, which makes his recent unwavering stare all the more unnerving. Something has seemingly flipped in him overnight and now you’re the one hiding from his gaze that never falls off of you whenever you’re around him. 

You think you know what he wants. It is the summer fertility festival. It’s a time when those like you and him who have just come of age are encouraged to reach out and start looking to find a companion. You have already received multiple gifts from other boys in the tribe, most of them loudly claiming them and boasting about what they have managed to buy or trade or hunt for you. 

But one gift was unclaimed, the most precious of all, nestled in a nondescript wooden box with a delicately carved wildflower on top of it, and inside… inside was a night bloomer, a sacred plant that flowers only one night a year that the ancients would consume to aid in their divination. It is an integral part of your religion, a powerful tool that once upon a time allowed your people to peer into the future and speak to the gods, but after the great Gija rebelled against the gods and was smote down, the knowledge of where to find it and how to harvest it has been lost and so did the flower. 

No one saw it for centuries until it became the stuff of legends to the point that some of your fellow priests doubted its very existence, preferring to view the mentions of it in religious myths as a symbolic tool to signify how close the ancients were to the gods through their strong belief and how they lost that connection when they betrayed them.

Yet there it was, a bloomed flower sitting in your hands. And there can only be one person who could’ve found it for you. 

You should’ve rejected it. You should have given it back to him so he could give it to someone who will take him, but you were too selfish for that. How could you pass up this once in a lifetime opportunity? You would never get the chance to use a night bloomer again and you could not find it in you to do the right thing and return it to him. You needed to find out for yourself if it really was as powerful as all the legends described it. So you eagerly made it into a tea and drank it, ready to use its power to gaze into your future–another sin of yours. You were told over and over again not to use the powers gifted to you for your own gains. They’re meant to be used to guide and protect the tribe and not for your own selfish desires, but once again you couldn’t resist, and maybe that’s why you were punished so brutally.

The visions the flower brought you were horrific. They were twisted and bloody and demented–filled with death and gore and terror. In them, you saw everyone you knew and loved die in the most gruesome of ways. You saw them cry out to you for help as their skin melted off their bones and their eyes leaked out of their skulls. Their charred hands reached out to you, begging you to make it stop but you couldn’t. You could do nothing but stand there and watch–the smoke stinging your eyes and blackening your lungs. You couldn’t even look away or get yourself to wake up. You were trapped in the ugly visions for what seemed like eternity–none of them making much sense to you as visions usually don’t, but the smell of burnt flesh and the anguished cries needed no explanation, and throughout it all you felt watched, like someone or something was doing this just to see you suffer. 

The visions went on and on in a loop until you felt you would be trapped in them forever–perhaps a punishment for your misuse of this onerous gift–but slowly your vision cleared up and you could see the world around you again.

You found yourself burning up, covered in layers of animal fur as your mother tended to your feverish body. You wanted to throw them off but couldn't spare any energy to move your arms. You couldn’t even speak, the only thing that came out of your mouth was dry deathly whispers that immediately got carried away by the wind before they could reach your confused mother's ears. You lay like that, sick and immobile, for days, your muscles stiff as if the fire had burned off all the water in them as your mother nursed you back to health. For weeks after you'd be caught out by a sudden whiff of smoke and your heart would pick up and panic would flood your body. You quickly had to make every effort to cover up your visceral reaction to anything fire or burning as it attracted too much attention and threatened your place in the temple. Nobody wanted a hysteric apprentice to train or a frightened priestess to protect them. You’re supposed to be the personification of calm and strength. You would lose everything if people found out that the mere smell of ashes secretly sent you into a ball of terror. 

So you covered it up. You pretended that you didn't want to run and cower under your covers every time fires would be lit to warm up or make a simple meal. It was ridiculous. It was weak and laughable but you couldn’t help how your body reacted to it, and you could no longer stomach the taste of meat anymore–a bite of the cooked flesh would send you into a heaving and retching mess. You had sworn off it since then, much to the confusion of others and the irritation of your family. They never liked it when you did anything to draw the curious attention of others. You were not supposed to step out of line except to excel in your training. As their only child, your performance reflected directly on them, and they did not appreciate the strange way you've been acting since you had consumed that cursed night bloomer.  

Did he mess with it somehow? That can’t have been what the ancients used. This can't be your future. You refuse to believe it. He must have tricked you somehow. 

Your mother had attempted to enquire about what has happened to you–she pushed and prodded but you remained steadfast in your insistence about it merely being an illness brought about by eating spoiled meat which conveniently explained your newfound aversion to it. She didn't believe you, of course, but you also knew she preferred to be ignorant of anything that would indicate any brewing trouble, a crack in her perfect daughter, only telling you to get yourself together and not do something stupid to ruin your future. It was a clear order. Whatever it is that you had done, you better fix it–it meant.

That’s why you must stop whatever advances Beomgyu is trying to make on you. He can only bring you pain and trouble. Just like right now.

As soon as the prayer is done, you’re strong-armed back to your home by your chagrined family who were less than happy about your embarrassing performance tonight. 

“What was that?” Your father hisses at you as soon as you are tucked away in your shared abode, away from prying eyes. “How could you disgrace us in such a way in front of the whole tribe?”

“I am sorry, father. I–I–” You hang your head down, hesitating for a moment as your tongue falls almost paralysed under the weight of what you were about to reveal. “I saw something fall from the heavens. I saw a star die.” 

You choose to omit the part about the boy. Your family doesn't know about your brief secret friendship with him. They don’t know about everything you’ve told him. They don’t know about the blasted gift you have accepted from him. They can’t know. They might cast you out if they did. 

“What?” Your mother whispers fearfully, a tinge of denial in her voice as if she does not wish to believe you–again hiding away from the ugly truth. 

“It was big and bright and beautiful but–” You gulp, wrapping your arms around yourself to stop your body from shaking at the memory. “But I saw it flickering in the throes of death as it bled across the heavens and crashed to the earth.” You finish fearfully, and that fear latches onto your parents immediately. 

Your father strides towards you and grabs you by the shoulders roughly, face pale. “Are you certain, child?” 

“As certain as death. I saw it with my own eyes.” I saw it pointing straight towards him.

Your father casts you away as if you were stricken with pestilence and paces around the room, passing back and forth in front of the pale and ghastly figure of your mother. 

“Father. Mother. Tell me the truth. Tell me what this means.” You ask hesitantly, not certain you even want to hear the answer. You knew it was bad, of course, but their reactions were heightening your anxiety to intolerable levels. 

“The stars are supposed to be eternal watchers, the guardians of the heavens. If one of them falls then the ranks have weakened.” Your mother explains fearfully, “Something has managed to get in or out of the heavens.”

You shudder. What could that be? And what does it have to be with the boy who will forever be your one regret?   

“Only you saw it?” Your father asks and you gulp. “I think so.” 

“Good. We do not want to cause a panic unnecessarily, especially this close to the climax of the fertility season.” He proclaims, trying to compose himself but the pallor of his face gives him away. “The leader’s boy seems close to making a proposal for your hand.” 

You frown. Is this really what you should be focusing on right now? Certainly, you have been more than delighted to garner Kai’s favour and, prior to tonight, you have not been thinking about much else, but surely this star issue trumps trivial earthly matters of marriage and ranks. 

You know your family is pushing for this marriage to go through and you understand how monumental this would be for your position in the tribe–to marry into the ruling family would raise you to the top of the ranks and bathe you in the riches only available to them, but that does not mean you can neglect your duties as priests and priestesses. This fallen star could be fortelling a catastrophic future to befall the entire tribe and you need to set aside all your selfish desires to protect your people from this mysterious fate.

“But the star–” 

“Make no mention of it to any soul.” Your father cuts you off sharply. “Not until we find out more about it. Your mother and I will consult the temple’s ancient inscriptions. You just focus on winning that boy over. And make no repeats of that disgraceful display today.” 

You look down to your feet. You hadn’t meant to embarrass them. They would understand if they knew about your new shadow, but they must not know. No one must know. He is like a pestilence–anything he touches withers and dies and you will not let yourself be one of the ghosts hanging around him. 

You may not know what this dark omen means but you feel in your heart that it is related to him and you have to stop him. Maybe then you can avert this calamity from occurring.

So you meekly accept their admonishment and warnings, keeping your head down and waiting until your parents are well on their way to the temple before you slip out yourself, following in the direction you know he would be, along a trek you should have never have allowed yourself to get familiar with and are now determined to sever from your life. 

The path takes you out of the settlement and into the dark woods. The chill in the air didn’t suit a midsummer night, and it only grows more frigid once you spot the boy’s hunched over figure on the ground, digging for something with his bare hands. Your heart beats rapidly as you watch him pull weeds out of the ground as if he’s gutting the earth and for a second you consider turning around and running back to the safety of settlement. You don’t know what he’s doing out here at night–the once familiar, sometimes even welcoming forest now a strange and bizarre landscape of terror to you. He could be up to all manner of unsavoury things out here and there was no one around to protect you from him. Maybe you could find a way to speak to him in the morning…

But before your feet can move, he cranes his head back to look at you, his dark gaze rooting you to your spot, and just like that you cannot move a muscle. 

“What are you doing out here, flower?” He asks softly, voice deep and saccharine, bathing you like a fly in honey so you won’t escape. You resent yourself for being so improperly affected by it–still feeling a silent pull towards him despite your better judgement, but how can you convince your eyes to deny his beauty? How can you get your ears to shut away his honey voice? 

What you can do is contort your face into an ugly scowl. He doesn’t get to call you that anymore. You should have never allowed him to get close enough to have affectionate names for you. 

“What are you doing here?” You throw the question back at him, needing answers to quiet your worrying mind and time to gather your courage for what’s to come.  

“Gathering supplies for my soup.” He tells you readily, and your scowl loosens a bit at that. Of course, how can you forget his soup? You’ve tasted it many a times to the point that just the mention of it has a remnant of its memory tickling your tongue and making you salivate at the reminder. “Would you like to come home for a bowl? You haven't had any in ages.” 

You curse yourself for how much you suddenly crave it which is then followed by a sinking feeling in your gut as you question why exactly you’re craving it so much. Yes, it was one of the most delicious things you have had the chance to taste in your short life but why was it so? Did he do something to it the same way he did to the last “gift” he gave you? 

You shudder as you think about the countless bowls of soup he had made for you over the course of your brief friendship and what he might’ve slipped in them. No, you would not like to try strange soups from the strange boy, no matter how much your body craves it. “No, thank you.”

He frowns, looking upset–almost hurt–at the rejection. You would laugh if you weren’t so scared of him. “You don’t visit me anymore.” 

You can’t, however, hold back your scoff at his whiny proclamation, as if you owed him that acquaintance. “It is not proper for an unwed woman to meet strange men in the night.” 

“You meet Kai.” He retorts simply and anger and dread wrap around your cold form. What does he care about Kai? Does he really think he and Kai are on the same standing when it comes to you or anyone else for that matter? Has he forgotten himself? 

“That is not your concern.” You hiss at him, scared that he might do something to ruin your tentative relationship with the leader’s son. He has expressed his interest in making you his wife by providing you with the most luxurious gift during this fertility festival. You would be crazy to turn him down and even crazier to let whatever delusional fancy Beomgyu holds for you ruin your chances with him. 

“Why did that make you angry? Are you letting him do things to you that you know you shouldn’t?” Beomgyu confronts you, expression unnervingly blank. “Are you letting him under your skirts?” 

You stalk towards him, raising your hand up and slapping him, then watching a red handprint bloom across his handsome face. You immediately regret it. You’re now within arms reach of the dark boy and he looks angry. 

Before you can step back and run, he reaches out to grab the arm that you struck him with and pulls you to the ground with him. You try to fight him off, using all your strength to attempt to push him away but that just makes him climb on top of you so he can still your thrashing arms and pin them above your head, his body holding yours down as he presses you against the cold mud. 

He was surprisingly strong despite his lean frame, though you suppose you shouldn’t be so surprised given his warrior background even if he quit that path years ago. 

You stare up at him, his dark eyes almost swallowing up the stars above. You don’t dare speak or move. You just lay still as he uses one hand to keep your wrists above your head so he can free up the other to cradle your face, his muddy hand staining your skin. 

“Do you let him kiss you?” He asks you, face blank apart from a muted curiosity. He was so close you can see every individual eyelash framing his gorgeous dark eyes, every tiny blemish on his otherwise flawless skin, the elegant slope of his nose, the firm but soft pillowing of his lips. 

You stay quiet, too scared to speak, too scared to unintentionally set him off. What if this is what the star meant? What if it was warning you of your untimely demise and that is why you were the only one to see it? 

“So you have.” He takes your silence as affirmation, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. “Then it’s only fair if I get a taste too.” 

Your breath catches in your throat as he leans down and meets your lips with his. They feel unfairly good against your own, fit you too well and you hate it. What is this inexplicable hold he has on you? What has he done to you?

In defiance, you command your body to stay still. You may not be able to fight him off but you won't give him the satisfaction of responding to his unwanted advances. So you just lay there and let him mould your mouth to his. He is incessant but surprisingly soft, pushing and coaxing until you unwillingly find yourself whining lowly, and when you open your mouth to let out a small gasp, he uses the opportunity to press his tongue in. 

He tastes so sweet fruits, honey and milk–all things you remember he loves so much and that you always used to provide for him just to see that smile that you now have not seen in years. 

How is it that he tastes this good? What unnatural magic is he using to entice you? He must be because you could not possibly be this inclined towards him.

Your doubts are further confirmed when you detect a hint of something bitter hidden underneath all the sweetness–a sharpness that prevents you from falling completely into him and keeps you on alert. 

Beomgyu lets out his own small moan as his tongue caresses yours and you should be disgusted to be so engulfed by the dark boy, to let him force himself over the boundaries you have put up to keep him away, but the heat radiating off him feels so good against your goosebumps afflicted skin, his small stuttered breaths and whimpers make your body tingle and sizzle and you have absolutely no control over it. You begin to fear you will be trapped here forever under his spell. 

But when his mouth leaves yours to make its way down your neck, you are allowed reprieve to gaze at the sky above and focus on something that isn't him. That's when your eyes stray to the spot where the fallen star was, naturally drawn to it like a tongue is drawn to a missing tooth, and with the phantom taste of iron in your mouth, you snap out of the spell he put you under. 

What the hell are you doing? How can you lie there and let him slither his way back to you? You're a disgrace. 

Disgusted at your weak self, you use that repulsion to fuel you as you gather all your strength and try once again to push him away, but all you could muster is enough power to unlatch him from your neck, exposing the wet freshly kiss-laden skin to the frigid air and making you shiver. 

He gazes at you with a farce concern as he gently cups your cheek, his warm hand like the soothing touch of honeyed milk to your skin that once again compels you to let your guards down, but his blown-wide pupils and his laboured breathing keep them up. 

“Hey, it's okay. I got you, my flower.” He tries to soothe you, bending back down to catch your lips again, but he only manages to freak you out more. 

My flower? No! You must stop this. 

You bite down on his lip harshly, tasting blood, and he reels back, cursing in pain. “What the fuck?” 

In his shock, you’re finally able to push him off and scramble to your feet. “Stay away from me. I do not want you. I have chosen him so stop whatever the hell you’re doing. I will never be yours.”

He levels you with a dark look, the little bit of blood dripping down his chin making him look even more chilling. “Why not?” He asks bitterly. “I can do good by you. You don't have to pay mind to the rumours about me. You know me.”

You shake your head vehemently. “No, I do not know and never wish to know you. You are unwell. Stay away from me.” You proclaim with all the conviction and strength you could muster, before you turn around and dart back to your home. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to challenge you. You do not know what he's capable of and you have disgraced yourself enough already. 

Your heart hammers in your chest as you run, and you whip your head around constantly to make sure he isn't following you. You feel as though he is, gooseskin prickling at the back of your neck at the feeling of being watched, but every time you whip your head back, certain you'll meet his dark eyes, you find nothing there. 

Your family is not back when you reach your home which is both a relief and a grievance. You’re glad they are not there to question your whereabouts or your dirty frazzled condition but you do not wish to be left alone in case he comes to find you. 

In order to soothe yourself, you cast a protective spell on a powerful talisman and hold it to your chest, burying yourself under heaps of fur and praying that is enough to protect you from whatever evils linger around the dark boy.  

_____________________________

A/N: so excited for this series, let me know what you think please!

[beifong-brainrot]

Something I've always loved about atla is how it handled scars, particularly Zuko's facial scar and Aang's lightning scar.

I've probably spoken before about how, as a burn victim with a ton of skin grafts on my legs, torso and hand, Zuko really was the first character "like me" that I saw on TV. It was, as you can guess, quite a momentous moment for kid me. Which is probably why I'm so disheartened on the live action show shrinking and toning down Zuko's scar significantly.

Too often scars, especially burn scars are seen as gore or body horror and too graphic to be seen on TV that isn't horror or related genres. And often scars, especially facial scars are reserved purely for villains and are used as a signifier for 'evil'. A trope that you'll find is still alive and kicking even today even in big franchises.

And while Zuko does reinforce this trope to some extent, I think it was subverted enough for it to have irs own merit. Atla also steers away from the scars=evil narrative, by having a lot of "good" characters have scars too like Bato and Song. This helps destigmatise scars as a whole, making Zuko's 'scarred villany' seem like a more individual case.

In Atla, scars are more the trademark of victims rather than villains and this rings true for Zuko too.

Zuko is a victim of the Fire Nation in the sense that the Fire Nation's values of war, strength and honour facilitated Ozai's abuse of him, particularly the scarring.

Zuko's scarring does follow a very established trope of a son being scarred by a father, which is surprisingly prevalent, especially with burn victims. Seriously I collect these men like pokemon. This tropiness isn't a bad thing, since I think it leads to us very quickly sympathising with him. I certainly did, since his experience mirrors my own.

The scene of Zuko's scarring is also particularly special, due to it being rather unique, because it isn't quick or an action scene, nor is it shown as an overly gory horror scene, despite it being, well, horrific.

It's... tasteful. Or at least, as tasteful as the scene of a child getting scarred by their father can be, I suppose. It doesn't linger on the violence, but also doesn't sugarcoat it. The scene of Zuko's scarring, and the events leading up to it also give us a good exposition to his better qualities, like his compassion, and a good explanation for why these qualities stay buried.

I can understand why some people in the fandom believe that Zuko's scar symbolises his 'worse side', but I actually believe its the opposite. Very often, when a character has a 'split down the middle' type of scar, their scarred side represents their worse half, like with Two Face from DC.

Because Zuko's scar doesn't symbolise his allegiance to the Fire Nation, it symbolises the fact that he failed to live up to the Fire Nation's standards. It's a physical reminder of the time Zuko actively defied the Fire Nation's standards and mindset.

We get a lot of nods to Zuko's scar aymbolising disgrace and failure to uphold ehat the Fire Nation expected of him. It's literally a physical blemish upon his 'honour'.

This is especially noticeable when Zuko's appearance is contrasted with Ozai, who exists as sort of the human stand in for the Fire Nation's imperialism. For most of the show, we are not shown any of Ozai's features, his face being obscured by shadow or out of frame.

We finally see Ozai's face, it's when Zuko is seeing hik for the first time in years. And Ozai looks so similar to Zuko. An unblemished, perfect, complete Zuko, so to speak. In Zuko's fever dream, where we see an unscarred Fire Lord version of Zuko, he looks exactly how I imagine a younger Ozai would look. I also love that Zuko's adult design seems to lean into this similarity.

Furthermore, Zuko's scar is used time and time again as a way he connects with victims of the Fire Nation. People who don't know him, like Song and Jet, assume him to be another victim of the Fire Nation, citing his scar as the reason why. Which is half true, Zuko is a victim of the Fire Nation, just not in the way they think.

Jet: I think Lee would make a good Freedom Fighter. He's just trying to find his way in the world, like us. Smellerbee: You don't know anything about him, Jet. Jet: I know he didn't get that scar from a waterbender.

One person who doesn't connect to Zuko over his burn scar is Katara. I love the scene of Katara and Zuko in the crystal catacombs. It's a profound scene and one that always makes me a bit emotional, especially in the wider context of atla, a subject I've touched on in this post.

However, the handling of Zuko's scar in this scene is especially dear to my heart. I strongly remember that, when Katara offered to heal Zuko's scar, I actually got scared and upset. I was terrified of Zuko's scar being erased, of the connection I felt to him snuffed out and one of the best parts of his characterisation being erased.

But that's not what happened, and the scene is amazing on that front and all others.

We learn that Katara asscociates Zuko's face with the Fire Nation, which makes sense, since he's been kinda clingy for the entire 1st season. Katara denies it having to do with anything with Zuko's scar.

Katara: It's just that for so long now, whenever I would imagine the face of the enemy, it was your face. Zuko: My face? I see. [He touches his scar.] Katara: No, no, that's-that's not what I mean.

The Katara lover in me believes her. As a a member of the Sothern Water Tribe, she probably has seen many burn victims. And her pursuing healing would also probably lead her down the route of normalising and understanding burn scars.

However, I would not be surprised or disconcerted if the scar did have something with Katara perceiving him as a villain. After all, to a lot of people, scars and "ugliness" denote moral ugliness. The very obvious fire asscociation probably doesn't help someone traumatised by the Fire Nation too. It is a sad fact of life that even those who know better subconsciously react to people with scars and other "deformities" with disgust and distrust.

We also see Zuko explicitly give us the rundown of his previously unspoken struggle with feeling like his scar is defining him as a person.

Zuko: It's okay. I used to think this scar marked me. The mark of the banished prince, cursed to chase the Avatar forever. But lately, I've realized I'm free to determine my own destiny, even if I'll never be free of my mark.

This is something I can relate to as someone with prominent scarring and I'm sure we all sometimes feel defined by things outside of our control. Sometimes It's hard to seperate your identity from your appearance. And it's even harder to seperate yourself from events that influenced you so harshly.

As I previously highlighted, Zuko's scar relates strongly to his failure to adhere to the Fire Nation's ideals and conventions, his failure to be the perfect prince of the nation. And while to us, that is a good thing, to Zuko, at least at first, that is a very, very bad thing.

To Zuko, the scar is a symbol of his flaws, and a just, if not harsh punishment for his percieved transgression. He sees it as a brand, denoting his mistake and shame. He sees it as the physical manifestation of what his banishment and scorn from Ozai means.

It's only when he begins growing as a person away from the Fire Nation's influnece, that he starts to realise that the scar is just a scar. It holds no power over him. And while he relapses for a moment, "demystifying" his scar allows him to do the same to the event of his scarring. It allows him to look back at that moment and not see righteous discipline, but rather see it for what it was and go "hey wait a minute that was actually fucked up.". Which allows him to look at The Fire Nation's conquest of the world and go "hey this is also fucked up.", when the lessons he's learnt in the Earth kingdom finally click.

I believe this is why we see Zuko almost purely from the side of his scar in the scene where he confronts Ozai, especially when it's contrasted with Ozai's unscarred eyes.

Zuko's scar, like many scars in fiction, symbolises imperfection. But rather than an "objective" imperfection, as most fictional scars do, Zuko's scar symbolises his imperfection through the skewed and biased eyes of the Fire Nation. It's a nice subversion of the trope that usually encourages us to equate beauty with goodness and ugliness with evil.

Side note, I know I've been using the terms "ugly" and "ugliness" to talk about scars. I just wanted to note that I don't think scars automatically mean someone isn't attractive/scarred people are ugly. But in a lot of media, scars are seen as gross and ugly, which is why I've been using these terms.

I like that Zuko defies this trope by being drawn as very attractive with his scar, and even being seen as desireable in canon.

Even though it does loop back to the 'attractive=good' symbolism, I don't think it totally invalidates the story Zuko's scar is telling. Plus it WAS an ego boost to child year old me who thought no one whould ever love me bcs I looked like a burnt chicken nugget. So I'll let it slide.

I love Zuko's scar, and I love how it seamlessly fit into the story, while also subverting tropes and invalidating stigmas towards scarred people. It's probably one of my favourite, if not very personal aspects of the character.

I do however, also want to analyse and go over Aang's scar from Azula's lightning and I plan to go over it at a later date, since this post is getting a bit long and overwhelming.

Toodles!

[avelera]

How did Jayce know Viktor was erasing the blemishes of others as well?

Because Viktor did it to Jayce too.

I was admittedly a bit puzzled when Jayce made the leap to Viktor being ashamed of his own disability and seeing it as a flaw. Viktor wanting to erase his disease made sense, it was literally terminal, and Jayce was all in on helping him with that.

But Viktor has never actually said aloud that he wanted to get rid of his limp too. However, he has demonstrated this desire with the fact he first tested out the Shimmer/Hexcore transformation on his bad leg and the whole scene with him yelling on the docks while he ran.

But there's another moment too that I realized would clue Jayce in: on the astral plane when Viktor first drags him there.

Here's a picture of Jayce's hands while he's there:

It's the first thing he looks at while he's giving his speech about Viktor wanting to cure what he thought were weaknesses.

By now, Jayce's wrist had the gem embedded in it. He had the rot from the poisoned future dimension creeping along his skin in what looked like an increasingly severe, if not fatal, infection.

In addition he presumably had cut and scars from his time in the other dimension, burn marks from his years working in forges, not to mention broken nails and darker skin (though that could just be the lighting). Yet his hands here look luminous and young, untouched by any sort of work or damage.

These are not Jayce's hands. These are hands that have been stripped of every flaw or mark of individuality.

I think Jayce recognizes that and it helps him piece together what exactly Viktor is doing here, and why.

[uplatterme]

all out?

—sub!scara/dom!reader, amab!reader | office sex, exhibitionism

—not beta read so excuse some mistakes if there are any TT

honestly, scaramouche should have seen this coming.

he stares at his empty cabinet, dumbfounded that there’s nothing inside it. surely not…

the balladeer wants to scream. just his luck, that it happened today too, when there’s a meeting scheduled that he cannot skip.

“fuck.”

the harbinger walks through the chilling halls of the zapolyarny palace. the cold has never bothered him in any shape or form, yet today proves to be an exception.

there are lower-ranked fatui passing by, hastily running off, not wanting to meet his gaze. an action that he isn’t unfamiliar to.

he hisses and stops when a certain ginger blemishes his view.

“looks like someone’s having a bad day!” he greets.

for a moment there, scaramouche thinks that he’s caught red-handed. not until he realizes that the youngest harbinger couldn’t have possibly seen through his facade.

“you’re deafeningly loud.” he bites back, continuing his steps despite the aching in his lower half.

“ah, still the same as ever. not that im surprised.” he says, chuckling echoing through the halls.

“the meeting’s to start in a few, although the director and the overseer hasn’t arrived yet.” tartaglia informs.

he flushes at the mention of your title, the one behind this problem that he’s facing right now.

“hello?” he calls out.

“can you learn to shut up just at least once?!” he yells.

currently, he sits on the chair provided for him, next to pulcinella and sandrone. as long as he doesn’t get seated next to that blue-haired freak, he considers any situation to be pleasant.

the door opens with a slam and the rest of the harbingers bow their head as greeting. there you stand, that folder you always carry in your arms and a pen between your fingers.

that’s when the memories comes back to him.

flashes of each time you’ve ripped his underwear with those fingers of yours, the scene claws into his brain as he bows down his head in unison with the others.

it was fine the first time. it was only a one-time thing, after all.

oh, how naive he was thinking that.

he then realizes that it wasn’t a one-time thing, seeing as there’s none of them left in his cabinet, forced to attend this meeting with his cock slapping against his thigh each time he walks.

it’s embarrassing. he seethes at your voice, talking about some topic that he couldn’t give a shit about. he adores when your tone is like that, commanding and strict. the more you speak, the more the harbinger wants to cave in.

his cock presses hardly to his shorts, begging for any kind of attention. unfortunately, he’s forced to endure it. to sit there in agony while he stares at you, giving out orders.

oh, how he wishes that you bend him against the table right now.

he can see it visibly twitch from underneath his clothing. if you were to see this, what would you have done? scaramouche’s imagination runs wild, thinking of how you’d make him take your cock. overusing his body and milking him dry. a doll, whose only purpose is to serve you.

“balladeer?” he snaps back to reality, hearing you mention him.

he bites back a needy whine, feeling everyone’s attention now centered on him.

“yeah?” he spit out, his eyes meeting with yours.

“you’ll be sent off to a separate mission, is that all right with you?”

god, you could ask him to do anything and he’d agree.

“sure.”

when the meeting ends, his body was moving on its own, moving towards you to grab you and pinning you to the wall.

“you! you better take care of this!” he shouts.

you were confused at first but it didn’t take you long to see his cock fully outlined through his tight shorts.

“why should i? you’re the one who decided to attend this meeting like that.”

he groans. he does not have the time for any of your teasing right now.

“you kept tearing through—just, ugh!

fuck me already!”

his voice echoes throughout the room. he would have never expected this kind of situation to happen but he needed you so badly. he’s been hot and bothered ever since this morning.

he lets out a relieved groan once he feels his abdomen pressing on the table.

then, next comes the sound of his shorts being ripped apart. he would have complained about your tendency to tear through his clothes but all the complaints in his head goes away once he feels your fingers digging inside of him.

“hnngghh—fuck, finally. only thing you’re fucking good for—oh god!”

“shit, shit, shit!”

his face presses up on his hands, far too drunk as drool goes down his chin. he’s loving each movement inside of him, the satisfaction and pleasure you give are intoxicating him and he wants more.

his body squirms, his feet constantly misplacing themselves on the floor. his dick leaking precum as you stroke it at a pace, leaving him panting and breathing like a dog who had just gone for a run.

“look at you, all loose already…your body’s just made for fucking, isn’t it? always wanting to prove something when you can just show everybody how much of a cumdump you are.”

scara grunts at your insult (praise?), wanting to spit back something to defend himself. but his body is then shifted around, his back laying on the cold table as you took no time in penetrating his hole.

his mouth is left wide open by the stretch. it burns but god, he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the pain. the pain that would soon then transition into pleasure by each. single. thrust.

pounding into him mercilessly, his mouth being covered by his own mouth to desperately hide his cries from enjoying it too much, smiling underneath.

eventually, he just decides to let go. his hands reaching up to fondle his own chest, playing with his nipples while you shape him into your own cocksleeve, his leg up as you wanted better access into fucking him as much as you can.

scara’s so damn loud. of course, he doesn’t notice it. nor does he notice a certain redhead blushing needing to do a double take to see if he’s seeing the right thing.

“f-fill me up! fuck, please!”

“haaah—! more, more!”

after a while, those sentences are no longer coherent as he’s turned to just moaning and whimpering, slurring his words that you can barely understand.

the table is a cum-filled mess, his dick spurting out white as his eyes roll back the furthest they can into his head.

and yet, he doesn’t stop.

even better, he’s started to match your rhythm and grind himself onto you.

there’s a bit of a swelling in his belly from your cum and yet that isn’t seen as a blockade.

each thrust, your cum slipping out of him and back into him and the warm feeling of your stickiness is just enough to send him over the edge.

in the end, he’s left with a satisfied smile. laughing and chuckling while struggling to breathe, his walls aching and not sure if he wants more or to just stop moving for as long as he can.

one thing’s for sure though,

he’s completely forgotten that his shorts are torn apart.

[runninriot]

Beautiful Boy

written for @steddiesmuttyseptember

week 3 prompt: lingerie | rated: E | wc: 4.551 | tags: shy eddie munson, lovingly mean steve harrington, dom/sub undertones, sexual content, self confidence issues, body worship | complete fic on ao3

  “This is stupid. So, so stupid.”

Eddie has been keeping himself locked away in the bathroom for way too long now. He should go out and face the music, but he can’t, feels too humiliated to move.

   “What the hell am I doing?”

He should’ve known it was a bad idea to agree to this, should’ve known his childish behaviour would come back to bite his ass.

Eddie lost a bet to his boyfriend, a stupid bet he’d agreed to easily because when has he ever said no to a challenge? But Steve beat him and now Eddie is getting ready to pay up.

Or at least he’s trying to. Because he’s still not sure he can really pull it off.

He keeps turning from left to right, skeptically looking at his reflection in the mirror.

    God, he looks ridiculous, doesn’t he.

This stuff isn’t made for him. It’s for people with less bony asses. People with more meat on them and with defined muscles they can show off. Pretty people, whose perfect bodies would shine covered in black lace.

Eddie just looks… wrong. Like he’s trying to be something he’s definitely not.

The dainty floral pattern is a harsh contrast to the crooked lines adorning his skin – too soft, too delicate, enhancing all his little flaws and blemishes rather than fulfilling the purpose of making him feel good. That’s why people usually choose to wear these things, right? To feel hot and pretty and confident.

Well. He definitely doesn’t.

He hates the way the panties sit too low on his hips, digging into the sharp edges of his bones. The way they sit snug around his flat ass, revealing the lack of shape. The matching bralette is made of the same lacy material, thin straps holding nothing in place – Eddie’s not graced with the body of a god like Steve is. He’s got nothing much to show off.

Eddie takes one more look at himself and sighs defeated when he sees someone he doesn't recognise staring back from the mirror.

And it bothers him, how much he hates the view. How insecure it makes him feel, how it makes him question what Steve sees in him, why he settled for someone like Eddie when he could’ve had anyone else.

Someone just as beautiful as him.

At least Steve will get a good laugh out if it. That’s probably why he thought of the punishment in the first place. Not necessarily to make fun of Eddie, he’s not that mean. But- whatever.

A bet is a bet, and he lost, so he’ll suck it up and get it over with.

He’s got a one-man-crowd waiting for him in the bedroom and the sooner he gets what he wants, the sooner Eddie can get out of this fucking lingerie.

-----

Steve’s buzzing with anticipation. He’s been sitting on the bed for what feels like hours, waiting for Eddie to finally come out of the bathroom.

He’s been dreaming about this forever, literally. It’s a secret fantasy he’s had ever since Eddie and him started dating a few months ago, since they started exploring each other’s bodies in the most intimate ways.

To see Eddie’s perfect body covered in lacy lingerie, to let his fingers dance over the soft fabric, gently caressing what’s underneath, mouthing at his cock through his panties just to tease, just rile him up – God, what a vision, what a thought. And soon, so soon, it’ll become reality.

He can’t wait for his boyfriend to walk out dressed in the matching pieces Steve had chosen himself, went for the black set because it’s Eddie’s favourite colour.

Steve’s hard just from imagining it. Can barely keep his hands to himself at the dirty thoughts looping in his mind.

He needs to see it. Needs Eddie to come out right now or he’ll combust.

And then, finally, Eddie does. Slowly opens the bedroom door before he hesitantly steps in. And he’s even more beautiful than Steve could ever have imagined.

Standing there, all shy and pretty, with his cheeks tinted pink and his arms crossed before his chest, looking so… so perfect.

   “Fuck,“ is all Steve can get out, too stunned, too lost in the vision his boyfriend is.

He let’s his eyes roam slowly from his face to his shoulder, following the line of the straps down to where the v-shaped neckline reveals Eddie’s hairless, tattooed chest. Stops to take in the sight of his pierced nipples, metal glinting through sheer fabric that hugs his shape so beautifully.

Eyes raking further down, Steve feels his own cock twitch - the low cut panties enhance Eddie’s narrow waist perfectly, catching Steve’s full attention where the lace encloses Eddie’s glorious dick. He’s soft but still prominent under the see-through material that leaves nothing to the imagination.

It’s a mouth-watering vision and Steve silently curses himself for not being bold enough to get the fishnet stockings, too. They’d sit so perfectly around Eddie’s muscular thighs and long legs.

    “It’s okay, Steve. You can laugh. I know I look stupid.“

Eddie’s words pull him out of his trance and Steve blinks a few times, feeling a little hazy.

The words take some time to sink in but once they do, Steve suddenly notices that what he thought was Eddie just being a bit shy is actually him being uncomfortable. That the way he tries to hide his body behind his own arms is not him acting coy, it’s him being ashamed.

    Oh, hell no.

That just won’t do. That’s not what Steve had planned.

Luckily, he knows just how to turn this around.

-----

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