#with just to kind of flesh out the world a little more in a more natural-ish seeming way. Like nobody in the main cast would really

[lilacxquartz]

i’m hearing everyone out on extremely unhinged and volatile villain who is almost eerily gentle but only with you, especially intimately—

trigger warning: yandere talks, suggestive content

like they committed some sort of canon-typical horror just moments ago and saw the unease written on your features, so they paused in their mania. they then cupped your face and smoothed their thumbs over your cheekbones, leaned in real close and just… immediately gently, tenderly even, pressed their lips against your forehead.

“i got carried away again,” they’d say, “forgive me for scaring you,” they would possibly add, while being unable to take a single step at all away from you, wanting to comfort you in the most intimate way they know how.

they’d lead you to a safe place, perhaps their bedroom or wherever they kept you, assuming that i’m writing a yandere, and they’d ask for your forgiveness with each kiss that they’d pepper ever so softly onto your flesh. they’d touch you, perhaps almost reverently, brushing their hands against your skin as if worshipping.

maybe they’d lose themselves a little, kissing you with more drive, allowing you to fall gently over a plush surface, kneeling in between your legs as they’d hover over you, always searching for your acceptance. if they’d find it, they’d continue to test the waters, no matter how much they’ve already done it with you, intending to undo their wrongs by righting you.

if they’d find none, they’d be upset, of course, their darling isn’t so forgiving of their wrongdoings today—they messed up. they’d cuddle you, spoon you, hold you close, if you allowed it and if not, they’d leave you be in the safest place they know.

all the while if you fight against them, they’d let you pound bruises into their flesh as you tried to escape, they’d hold you tight if they saw you inch towards an exit, they’d drag you back and then they’d try again.

bringing you down with kindness while the rest of the world bleeds from the blood they spilled at their own hands.

[jule116]

I posted a little story my little sister wrote in the arcane fandom a couple days ago, and people really seemed to like it! She just wrote another bit about ambessa and Mel so yeah enjoy! 😅😅😭😭

The first time Ambessa Medarda saw war, she was eight years old.

Her father did not shield her from it—he led her into its jaws.

The sun had barely risen when he took her by the hand, his grip unyielding, and guided her through the charred remains of a village whose name she would never know. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burning wood, a noxious perfume that clung to her skin, her hair, the very marrow of her bones.

“Do you hear it?” her father asked, his voice calm, unaffected.

Ambessa did not answer. She did not want to hear it. The cries of the wounded, the wails of mothers clutching lifeless children, the desperate whispers of men begging for mercy—none of it was meant for her ears.

And yet, it was all she could hear.

A man lay sprawled in the mud at her feet, his chest heaving in shallow, ragged breaths. His eyes found hers, dark and wet with terror. He was missing an arm. The stump was jagged, raw, and weeping crimson.

“Please,” he rasped.

Ambessa turned to her father, expecting him to call for a healer. Instead, he drew his blade and drove it into the man’s throat with a sickening crunch.

She gasped, stumbling back, her small hands flying to her mouth.

“Never hesitate,” her father said, wiping his sword clean on the dead man’s tunic. “Mercy is for the weak. Hesitation is a death sentence.”

Ambessa did not answer. Her pulse was a war drum, hammering against her ribs.

They walked deeper into the ruins. The corpses grew thicker, the devastation more complete. Some had been burned alive, their bodies curled in unnatural poses, their mouths frozen in silent screams. A child no older than Ambessa lay beneath the rubble of a collapsed house, a wooden toy sword still clutched in his tiny fist.

Ambessa looked away.

Her father grabbed her chin, forcing her to look.

“Do not turn your back on this,” he said. “This is the world. It does not care for you, and it will not be kind. You will either stand above it or be crushed beneath it.”

She wanted to tell him she understood. That she had learned the lesson he wanted her to learn. But she could not speak.

So she only nodded.

The lesson did not end that day.

She watched her father command armies, wage wars, cut down men with a steady hand and an empty gaze. And he made her watch. He made her understand.

“Strength is all that matters,” he told her, time and time again. “Weakness is a death sentence.”

Ambessa learned.

She learned to wield a sword before she learned to read. She learned to kill before she learned to love. She learned to bury her heart so deep inside herself that even she could no longer hear its cries.

By the time she took her first life with her own hands, she did not flinch.

By the time she led her own battles, she did not hesitate.

By the time she stood at her father’s grave, she did not weep.

She had become what he had forged her to be.

A Medarda.

Unyielding. Unforgiving.

A conqueror.

And yet, sometimes—only in the silence between battles, only in the dead of night when sleep eluded her—she would remember that village.

The bodies.

The fire.

The boy with the wooden sword.

And for the briefest of moments, she would wonder—if she had never seen those things, if her father had let her be a child instead of a weapon—

Would she still be capable of love?

Ambessa Medarda did not believe in love.

She had seen what sentiment did to men—it made them foolish, weak, vulnerable. She had cut down men who begged for their lives, not for themselves, but for the people they loved. She had heard warriors, mighty in battle, cry out for their wives as steel pierced their flesh.

Love was a wound. And she had never allowed herself to bleed.

Until him.

He was not like the men she conquered beside. He did not seek power for the sake of it, did not wield a sword as an extension of his arm, did not believe that war was the answer to all things. He was a diplomat, a scholar, a man of ideas. He spoke of peace, of building rather than destroying. And against all logic, all reason—she loved him for it.

With him, she felt something she had never felt before. Softness. He touched her as though she was more than a weapon, as though she was something worth cherishing, not just wielding.

And when she told him she was with his child, he smiled as if she had just handed him the world.

“Mel,” he whispered, resting his hand against her stomach. “She will be brilliant.”

Ambessa was terrified. She had never known how to be anything but a soldier. How could she be a mother?

But he showed her. He was the warmth she did not know she needed, the balance to her unyielding nature. He held her when nightmares pulled her back to the battlefield. He whispered to Mel while she grew inside her, telling stories of a world Ambessa had long given up on.

For a moment, she believed that perhaps love was not a wound after all.

Then war came.

It always did.

It did not matter that she had tried to build instead of destroy. It did not matter that she had hoped. The world did not care. It never had.

She fought, because that was all she knew how to do. But this time, she was fighting to protect. To defend the life she had built, the family she had sworn never to allow herself to have.

And in the end, she failed.

She found him in the ruins of their home, pinned beneath the rubble, blood painting his lips. His breath was shallow, his eyes distant.

She dropped to her knees beside him, pressing her hands against the wound in his stomach. It was too deep. Too much.

“You’ll be fine,” she told him, because she did not know what else to say.

He smiled, weak and fading. “I suppose… you finally learned to lie.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, her voice breaking. “I will not let you die.”

His fingers found hers. “Take care of her,” he whispered.

Ambessa did not cry when the light left his eyes. She did not scream, did not wail.

She stood, her hands stained with his blood, and ordered the city to burn.

That was the last time she allowed herself to love.

Mel never knew of her father.

Ambessa made sure of it.

She did not speak of him, did not keep his memory alive. What use was a dead man to a girl who would inherit the Medarda name?

Love had made Ambessa weak once. She would not allow it to make Mel the same.

She raised her daughter in steel and silence. There were no bedtime stories, no whispered words of affection. She taught her strategy instead of lullabies, strength instead of sentiment.

She made sure Mel understood the truth of the world—the truth her father had been too blind to see.

Power was all that mattered.

Mel was ten years old the first time Ambessa told her she was weak.

She had always known her mother’s love was different from what she saw in others. The other children had mothers who embraced them when they cried, who kissed their wounds and whispered reassurances.

Ambessa Medarda did not believe in such things.

“You are soft,” she told Mel one evening, after watching her hesitate too long during a strategy lesson. “Weakness is a disease. If you do not cut it out, it will be your downfall.”

Mel wanted to argue, wanted to say that hesitation was not weakness, that there was value in thoughtfulness, in caution. But she had learned long ago that Ambessa did not tolerate defiance.

So she nodded, swallowed her words, and tried to be what her mother wanted.

But it was never enough.

Years passed, and the lessons grew harsher. Ambessa tested her constantly, pushing her harder, waiting for her to break.

And Mel did.

Over and over again.

She was not like her mother. She could not kill without question, could not silence the part of herself that wanted to create rather than destroy.

And Ambessa saw it.

“You are not strong enough to be Medarda,” she said one night, standing over Mel with cold, assessing eyes. “You are not strong enough for Noxus.”

Mel’s breath caught. The words struck harder than any blade. “Mother, I can—”

“You cannot.” Ambessa’s tone was final. “I have no use for weakness in my house.”

Mel stared at her, waiting, hoping for something—anything—that would tell her this was not rejection. That Ambessa was not throwing her away.

But her mother’s eyes were unreadable, her face carved from stone.

“You will leave for Piltover,” Ambessa continued, as though this was nothing more than another lesson, another strategy. “You will find power in their wealth, in their politics. You will use your mind, since your heart makes you unfit for war.”

Mel did not know when the tears began to fall. She wiped them away quickly, but it was too late. Ambessa had already seen.

Her mother sighed. Not with sadness, not with regret. With disappointment.

“You see?” she said. “This is why you will never survive here.”

Mel wanted to scream. To beg. To prove she could be strong enough.

But deep down, she knew it was pointless.

Ambessa had already decided.

And just like that, Mel Medarda was sent away—not as an exile, but as an investment. A tool to be sharpened in a different kind of battlefield.

She did not cry when she boarded the ship to Piltover.

She did not look back.

Because if her mother had taught her anything, it was this—

Weakness had no place in the Medarda name.

Piltover was not Noxus, but it was its own kind of battlefield.

Mel learned quickly—power did not come from brute strength here, but from influence, from the ability to manipulate, to control without ever drawing a blade.

Yet, it was not enough.

No matter how high she climbed, no matter how deeply she wove herself into the city’s politics, she still felt weak. The voice of her mother echoed in her mind, a ghost she could never silence.

And then, the Black Rose found her.

They whispered to her of power beyond anything her mother could comprehend—power that did not come from steel, but from the unseen forces that ruled the world from the shadows.

She listened.

She learned.

She took that power into herself, let it change her, shape her, sharpen her into something new.

By the time war came for Piltover, by the time Noxus marched at Ambessa Medarda’s command, Mel was ready.

The battlefield was not a throne room. It did not care for politics, for manipulation, for whispered deals in the dark.

It was blood and fire. Steel and death.

And now, mother and daughter stood across from each other, two figures amidst the ruin of war.

Ambessa had always imagined that if she saw Mel again, she would find a woman broken by the softness of Piltover. But the daughter before her now was something else.

There was darkness in her eyes, power curling around her like shadows given form. The Black Rose’s mark was upon her, unmistakable.

Ambessa almost smiled.

“So,” she said, raising her blade. “You finally found strength.”

Mel did not answer. She only lifted her hand, and the battlefield twisted at her command.

The fight was brutal.

Ambessa had fought countless warriors, had cut down kings and warlords alike. But this—this was different.

Mel did not fight with swords, but with sorcery, with a will that bent reality itself.

Ambessa countered with steel and experience, pushing forward, relentless. A lesser opponent would have faltered, would have been crushed beneath her might.

But Mel did not falter.

She did not hesitate.

And in the end, it was she who struck the final blow.

Ambessa staggered, feeling the cold grip of death wrap around her. She fell to her knees, blood spilling from the wound Mel had carved into her.

She looked up at her daughter—her victor.

And for the first time in her life, she felt something like pride.

“You did well,” she murmured, voice thick with blood.

Mel’s hands trembled, her expression unreadable. But she did not look away. She did not weep.

Ambessa gave her the faintest nod.

“Good.”

And with that, Ambessa Medarda, the great conqueror, fell.

Her daughter had surpassed her at last.

[unascended]

THIS WAS NOT HOW ASTARION HAD SEEN THINGS GOING. There was horror blooming on that gorgeous face, wrapped in thorns and heartbreak. Astarion may be a vampire and far past accepting that fact despite the pain it'd brought him, but this... Oh, this made him feel beastly. He'd given away the truth without explaining it, and without giving any reassurances that maybe he did want this. Because -

Why? What was he so afraid of that he'd willingly tried to continue this charade when it was clearly nearing its expiration anyway? Fighting his own feelings had only drowned them both.

Now Sylverian felt like a monster who'd groped at his skin and torn into his flesh without his wanting it. And while it was true that Astarion hadn't, at least not at first, they weren't hands that had ever harmed him.

Sylverian never ripped out his hair. He never shoved things inside him when he was ill prepared, eyes glossy and far away. Even if he'd fallen into himself when they'd fallen into bed together, he was still somehow the most present he'd ever been when that sweet touch blessed his skin.

It was Astarion who'd tainted this. He lied. And he lied again to cover the lie. And he kept lying until he couldn't lie anymore and Sylverian was shattering before him into multicolored crystalline shards. This, he had to admit, was the most loathsome he'd felt in his entire existence and he couldn't even bring himself to speak.

Through eyes wide, sad, and shining with fear Astarion was forced to watch and listen, frozen to the spot, as he was told he'd never be forgiven. It served him right, really. This was what he'd earned through his own choices. Could he even be trusted with making his own choices?

Was Astarion even capable of making good choices to begin with?

Could he change that?

If he accepted that he was helpless and stayed the same, perhaps he'd spend his freedom after killing Cazador doing the same thing over and over again. Breaking hearts and experiencing the torment of having genuinely wanted them but fucking it all up. Or worse - perhaps he'd fall prey to doing the same horrible things as his master. Obsessive over something, destructive, willing to tear down the world for the kind of power that allowed no one to hurt or leave him again. He was frightened and he was weak and Gods Sylverian was leaving him and he didn't want him to.

"Please. Wait, you don't have to -" You don't have to forgive me, just please don't leave.

By the time he'd reached out his hand in an attempt to catch one of Sylverian's wrists before he could flee it was too late. He was gone, his sobbing carrying over the camp grounds, and Astarion was left alone wrapped in fur and choking down the urge to cry and curse himself. (Astarion didn't deserve to cry like Sylverian. He did this.)

⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩ - ⋆｡°✩- ⋆｡°✩

IF THE JUDGEMENT THAT FATEFUL EVENING HAD BEEN BAD... In the days that followed, it was worse. Sylverian was avoiding him. Whenever Astarion attempted to catch him alone to speak with him the little golden boy was squirreling himself away - gathering a party, talking to someone who glared daggers over his shoulder, rushing out of camp before Astarion even got within five feet of him. The rest of the party all had cutting things to say to him, too. Even Lae'zel, who found Sylverian's frequent crying irritating had threatened to stake him if he hurt him any further than he had.

Frankly it was beginning to piss Astarion off. He was trying. But every time he tried his attempts were rebuffed or dodged. More than ever his existence felt like a plague, and he was beginning to think, more than a week later, that perhaps he shouldn't stay. To the Hells with all of them. Let them all die screaming like he would.

Except... every time he packed up his bag and pressed his palms to his tent with all intentions of dismantling it to take with him, his guilt and shame arrested him. They'd made it to the Underdark. Tomorrow they'd be passing through the Grymforge to the surface, to the Shadow Cursed lands. Before he was even more starved and emotionally unstable, he had to do something.

Halsin seemed to be the only one in the group willing to entertain him for more than a moment since he'd admitted to it. So it was after some sage advice from the world's most annoying druid that Astarion settled on the one thing he could do about this.

If Sylverian wouldn't speak to him, then he'd leave him a note. Perhaps even a gift. Both things he could discard should he not be interested. After all, he'd overheard that the day prior a pair of Sylverian's favorite gloves had been utterly ruined in a fight. He was distraught about it, and there was no way to not know about it - everyone in Faerûn knew when Sylverian was unhappy with something. He may not be able to fix what he'd done, but he could fix this.

And so, as he was left behind once more Astarion fished those gloves out of a bucket they'd been unceremoniously dumped in during a melodramatic fit and scrubbed them until the blood was gone. He spent the entire day holed up in his tent, sewing. There were holes, but he fixed them with careful embroidery - intricate stars and fairies with a silver thread he'd found when they were still above ground. They were beautiful. Dare he say more so than they had been before.

Late that night, when the lantern in Sylverian's tent had gone out and the camp was silent, Astarion stalked through the dark lit only by glowing crystals and mushrooms toward his former lover's tent. The flap was tied shut, but he wasn't looking for an invitation to feed - he'd gone longer without, and surely he was going to again. Dropping into a low crouch before the sealed opening, Astarion shoved his apology under the canvas - the gloves, neatly folded and crossed over one another resting atop a letter written in flowing crimson script.

He then stole into the night in hopes of finding something to eat. It'd been days. Hells, he'd take a gnome at this point. (Except he wouldn't. It would upset Sylverian.)

The note read:

Sylverian, I want you to know that I'm sorry. You've said you won't ever forgive me and I understand, but you deserve this. If nothing else, you deserve an apology. Really you deserve the world at your pretty fingertips. Here we are about to march into eternal darkness when you deserve sunlight and happiness, and not a bitter and twisted man like me.

There is no good reason why I did what I did. The truth is that you didn't deserve it.

I don't want to make excuses. Something about you makes me want to be better. You make me want to be honest when lying would be so much easier. It's been instinct for two hundred years. You've made me believe that maybe I can BE better than this. Better than what he made me.

What I experienced is a part of the real world, but you're also real. I was too afraid to allow myself to believe that and I treated you like a tool instead of a person, just like my master did to me.

I feel awful, but... this isn't about me. I lied to you, bedded you, and manipulated your feelings so you or the others would have no reason to drive a stake through my heart. Even more, I wanted you to save me. I wanted you to want to save me. I didn't expect to start feeling something real, and I certainly didn't expect this. I didn't expect to want something real... with you. You trusted me, even when that was an objectively stupid thing to do, and you deserve me being honest even if it makes me look worse and you want to be rid of me.

What I feel is real. That day was difficult because I thought I could force myself to get rid of it. This time I don't have Cazador taking you from me an hour before sunrise, crushing my hope and mocking me. There is no getting rid of this, not for me. So I'll devote myself to doing better. Or... trying. I don't know what better is, but I'm willing to try.

For what it's worth, your touch was the first I've ever chosen for myself. Even if I didn't go about it honestly. You didn't hurt me. I hurt you.

You deserve happiness. I'll be here to make sure you achieve that and live, even if it isn't by your side.

Yours, Astarion

Of course Sylverian had waited when Astarion asked him to. Of course he had listened. How his heart ached for this poor man! How he wished he could take away his pain, could ease the weight of all that suffering. He wanted to reach out, to tell him that he understood. That they never had to be intimate, and he would be just as content simply holding him, just as devoted, just as hopelessly enamored. A promise Sylverian firmly believed he could keep, just as he believed he could anchor his fickle heart to one man, that what they had was truly special, that he could handle Astarion’s dark side.

He wanted to snuggle up to him, to thread his fingers through those pretty curls, to whisper against his skin that it was alright. That Astarion never had to do anything again that he didn’t want to.

But the depth of his sympathy was suddenly eclipsed by something heavier, something cold and leaden in his chest.

Astarion’s words echoed in his mind like a cruel whisper, over and over, refusing to fade.

To lie so you’d touch me.

His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, anything, but no words came. His thoughts reeled, struggling to process what had just been laid bare before him.

Had he understood correctly?

Had Astarion just admitted that… he had never truly wanted to have sex with him? That every touch, every moment of intimacy had been built on deception? Had he lied every time?

Not that it mattered. Even once would have been horrible enough.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Sylverian remained still, his hands resting in his lap, his expression growing more and more shocked by the second.

Sylverian had never once questioned whether their passion was shared in equal measure. Until today, he never had any reason to! Particularly, when it was often Astarion who had initiated intimacy. Oh, he must have been truly determined, truly skilled, to weave such a convincing illusion on someone so attentive and caring as the feyblooded half-elf. One should commend his skill at deception of the lowest order. How utterly despicable!

Even so, Sylverian still blamed himself for failing to see the invisible.

❝Tell me this isn’t true...❞ The words came out softer than he intended, barely above a whisper, as if he feared speaking too loudly might shatter him completely.

❝Gods, I—I would never have touched you if I had known, I would rather cut off my own hands...❞ His breath hitched, tears welled up in his eyes, his throat felt tight and for a moment, the weight of it all rendered him speechless. When he finally spoke again, his voice wavered between grief and fury. ❝Do you have any idea what that does to me? How I feel? Like some wretched, loathsome, vile bastard——!!❞

He needed to go. To get away from this tent, from Astarion, from the unbearable weight of betrayal that sat heavy on his chest like a stone. He pushed himself to his feet so fast his vision swam. Or maybe it was the tears. ❝I gave you all of me, and you let me! I—by the gods, I will never forgive you for this!!❞ A sob tore free from his throat, but he refused to stay long enough for Astarion to see his complete undoing. He turned on his heel and stormed out into the night. Crying.

[bunnieswithknives]

sorry if idk this but what do you think about Wordgirl now in 2024 do you still like it do you still want to make art or talk about it or are you just done with all of it forever and plus i seen that you haven't made art of it since 2022 so you just done with all of it oh yeah and what about The Magnus Archives + Wordgirl ao3 fic too like is that just going to be and i know that your working on 2 au's now just wanting to know that's all

My interests tend to come in intense bursts and then fade. Unless something like, big happens like it gets a reboot its unlikely I'll be coming back to it anytime soon. As for the fic I don't have any current plans to finish it unfortunately.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Lineup of all of the characters that appear long enough to need a visual representation of them in the game lol

[milf-harrington]

where im at mentally these days: my mum hugged me and said im doing a good job and i burst into tears <3

[itsalwaysdark]

also its so dumb that one of the arguments ppl have against a sims 5 is that theyve already invested too much money into 4. like yes its fucking scummy that ea charges so much for dlc and its Ludicrous the amt sims 4 costs if you have all the dlc and its going to keep getting more and more expensive but . to be honest . why are you paying for sims packs. im sry

[nomaishuttle]

the way that literally every aspect of the horse ranch expansion pack either was covered by/shouldve been included in a different pack. Lol.. horses shouldve been in pets or cottage living sheeps and goats shouldve been in cottage living the build style is cottage living and strangerville the clothing style is cottage living and strangerville likeee. the world is pretty but its also ely similar to some of the other worlds we have. and nectar making is a completely seperate skill from that juice skill or whatever. IDK

[ikemenomegas]

the myy oc is simultaneously the one to make obnoxious little squeeing noises whenever megumi does literally anything and make tsumiki bring along disposable cameras on vacation because it's the only way to get her to admit what she's *actually* looking at, and the one to literally puke in the bushes or hide against a wall when Satoru does something that gives them secondhand embarrassment

literally the can't take it but can dish it out guardian XD

[uwudonoodle]

My fic is slowly becoming more canon adjacent rather than canon compliant.

When writing fanfiction... there are two beasts that wage war within the writer. *sage nod*

[leyiorr]

i can't stop looking at her t-t-t-t, FACE!

mdni.

satoru gojo is doomed.

why is he doomed, you ask? well, put bluntly, you, his girlfriend of five months, are driving him absolutely crazy.

crazy is an understatement, actually. insane, mad, mental, unhinged, deranged, bonkers - whatever you want to call it. he's holding on by a thread; the thinly woven string known as sanity growing ever weaker as the days roll by and turn into weeks.

of course, he's only blaming you. you hadn't actually done anything wrong.

you're the first relationship satoru's had in his life, and he'd be damned if some inappropriate thoughts ruin his chances with the love of his life. he'd never been happier - dating you gave him the kind of happiness he thought only existed in movies; the kind of giddiness of a child in a candy store.

he was devoted to you in every way, shape and form - you are everything he's dreamed of and more.

more.

that's right, you were more.

recently, you were the devil's temptation personified.

surprisingly, even after twenty-odd years of being one of the most attractive guys around, and having women throw themselves at him like he's some kind of greek deity, satoru is a virgin. i'll repeat that, he is a virgin. a fact that only suguru knows. a fact that he's neglected to tell his girlfriend.

he may have a flirtatious personality and the ability to charm ninety percent of the human race with one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles, but in truth, he had never dated anyone. ever. let alone got his dick in a pussy.

so when he starts wanting to go further, he's not sure how to bring it up without sounding like a horndog.

it all started when you wore a sleek black dress to one of your dates. it clung to your figure, fabric wrapping shamelessly around your every curve and tickling your midthigh at its end. and if that wasn't bad enough, it had a plunging neckline, giving the world - satoru specifically - an eyeful of the assets god gifted you with. your boobs were practically spilling out of your dress, the light catching your cleavage as you held his arm. he could feel himself salivating like some sort of perv. how was he supposed to focus with aphrodite's personal creation hanging off his arm?

his eyes began to drift to the flesh of your chest more than he'd like to admit. all sorts of r-rated scenarios ran through his head and he dared to entertain every. single. one. he could do so much with them, tease them, spit on them, pinch them, suck on them, put his dick between them-

“satoru?”

his gaze snaps back to your face at record speed. you notice how he's chewing his bottom lip, flush creeping onto his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. his hands are clammy; there's suddenly too little oxygen in his room.

“did you listen to anything i said?” your arms fold beneath your bosom and satoru almost implodes.

what do you expect him to do? the necklace around your neck has his initial on it, and it hovers over your tits almost mockingly. if it snapped, the letter would fall right between the valley of your breasts-

“satoru!”

he's choking on his saliva, apologizing profusely as he encourages you to continue your story - though he hasn't heard shit over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

it's a battle no, a war between his rationality and his desires and he doesn't know which is winning. his rationality wins when he's around you - he just sucks in a breath and thugs it out, no matter how much his dick shouts at him. but in private, he's letting the desires win as his fists himself to the thought of you, your lips, your ass; your boobs.

the first time he sees you in a bikini he has to take a breather before he can get into a game of beach volleyball with you and the group.

(and even then he was struggling. every time you jumped for the ball the only thing he was looking at was your tits.)

he should be neutered. effective immediately.

it drags out for so long that you finally notice, and force him to talk to you about why he's avoiding you, and if you'd done anything wrong. but all you get is:

“baby, i'm so sorry- you're so pretty and i can't help myself. i didn't know how to bring up that i wanted to take our relationship to the next step, you mean the world to me and i'd hate to make you uncomfortable-” he trips and stumbles over his words-

“...is that it?”

and his eyes bug out of his head as he stares at you. weeks, months of agony over this and all you have to say is 'is that it'?

he doesn't even have chance to respond; to process your words before you're popping the top button of your blouse.

yeah, satoru gojo is doomed.

[lanternlightss]

today i have thought sm about my beloved oc’s mel and cerelia and i am feeling so completely normal about them (this is a lie i am so unwell)

[inkskinned]

how odd, to watch the creative writing exercises of angry men in the comments of instagram. you noticed it first in the comments of conventionally attractive women - but then it started appearing everywhere else, too.

a young man talks about what lunch he's packing his wife. there is a little story under it, with 300 likes, fabricated from nothing. "this is pointless. if you treat her like this, she will take the lunch to her office and fuck her boss and divorce him and take all his money."

you scroll. a young woman talks about what lunch she's packing for her husband. it is always uglier when the subject of the video is a woman, you've noticed. "you sit on camera and you smile and you are cheating with the neighbor and then you're going to lie about being sexually assaulted by your husband and -"

you stop reading. it has 567 likes.

where did this even become a thing? people making up stories in their head, disgusting long-winded assumptions about intention and sexual disgrace. the evil twin of fanfiction.

like - it's just a lie. it's a lie that they are telling, baldfaced and assumptive. the undercurrent is of course misogyny, but the trouble is that they're so fucking certain. that's what makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. there is this pervasive, inventive desire for them to be right. that they must be right. all women are cheating, lying, gold-digging bitches. no exceptions.

in the reverse, when women say i'd rather meet a bear in the woods than a strange man - men funnel in from the sides. they defend each other with a vibrance and capacity for empathy you wish applied to like, the other half of the population. a man could be saying i absolutely did kill her and these creatures in the comments would rise up with king shit. she made it happen. they love each other to the point of this sick strange self-gaslighting, a fervent and unhinged cognitive distortion. all men are good, wonderful people. all women are terrible, conniving, seditious, annoying.

and when did it become okay to just, like... say that kind of a thing? at one point, you find yourself typing out a witty and snappy retort. why are you spending so much time fantasizing about other people babe. but as you stare at the screen, some part of you pictures this man in public, saying these things to your face. his soapbox, high and mighty. his mirrored sunglasses and his empty life: tired and lonely.

what a sad and horrible loop he's locked in. he is terrible to women, so women don't talk to him, which he uses as an excuse to act more terribly. he blames this "failure" on women, rather than on his behavior. it cannot be that he is the problem (that the solution is to just put his ego down and accept women as equals) - he begins to invent a sculpture to replace the flesh frame of each person he sees.

it isn't just a woman posing on the beach. it is now a slut with a desperate need for each person to crave her body. it isn't just a woman yelping with surprise during something upsetting. it is a hysterical, unhelpful cretin who will probably make things worse instead of better. it isn't a person.

someone's very sweet wedding vows get moderate attention on instagram. in the comments, a man says good fucking luck you'll waste your life providing while behind your back she's absolutely fucking the best man. this will be so cringe in 2 months when she walks out on you.

you think - is that what you need to be true? is that what you need to happen, for the world to make sense to you?

[yanderenightmare]

TW: implied nsfw, implied noncon/dubcon, poly yanderes, sprained ankle, captive reader, apocolypse au, talk of fertility, murder of unnamed characters, mentions of potentially killing reader

fem reader

Just thinking about the apocalypse, the two army men who’ve long survived it in their shelter with barely any trouble, and then you, a poor girl trying hard to outrun your last captives only to run into them.  

You didn’t realize back then that it was like trading piranhas for sharks, too caught up in begging for their aid to think better of it. You should have just kept running, but your ankle was sprained badly, maybe even broken, and you were wearing so little you would most likely have died from the cold during the night if they hadn’t taken you in.

It seems unfair of them to have kept the giant bunker all to themselves, only the two of them, but you don’t judge. You would likely have kept it all to yourself as well.

This new world has bred new humans, and they’re all monsters. It’s honestly quite surprising they’d even let you in, given this is what they’re protecting, this sanctuary from the past, a comfort most people would kill their closest friend in exchange for.

Trust is all but dead, and so is honor or any other morality—you would know, you’ve lived out there for it all, only having survived by spreading your legs at the right moments. It’s a shameful tactic, and many times, you’ve wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to spare yourself and just die. What was the purpose?

This—you think. This must be it. They have showers and working hot water.

You don’t know how it’s possible—the original owners of the shelter must have been some type of millionaire. You haven’t had a warm shower since the world went to shit—years ago. It’s been a choice of waiting for rain or finding a lake, hoping it wasn’t rancid. Meanwhile, they have soap—scented soap, the lush kind you’d forgotten existed. It feels so nice you have to cry—rejoice—sobbing while lathering yourself, watching all the filth go down the drain, leaving you smooth-skinned once again for the first time in forever. You can’t remember having ever been so clean before, feeling reborn.

They have fresh clothes for you too—new socks and underwear, all clean fabrics, so much more than what you wore—pants, a shirt, and a sweater to keep warm. You didn’t know there still existed people who lived like the old days—you’d thought it was long gone, a bittersweet dream you sometimes have the pleasure of at night instead of the usual nightmares. Never had you thought you’d experience anything even remotely similar, but here you are—looking yourself in the mirror after so long, surprised to see a human looking back at you.

And they feed you. Not scraps, not leftovers, not rot, or days-old flesh from the last successful hunt—but freshly baked bread, vegetables, fruit—for fuck’s sake, they even have juice. You cry again while eating, and then you find yourself begging them again, “Please, let me stay—please, I’ll do anything. I can cook, clean, work—anything at all, I can do it, just please let me stay…”

You’re on your knees, forehead pressed to the heated metal floors—toasty and comforting, you think you could sleep better than ever right there.

“We’ll think about it,” one of them mutters as he gathers the plates. His voice was so harsh he might as well have said, not a chance. It’s clear by his frown that he’d rather send you right out again, leave you to the monsters.

“We’ll at least let you stay until your ankle heals, so don’t worry.” The other is more sympathetic, helping you up. “For now, let’s get you to bed. You must be exhausted.”

It hadn’t crossed your mind that they’d have beds—actual real soft downy mattresses and duvets and pillows. The two of you help make it together. It feels so foreign that you wonder if you might have died earlier. Some years back, you wouldn’t have thought heaven would resemble a prison cell, but now it only made sense—safe metal walls and a bed. What more could one possibly want in the world?

“I’ll wrap your leg for you if you sit.” He holds out a bandage roll, gesturing to your ankle.

Blinking, you can’t even register what he’d just offered until he’s getting down on his knees before you.

You panic, then. Bandages are hard to come by—it hardly seems worth it. “There’s no blood, you shouldn’t waste it—”

“It’ll heal better and faster this way,” he adds reassuringly. His voice is so soft and compelling that you find yourself sitting down without further quarrel, even when it makes you feel spoiled.

He’s gentle with you—holding you steady while wrapping it just tightly enough to be supportive. There hasn’t been a man who’s touched you like it.

“Does that feel okay?”

You can barely tell he’s talking to you. It’s all so lost on you that you can only wordlessly nod your head.

He fastens it just as carefully before standing. “Is there anything else you might need?”

You shake your head just as wordlessly. You can’t believe how nice he’s being. It makes no sense at all. Not in this world. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to lock the door,” he apologizes with a sheepish look once standing on the threshold.

You’d been stuck thinking about how warm the room was, trying to remember a single time you hadn’t been freezing during the night. “That’s okay, I understand,” you say. After all, what’s a locked door in comparison?

“Good,” he smiles—it’s likely the kindest smile you’ve ever seen. “Alright then, good night.”

Once again, you’re left stunned. The last time you’d heard those words spoken must have been from a loved one long since dead. It makes your lip wobble again as you say it back, “Good night.”

It's strange—they could have left you for dead but didn’t. They don’t seem gullible—they can’t be if they’ve managed to protect this place for so long—but you suppose there still exist men who have a soft spot in their hearts for helpless damsels in distress.

As you sink into the comfort, draping your duvet atop your battered body, you don’t even care about the camera in the ceiling—blinking red while watching you.

“Did you have to bandage her up?” he grumbles as the other walks into the bedroom after having said his goodnights to you. 

He’s already in bed, observing through the cameras on a tablet—you were currently curling into the duvet, wrapping it around you close for comfort. You’d likely not slept on anything so soft in a while—it wouldn’t surprise him if you preferred the floor. But no, you drift asleep quite quickly.

“You know how badly things can heal without proper support,” the other answers, regarding it as no big deal. “And besides, it’s not like we often need it—we have plenty to spare.”

He removes his clothes and crawls onto the bed as well, lifting the covers to slot himself right next to the other man, who still has a scowl on his face.

“Oh, come on…” he drawls. “She’s exactly what we’ve been talking about, isn’t she?”

The grump doesn’t answer, still with keen eyes watching you, even as you’ve fallen asleep—as if waiting for you to do something befitting a wild animal in a cage. The other’s eyes fall to the screen as well, but he only awes in delight.

“Look at her, already fast asleep,” he purrs while zooming in on your face. “I mean, did you see how she was begging earlier, what she said? I’d do anything,” he continues, almost whining. “So cute, I could have fucked her right then and there.”

The other man sets the tablet aside with a disagreeing sigh. “We’ll wait at least a week for her system to detoxify from the wasteland,” he says strictly. “I’m not touching her before then, and neither are you unless you want to sleep alone.”

The other groans then, flopping down on his back. “Yeah, yeah, you and your safety protocols,” he dismisses before a smirk creeps up his face, glee twinkling in his eyes as he looks up at his grouchy counterpart. “But then we keep her, right?”

“Tch—we don’t even know if she’s fertile. The wasteland could have made her barren as long as she’s been out there,” the other shuffles down into the sheets as well, turning to look at his partner and the awfully keen look on his face.

“So we test her. Give her a medical check,” he says, again as if it’s not a problem, even when it very well could turn out to be.

They’ve already broken quarantine rules by letting you in here—and who knows what your real objectives truly are.

“I don’t trust her,” he states.

The other pouts. “I don’t see what one little lady can do—she’s hardly a threat. And we already purged the group that was following her. I doubt any of them made it out alive.”

True, he had gone out and sent several gas grenades into the settlement. Surely, none of them managed to escape, but then again—

“Pest control only works when you kill them all, and we’ve just let one inside our own house,” he grumbles.

The other one sighs. “Okay, so if it turns out she isn’t as cute as she looks, we’ll deal with her like the rest. But if I’m right, and she really is just a harmless little thing, we keep her, and I get to have the first go.”

Suppose there isn’t anything better to do aside from killing you straight away, which would only have been a waste of food, water, clothes, and bandages. 

“Fine.”

The other grins at the agreeance, humming, “I guess until then, we’ll just have to make do with each other—I've been hard since we watched her shower.” He leans forward for contact but is shut down as his bedmate rolls around with his back turned to him.

“Tch—take care of it yourself.” Tonight has been too stressful to tug each other’s dicks. 

He can hear him whine behind him, but he settles down soon enough.

Suppose it would be nice fucking a woman again. It’s been so many years he figured he wouldn’t need it anymore. They’ve made do with each other so far. But even he can’t deny, once you’d washed all the blood and muck off, once he saw the dewy hue of your soft skin and the silk of your hair, all those plush curves, and not to mention that awfully sweet look on your face—he felt the tug in his pants too.

He'll do a medical check on you tomorrow. He hopes you’re fertile. But even if you’re not, he might give in to the other’s wishes and keep you anyway. After all, they might have many luxuries, but the comfort of pussy is one they haven’t had in a long, long, long time.

♡ BNHA – KiriBaku, BakuDeku, ShinKami, DabiHawks, EndHawks, ErasurMic ♡ JJK – SatoSugu, ItaFushi, SukuIta, ♡ HQ – Miya twins, KageHina, BokuAka, ♡ CSM – AkiDen, YoshiDen ♡ BLLK – NagiReo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[dazevi]

need you to write about vi with nipple piercings that are extra sensitive plssss🙏

content warnings: smut (18+ mdni); bottom?vi, nipple stimulation, oral fixation, fingering (vi rec.)

vi got them on a whim, kind of. she isn’t really the type to spend weeks debating a decision like this. she just thought, why the fuck not? of course, it hurt like hell, but she’d never admit that. and when they healed, she felt… really sexy. what she didn’t expect, was how much more sensitive her nipples had gotten after they healed. even a brush of her shirt or a stray touch could send shivers down her spine, and she’d try her best to hide it her reactions. but, really, she could never hide anything from you.

the first time you saw them, you couldn’t stop staring. vi didn’t really make a big deal out of it when she showed you, casually pulling her shirt off one night and leaning back against the headboard like it was nothing. but when your eyes lingered on her chest, wide with curiosity and staring with almost hungry eyes, vi smirked. “you like ‘em?” she’d asked, already knowing the answer. you traced your fingers over her chest, the cool metal of her piercings against your fingertips making you both shiver. vi let out the softest, almost shy sigh when you accidentally brushed too close, and you realized just how sensitive she was. and she really tries to play it cool. she’ll tease you about how much you’re into them—“couldn’t keep your hands off me, huh, baby?”—but the truth is, she loves how much you adore them. the way your eyes light up whenever you catch a glimpse of them through her tank tops or when you’re undressing her makes her feel like she’s on top of the world.

and she’s extraaaaa sensitive, you discovered one day. the first time you kissed her chest, she flinched—not because she didn’t like it, but because it was so much. “careful, princess,” she’d chuckle nervously, her voice shaking just a little.

it drives her wild when you tease her. you’ve learned how to get her worked up without even touching her properly. sometimes you’ll run your fingers over her shirt, letting the fabric brush against her piercings so softly, or you’ll kiss around her chest, deliberately avoiding her nipples just to hear her whine about wanting you to touch her properly. vi hates how easily you can unravel her, but, to be honest, she’s too turned on to even care. she likes watching your lips, likes watching your hands come up to cup the underside of her boobs, likes watching you push them up into your mouth, and likes it especially when she can see your wet, warm tongue sliding slowly over her nipples. it makes her so fucking wet—she’s a thousand percent sure that she already ruined her boxers.

and she’s vocal, too—so vocal. when you finally touch her the way she’s been craving, it’s like a switch flips. vi lets out the most sinful moans and groans, whines and whimpers, her head tipping back as her hands grip your hips or the back of your head while you take the sensitive flesh of her tits into your soft, warm and wet mouth. god, it feels so good. so fucking good. she swears she can cum from the feeling of your mouth sucking on her nipples alone.

and you’ve grown to love experimenting with her nipples. you’ve gotten creative—using your lips, tongue, fingers, and even ice cubes to tease her. and vi acts like she’s so tough, but the moment your tongue flicks against one of her nipples, she’s an absolute fucking mess beneath you. “m-mmph… mm, baby… please…” she’ll bite her lip to stifle her noises, but it doesn’t work for very long—especially when you’re giving her your undivided attention. vi loves the intimacy of it—the way you take your time, the way you’re so focused on her. and you love how responsive she is, how her whole body tenses when you suck gently or tug lightly with your teeth. major bonus points if you’ve got a hand in her boxers, your fingers sliding in and out of her sopping wet cunt. the way she gasps your name, breathless and desperate, makes you want to keep going just to see how far you can push her.

she’s just completely at your mercy.

★ | navigation

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent ones of these even though they all look the same lol.. forcing myself to document progress..