#also is not structured correctly in the face

[woundcat]

last rb also made me think of this, but when I talk about grooming in regard to the ratliff brothers, I also think about lochlan's awareness of the situation within the family structure.

when lochlan engages in saxon's sexual overtures he becomes something more substantial than the child he's always been to the ratliffs, and he knows that. he finally feels something other than the usual rules. (he may not be allowed to feel things on his own, he may only be told what he needs to know, he may only be an adult when his family says it's okay, he may only want things when someone tells him what to want. he still occupies a very classic child-space within the nuclear family). he enjoys feeling needed/wanted by piper, but that's different. he's still her baby brother. he needs to please saxon by being the sexual project that his brother works on in order to enact his hypersexual alpha male fantasy. and that's new, that's different and confusing, because he's not a kid anymore. it feels weird, but what else is there? if not this, then how else to de-kidify himself. "one day I'm gonna take you down" is such a sad little attempt at gaining agency, but to him, it probably feels empowering.

lochlan's not just a kid who's been a passive actor in his relationship with saxon, on some level he knows what he's giving to get the validation he needs. no one gives him the validation that only adults seem to be able to access. he's not important to his perfect nuclear family unless they want something out of the role he plays (e.g. piper asking him to come to dinner, timothy using him as a catalyst through which to justify poisoning the rest of family). lochlan's always going to be placed into child-status with them, and children are so often rendered into objects.

that makes it hard for lochlan to identify which one of them is doing it correctly. which version of objectification is most correct? when saxon believes in his ability to fuck, it must be a good thing, right? and never mind that saxon basically labels him as young fucking cum, at least he's handing him a beer and giving him the world.

and I don’t think saxon actively wants to become the new ratliff patriarch at this point. he's still depending on daddy. his goal is still tim's approval. but he's an adult now and has been for some time, and yet he's stuck doing what he's told. he needs power to become that figure, and sex is his power, and so turning his gay effeminate brother into a (hetero)sexual being is power too. THE power, maybe. because if he can make lochlan (the child, the object, the project) into a MAN then maybe he's a real man too. 

only it blows up in his fucking face because guess what - saxon is also a victim of the nuclear family, and the kid in him is floundering. (not to say their victimhood is mutual or at the same level + and I don't love that as an identifier). I mean it's the perfect conditions for sibling incest, really. the child's need for power can only be fulfilled by the other child who desires the same comforts. the child is now a man and the man is now a child. the man fills the child-shaped hole of his brother. lol. no one is happy.

what lochlan needed was a channel through which he could explore his young adult sexuality outside of his family and feel like human being. but unfortunately he took the one that was right in front of him because it looked the most appealing and for a moment he felt good and sick and good again. at least he's felt things he's never felt before. and despite all of this, in the end he's still chided for kiddish hero-worship and sees his family all godlike in the lights as he dies, because they are all he knows. project unsuccessful. 

tldr: it's all about the STRUCTURES!!

I also think there is covert incest operating in other family dynamics ie. saxon and his parents / piper and lochlan. but another conversation for another day.

[bookshelfpassageway]

i'm gonna be the one insufferable bastard on this earth that liked everhood 2, huh

[morallysuperiorlips]

10 Ways to Ensure Your Villain's Evil Monologuing Dialogue is as Unsettling as Possible!

1.) Make sure you're mixing body language with the words themselves: You can have your villain saying the most twisted shit, but if they're just standing there like a cardboard cutout, their words probably aren't going to hit as hard. Have them touch your protag. Have them toy with a weapon as if they're going to use it. Have them pace. Have them put together the blood ritual they're ranting about. Keep them moving.

2.) Have them use personal knowledge as a tool: Does your villain have some deep dark dirt on your protag? Don't let that all go in one swoop. Let them hint at it in drops before they open the dam. Maybe they use that knowledge as a bargaining tool to get an upper hand, or use it to send the trapped protag into a frenzy because they love to watch them scream.

3.) When it comes to threats, certainty is key: A threat is a threat, but there's nothing like a threat being spoken as if the villain knows it's going to happen. Whether your villain has already caught your protag, or is in the process of doing so, everything they say they want to see happen to your protag needs to come with absolute certainty. Almost as if it's a certain warning, and not just something they’re saying to be scary.

4.) Contradictions are your friend: Nothing indicates a warped villainous mind more than some juicy contradictions. Your villain might be talking about how they're going to flay your protag's hide after catching them in their dungeon, only to throw in a subtle "but, you're probably safer here with me." Find ways to toss in twisted contradictions that also underline the crazy shit they might be saying.

5.) Mess with syntax: Unsettling dialogue calls for unsettling structure. Incomplete sentences, unforeseen pauses, longwinded explanations broken up by more unforeseen pauses. Whatever it is, keep the rhythm offbeat. Don't give your reader a chance to be able to tell what's coming.

6.) Expectations? Subvert those: Your protag and even your readers might be suspecting one thing from your villain, so throw them a curveball and hit them with the complete opposite. Perhaps you've reached a point in your story where it seems like the villain might kill your protag on sight. But no, have your villain mention exactly why they aren't going to do that, and why they want to wait it out.

7.) Mix quiet confidence and loud assertion: Some might say that the silent seether is scarier, while others might agree that the sudden explosive type takes the bigger unsettling prize. In my opinion, you can really capitalize on the eeriness of villain dialogue by tapping into both. A villain that speaks on with refined confidence before very suddenly exploding, without much warning, can really power up the dread behind their words.

8.) Sometimes, ambiguity is better than being straightforward: Whether it's obvious that your villain has a lot of tricks up their sleeves--or not--leaving things to the imaginations of your protag, and subsequently, your readers is great for building dread. You can use dialogue to make it clear that they're up to something, but never make them fully disclose what that is. They might show it instead of tell it, or it might just never happen. Either way, it'll likely have everyone looking over their shoulders.

9.) There might be times where silence says everything: You might be worried about penning the correct verbiage for your villain's big evil speech, but sometimes, silence speaks wonders. When used correctly, a long pause, or a bout of silence after your protag has said their piece can build a sense of uneasiness more than them actually speaking would have.

10.) Find ways for your villain to mirror the hero: A monologuing villain is better when they're throwing your hero's values and beliefs back in their face. A hero that believes in mercy? Well, have your villain talk about how they'll make them beg for it. A hero that believes in the greater good? Have your villain talk about their idea of a greater good.

As always, GO WRITE SOMETHING TODAY! <3

[rederiswrites]

Just saw a (perfectly good otherwise, which is why I'm making my own post, because I have no desire to beef) post that talked about how good Veilguard is and hinged part of its argument on the idea that bringing down the Veil would kill everyone and would definitely be a bad thing. But that theme worked specifically because they forced the narrative that bringing down the Veil was a bad thing, and purged all evidence to the contrary from the game's lore!

Look, I think Veilguard IS a great game! I love it! But, like every other DA game before it, it leapfrogs right over some established lore to tell a different story, and the story it ultimately told was not about quite the same Solas many of us loved in Inquisition and Trespasser, and the difference is significant.

There was quite a LOT of reason to believe that the Veil is an unsustainable artificial structure that, by its existence, does literally incalculable harm. And no one, probably Solas included, knows what the final consequences of bringing it down would be.

The Veil was a mistake in the first place. It changed Thedas so completely that even the ancient lore of all currently existing cultures does not talk about what it was like before. It's unimaginable. We see only tiny glimpes of a world where gravity might as well not exist and form is mutable and elves don't age and if you got bored you could go on a whole-ass vacation from your body, for centuries if you wanted. Where magic was inextricable from physical existence. Where you could spend centuries playing a piece of music. And not only was it a mistake, but it didn't quite do what it was designed to do! The Blight got out anyway! Slower, and less, but it still got out.

So what Trespasser set up was a choice--continue the deep harms of the current world, a world that is in a near-constant state of apocalypse, or incur the terrible harms of bringing down the Veil for what might be a better world after. But what Veilguard gave us was a man who was used by someone he loved, betrayed by people he trusted, and never in all his wisdom managed to move past that. And your choice is to either trick him or help him move past that. It was actually a compelling story! I can buy it. The story of a spirit, deeply damaged by the things he felt trapped into doing. But it WAS a forced narrative, and they had to brush a bunch of really pivotal lore under the rug to make it work. "What is a Circle" levels of don't mind the man behind the curtain.

I defend the right of creatives to alter their story and tell it the way they want to. I also recognize the difficulties they face dealing with technical and business realities. But let's not pretend that people who were disappointed with Veilguard just don't get it or didn't understand the lore correctly. We can enjoy the game and also not invalidate that disappointment.

[soularsss]

Drawing Likeness: with Tem!

okaay since a few people actually showed interest in me sharing a bit of what I've been doing to figure out how to really capture likeness, specifically Temuera Morrison, I figured id do my best to write it out

I am also going to entice you with some of my recent clone art! (oooh some of it is unreleaaasedd)

I am putting the whole thing under the cut because I have a feeling its going to be long:

Read more!!!

a couple disclaimers before we start

-This is not some definite post about how everyone should be drawing clones, nor is it in any way claiming that this is the right way. This is just my musings as I stare at a mans face for way too long and try to replicate it

-I am inexperienced. As kind as you all are to me, drawing real people is relatively new to me, capturing a persons identity through their features is difficult for anybody, and I am no different. I have watched many a video on likeness and had my share of classes, but If im being honest, i rarely put it into practice successfully. So there'll probably be errors in this post or things i will come back to in a few months and wish I had said/done differently

ANYWAYs you guys get my vibe im just here to ramble and today we are rambling about mr copy paste. I am doing this for Law, my clone boy, because I plan on delving further into oc fanart and I want to put effort into representing him correctly!

SO LETS BEGIN

Before even deciding what specific pose of a person I want to draw, I tend to grab a bunch of references and compile them like so

(all of these can be found on my pinterest)

Why so many? Well, we are about to delve into facial features, so when we are dealing with photos we have to take into account that there are an abundance of circumstances that will influence how a persons face will appear, some of these include:

focal length: All of these are taken on different devices, and focal length can play a big part in distorting faces

age will play a part, your face changes a bunch throughout your life!

lighting, while not as major, can muddy the waters and make it difficult to interpret facial planes and features

SO, to make sure we get a proper grasp of what's really going on, I like to make sure we have lots of options to compare and contrast with.

Next up! What I like to do is block out the main facial features with colour on different layers, the features I block out usually are the general face shape, eyebrows, eyes, nose and lips. But what you are looking for is the defining features of a person, so that could include other things! Maybe a scar, or some particularly prominent cheekbones.

I dont have any rhyme or reason when it comes to picking my colours, all that matters is you can see all the shapes clearly.

Now I may be biased, because Ive been staring at these for 4 hours, but notice how it still looks like Tem? :D

Anyways, now we can break these parts down, and you'll see what I mean about compare and contrast:

We'll start with isolating the facial shape, putting all these next to eachother you'll notice they arent exactly the same (partly because of my shoddy work) But the distinguishing features run through each shape! Namely the very soft rectangular shape I sketched out in the bottom right there. Along with his soft, wide jaw structure.

I did the same for the rest of his features!

You'll notice I highlight the prominent shapes and ratios,

When drawing anything, it is important to start from the very base shapes and build up.

When drawing something you want to look like someone, those shapes relative to other shapes is what makes it look like them.

I didnt use the same technique with his eyes and lips, but I wrote out some helpful info for them! More importantly for his eyes.

When drawing eyes, I find the most important part is where exactly I draw the creases, (along with the overall shape of the eye itself) it is important to understand where those will present themselves with hooded eyes.

NOW, with an understanding of his facial features in place, lets take a detour to colours:

before I start, a couple things to note:

-Temuera morrison versus the clone troopers in the animated shows:

While I love the animated shows they don't exactly stay close to their source material. Im going to link here to an excellent post discussing whitewashing specifically in relation to the clones.

Temuera is Māori, of Te Arawa (Ngāti Whakaue) and Tainui (Ngāti Maniapoto, Ngāti Rarua) whakapapa, and also has Scottish and Irish ancestry.

The Māori people are the indigenous Polynesian people of mainland New Zealand (Aotearoa). Māori originated with settlers from East Polynesia. Māori people often vary in skin tone, Skin colour doesn't determine ethnicity. There's often a correlation but it's not a requirement.

But that is a tangent! What we are aiming for is to stay true to Temuera.

Bringing back my reference photos from before, Ive colour picked a buncha values and theyre all over the place. Why doesnt this work?

Similarly to earlier, you have to take into account the photos themselves. Many things like lighting, colour grading (when it comes to filmography) and makeup, can alter how a skin colour presents in photo.

You can attempt to get true to life by swatching from certain places on the face. Here I've tried to pick some photos with good lighting, and I've also tried to avoid overly lit/shaded areas.

Tem has a very warm, tan skin tone, Instead of colour picking I tend to try and replicate it myself, but I do often bring in references to make sure Im staying true to the source!

a brief intermission to talk about colour theory, something I myself struggle with alot. Often, when putting in flat colours without a background, I will forget to make sure the colours i intend to use will work with the skin tone i have picked! (something that is apparent in older works of mine, not just in relation to clones, but in general, the colours I end up with stray largely from their original sources and it is something I am doing my best to keep in mind and improve in! Although I don't think i am nearly experienced enough in the topic to say I have succeeded yet lol.)

anyways back to Tem :))

Now we can put all of that into practice! Things to keep in mind when drawing out a piece next to a reference like this:

the distance between the eyebrows? how far down his face does his nose go? Basically just, in relation to eachother, where do all those shapes we found earlier, sit?

The screenshot above is from before I did it myself, but instead of directly tracing from the reference, a handy trick I use it to complete your sketch first, and then overlay a traced version to see where your inconsistencies are! Alternatively, you could move your sketch over the image, but I didnt do it that way so!! uh!! im sure it works exactly the same!!!!

When it comes to a final illustration, or any sketch that isnt a direct study, of course you can push and pull and stylise! You'll see below that I'm not exactly 1:1 to my reference photo either.

The important thing with stylisation, or at least my own personal understanding of stylisation is that you need to thoroughly understand the thing you are stylizing! "You need to know the rules to break them" and all that. While shapes, lines and rendering can change, when it comes to drawing someone, and making it look like them, you have to make sure to keep their core features true to source. Caricature can capture a persons vibe whilst drastically exaggerating features, but it will only look like them if you KEEP THOSE FEATURES!!!! SHAPES!!! AHHH!!

But that is just my perspective on the discussion of style versus realism, please dont take is as Law, I dont know what Im on about half the time!!

anyways, after fixing your sketch, add local colours!

I rexified him because why tf not! But this is where you can go crazy with that clone personalization!

And then here is a very very barely rendered version (if you guys want me to explain how i RENDER that would need to be a completely different post, and I havent had anyone ask about it yet so who knows! maybe one day) But I digress, hopefully you learnt something new through my ramblings! It has certainly helped me organize my thoughts and I have also found some areas I would like to focus more on in the future to improve my own art!

TLDR: In order to understand an object, be it a face or a building or literally anything, you have to break it down to its simplest forms, understanding LARGER shapes will help you immensely in the long run

If you guys like this sorta content do let me know! I'd be down to do similar things for armor/anything really, I am very anti gatekeep so really anything at all you want to know! Send me an ask :))

also if you see a spelling mistake.. i don’t know how that got there

[dexthtoyounglings]

Double A Misfit

Lucien x Reader Fluff

Summary: It's a snowy day in Velaris, yet you can only think about the Autumn Court male who burned a fire in your blood.

Warnings: mutual pining (can someone tell me if I'm using this term correctly idek)

A/N: This is my first ever ACOTAR piece. I'm a bit nervous about this because I knew I wanted to write, but there was nothing in my brain really.... yeah. Also, I know this is way past the holidays, but it's snowing here so.

•--•

Gentle. The fall of the snow outside of your window was gentle. The snowflakes laid soft kisses on the ground, crowding together, a family reborn into foreign membranes. It was beautiful, a symbol of the changing seasons, uniquely precious to Velaris.

You watched alone, a fire burning in the hearth in front of you. Fire licked into the open air, searching for something to embrace its heat more closely. Though the beauty of the cold drew you in, your heart seemed to cry the same way that the fire did. Warm bodies felt cold when lonely, as yours did.

It struck you then, the same way your yearning did every winter. An intense want for the same thing your friends had. You had considered that you were simply the problem, that you never could stick anywhere. Even Amren, cold and caved in when she wasn't content, seemed to inhale the same love that everyone else did, breathing it back out into the group.

Yet, somehow, you never stuck the same.

Maybe that's exactly why you sat here, watching the snow, sympathizing with the fire, while a pile of presents sat on your table. Wrapped with a delicate hand, a bow placed on top of each, and his name written in cursive on a tiny sticker.

He left tomorrow for the Spring Court. He left tomorrow, for Tamlin, that kindness in his heart unwavering. He showed that same, gentle kindness towards you, a clone to the fire that reached out it's fingers. When his hands touched yours, a warmth spread, yet a soft chill soothed deeper than surface level.

Lucien was a dream. You had decided that the moment you met him. The hard lines of his face, cut from cinnamon and bark, yet structured through the very sun which tanned his skin. The plains of his face, sharp, but also smooth like a baby blanket. His eyes, soft in every nature, sucked you in, leaving you breathless.

Gods, everything about him was made with a precision, one that was built to make you fall to your knees.

The knock at your door was enough to startle you to your feet, brushing off the size-too-big brown sweater you wore, sleeves threatening to swallow your hands with every movement. Your blush seemed to glow brighter, ashamed at being caught in a daydream.

Socks slipping as you started for the door, you combed a hand through your hair. It wasn't usual that you were greeted so late at night.

Opening the door, a stinging cold burned at your eyes, brushing past your legs with the irritation of being denied entrance. If you didn't know any better, you would've thought the wind was trying to sweep your visitor inside as well. "Trying" ended up being a fleeing word, the lanky body standing in front of you allowing himself in before the cold could nip at your limbs any longer.

You sent out a 'thank you' to the wind, a howl against your window its only response.

"Lucien," you breathed, shocked at his sudden appearance.

He smiled at you, warming the room with the shine of his teeth. The light from the fireplace cast an orange hue onto his honeyed skin, your heart skipping a beat, every feature hightlighted by the cast shadows. The straight edge of his nose, the way his lips spread over his-

"I was thinking about you," he remarked, unlacing his boots with a calm fluidity, "I wanted to stop by before I left tomorrow. Didn't need you missing all my greatness."

You rolled your eyes, hearing the obvious smirk in his tone, even with his head down.

You stepped back to watch him, unlacing the other boot and kicking it off, standing themselves at attention on your door mat. He shrugged off his coat, revealing a green turtleneck which hugged his arms, alluding to the lean yet broad nature of his chest, tucked into black dress pants. His hair, a glowing shade of red, still had snowflakes in it.

He ran his hand through the front part of that sea of autumn, shaking off some of those flakes. You watched, lips pressed together, keeping composure as he took a few steps before plopping himself down on your couch.

It never failed to shake you, the way he was so comfortable in your place of rest. It spread a heat through you all the same, like the flames were reaching for your heart at his mere existence.

Out of everyone, he had always shown interest in your space.

In you.

You walked over, not noting the way his eyes watched you intently, sitting beside him. His one legs was stretched out across the cushions, forcing you to lift it up, scooting underneath and allowing it to rest across your lap. You never touched people much, though it was not foreign to be physically connected to Lucien.

It was a problem, as it was also a blessing.

"Usually you're happy to see me," he teased.

You rolled your eyes, again, "I am happy to see you, that doesn't mean you aren't obnoxious."

He relaxed a bit, arms spreading over the back of the couch, "There's that little spark."

A silence took over the room. It was familiar, recognizable. Except, this time, it snuck into each breath a little differently, like a hint of something else existed within that silence. Your eyes looked anywhere but his, but his laid on you, drinking in every ounce he could get.

Your fingers twitched, reminding you of the icebreaker that existed right under your nose. You snatched up the pile of presents, setting it on the leg that was laid out on your lap.

"I have presents for you. I meant to find you before you left for Spring, but I... lost track of time."

Lucien breathed in deeply, starting at the three boxes. For him. He moved his leg off your lap, at attention, sitting in a stance that was more serious than the previous. Summoning those he had left at his house in self-consciousness, presents with a shiny yellow and auburn paper sat in his own lap. Your name written on every one.

Surprise played on your features, not expecting gifts from him. You should have guessed in the end, knowing Lucien and his heart. He always looked out for you. He was one of your kind; a stray without a definite home. A wanderer that made a name for himself, as well as a family.

"You first," you whispered, handing him the top present.

Lucien held it, lithe fingers finding purchase in the folds of the present, ripping the soft silver paper, revealing a small box. Lifting the lid, there sat a broach, a deep brown with hues of orange, reminiscent of his own mother's eyes. You knew, having been lucky enough to see the woman that shared such a love for Lucien as you did. Yet, the love you gave was on another level deeper than hers. Hidden and deep-seated, thriving just to be near him, begging your hands to grab him, have him in any ways tangible.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, looking up at you, russet eye reaching out like a siren call.

"There's more," you nudged the next one towards him, blushing at the close attention he paid to every movement.

Setting aside the box that held the broach, he resumed, tearing into the present, met with another plain box. He took it apart, mechanical eye whirring with excitement as his human one flashed excitement.

"A cloak. Gods, how did you know this was the one I wanted?" he asked, smiling wide, "I just saw this in the shop the other day."

You smiled, body curling in on itself at his joy. You pushed the last one to him, feeling bad for interrupting his joy, but shyness crept in at his reactions.

Behind the layer of wrapped paper was a large shoebox, thick cardboard, without detail. He opened the lid, pushing aside the paper that surrounded what was hiding beneath. Boots. A pair identical to the ones he had complained about having to throw away months prior. They were specially designed in the Spring Court, which pushed you to travel and meet with the maker. It took a while before you had heard news of success from the man, but it came nevertheless.

You remembered his face when he realized he would have to get a new pair. You swore at that moment you had never seen a look more devastating. A vow you made yourself; you would never allow him to look that way as long as you could help it. So you left the next day, using diplomacy as your excuse.

Lucien's eyes flicked to yourself, full and beautiful. His soft, burnt umber eyelashes framing them in such a damning beauty you knew for him to die, that beauty could never exist again. Glossy, he blinked away moisture that filled the orbs beneath.

"Where did you get these?" he asked, exasperated.

You blushed. "I had them replicated. The shoemaker was flattered that they had been so well-loved."

He released a shaky breath, striking your heart all the same.

"How do you expect me to live up to these?" he asked, a shy grin taking over his face, "My gifts seem pathetic."

You shook your head, chin low, "I doubt anything you give me could seem 'pathetic.'"

His eyes captured yours again, taken from the sight of his boots. You felt important when he looked at you, like a flower in a glass case, protected and yet shining through.

He set down his boots, as if they no longer mattered, attention fixed as he placed a present in your lap. Your hands tore through, savoring the intricate design and the time placed into wrapping these. Had he thought of you the whole time, like you did while wrapping his?

Except, you had thought of him the whole time you spent wrapping everyone's gifts. You never seemed to stop thinking about him.

Similar to the one that had held his cloak, you unboxed the one in your lap, peeling back paper to see a soft cream sweater. But, holding it up, you gaze at the design. A running fox, knit in the top right of it, directly above your breast, the back holding a similar design, yet the creature sitting upright. The soft texture almost made you angry, knowing it wouldn't be appropriate to wear it every day.

"Lucien."

He hummed in response, questioning your call of his name.

"It's so beautiful," you looked up at him, love seeping from your pores.

His whole face went a shade deeper, pointy ears pulling back. He had no words, handing you another. You opened it with the same grace, finding a small box, one that left you clueless as to what it could hold. You looked up at Lucien, seeing the way that he chewed on the skin inside his cheek. Lifting the lid with a small shake, the bottom half fell into your hand, gaze drawn to the necklace inside.

You couldn't have guessed how much Lucien made from Rhysand weekly, but with his frequent absence, you imagined this cut a chunk. A gold, dainty chain trailed down to what was centered; a teardrop pendant, a diamond shining in the center, refracting the dim orange light that consumed the room. Paired with it were earrings, each with a matching teardrop shape that hung off the ear. They were-

"Gorgeous."

Lucien shifted, adjusting his hands only to rub them up and down the black of his pants. "Feyre had to help me pick them out."

You smiled to yourself, catching his stare. A nervousness that you didn't catch much darkened his cheeks.

You quirked an eyebrow, "Is everything okay, Lucien?"

He avoided your eyes, taking a deep inhale, his chest expanding with the breath. Watching it fall back out of his mouth, he began to speak.

"Y/n," his throat caught the way your name came out. He tried again, "Y/n. I have been... meaning to tell you this for quite some time now. I-" he took another deep breath, looking into your eyes.

"I have loved you since the very first moment I met you. The grace of knowing you fell upon me like a sword I had no choice but to use. Everything you are, and everything you have grown to become has enchanted me so deeply I don't feel I have the capacity to hold it in much longer."

Your jaw fell slack, watching as the stars in his words, in his posture, and in his confidence fell in line, brightening the world you had known.

"I can't breathe knowing you're not mine, but I know if you requested it say so, I would try to shed that part of myself to make you happy forevermore. To separate from you after every interaction is like tearing myself away from my very own soul. I do not think I can bear it much longer; the pain of not having you. I am yours, as wholly as I am my own," he bowed his head, "Without you, I feel half of myself has been lost to whatever Gods demanded you be created. And to be with you here drives me crazy, to know that I cannot hold you in my arms and share you with myself the way my body begs. I need you, and I have grown to known this. I need you deeper than just a friendship, than just a lover. I need you, in this deep string that tugs at my heart, pulling me till I come home; till I find you."

You felt it then. You had always felt it, but it had been muddy, confusing, and had misled you so many times. That fog cleared now, your mind registering exactly what it was -- that glowing golden string, existing only to keep Lucien tied to you.

It made so much sense, cleared out your mind and filled it with every memory and dream you had associated with the male in front of you.

It must've been what launched you at him as well.

Your hands cupped the face of your mate, bringing your lips to his own. Like a mould crafted to fit your own, your mouth fit like a missing puzzle piece. Smooth, warm lips embraced your own, sharing a dance that seemed to spill a power into that bond, its glow burning brighter than the sun in which Helion commanded. Every movement was met with a hunger, one emerging from the years it took you to survive the Autumn Court in which you had met and find him in the Night Court in which you not resided. Centuries of waiting, of reaching into the darkness beyond your eyelids and finding him without his casual heat.

You pulled back, slow as you let your lips cling to each other, forgetting to resist the urge to plunge back into him as you pressed another kiss to his mouth. You lost your mind in that cavern between you, balancing on that rope, folding into each other.

He murmured against your lips, "Y/n."

You only allowed yourself enough space to separate your mouths, resting your forehead against his. Your thumb stroked the scar that cobwebbed under his left eye, capturing you in it's lure.

"Lucien. I could never deny you," you closed your eyes as you nudged your nose against his, reopening them, "I have loved you; this whole lifetime, I have loved you. Even before I knew of you, I loved what you were."

He smiled, a giddy, childish smile, caging the air in your lungs. A new vow, here and now;

Gods, you'd do anything to see him smile like that again.

•--•

[chiquita99]

Prison Life Can Be Tough**

Summary: You are known as the wife of Michael Scofield. Unfortunately many people in your prison have a hate for him but you are the closest they can get to him. Michael fights for your survival.

⚠️ warnings ⚠️ None

_____________________________________

"Prison life can be tough" the warden states as she rises from her desk and walks to face Scofield.

Michael has his hands on his hips in a thinking matter.

"If I remember correctly, you have two missing toes that can attest to that" She stated.

"You're not listening to my words. Y/N is NOT SAFE HERE" Michael shouts and glares at the she warden dressed in a suit.

He regains composure and continues in a more calm tone.

"Please" he sighs, "please just approve the transfer to another facility. Too many people here have a hit for me and Y/N shouldnt receive that punishment".

The warden makes a face and replies "If I grant her a transfer, everybody's gonna want one".

Michael quickly tosses another option out "What about segregrated housing?"

The warden looks at him peculiarly and advances like predator to prey, "Is there something that I should know about the structural integrity of SHU?".

Michael scoffs in annoyance "I see where this is going".

"I know who you are. And I'm not going to let you turn my prison into the next Fox River" She tells him in a stone cold tone.

"All I'm trying to do, is keep my wife alive. Someone tried to posion her today and have you seen what marks are on her face" he replies and takes a step forward just as she did, "You do know she's pregnant".

"I don't care" she replies just as coldly.

Michael looks away in disbelief.

"In case I haven't made myself clear--Y/N Y/L/N is not getting any preferential treatment" the warden says as a final statement.

[Later]

"Hey baby" Michael smiles as you sit in the chair across from him at the conjugal table.

"Hi my love" you respond.

Michael focuses on the bruising that's on your face.

He raises his hand to your cheek and gently strokes where a nasty red mark sits.

You close your eyes and sigh.

Sigh in relief he is here but also at how unfortunate events have turned out in here.

"I'm sorry this is happening to you" he tells you, not being able to look away from the beating evident on your face.

"It is what it is" you respond.

Michael watches you bring the back of your hand to your mouth. It felt like you had to burp or vomit.

You close your eyes, focusing on something different than how you are feeling right now.

"What is it?" Michael questioned with concern.

"Only nausea" you tell him, "I think it's my stress and the baby".

"I understand baby" he says and puts his hand ontop of yours on the table.

"Anyone who touches you, will lose a lot more than they bargain for" Michael says gruffly.

"Don't be like that Michael. There's no good in both of us incarcerated" you tell him, one hand on your nauseous stomach.

"I'm getting you out of here" he whispers and squeezes your one hand firmly.

You scoff in frustration.

"What did I just say Michael" you tell him.

"We will dissappear in Dominican Republic and you can finish your pregnancy in peace" he smiles softly.

"Our babies will pick plantains off the farms and swim in the ocean while we sunbathe and get drunk off margaritas"

You hum a sweet smile, "I would love it".

"I'm going to make it happen baby" he assures you.

"When are you coming in?" You ask in a whisper.

"Tomorrow" he says.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

More Than You Could Ever Know - Part 1

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: On god they're about to be so cute. This was going to be one chapter but they can't stop fucking and I can't stop writing. Enjoy!

Title from All I Want For Christmas is You by Mariah Carey

Word Count: 8.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: A No Love Lost Christmas Special! Takes place about five months after the end of No Love Lost, sort of an epilogue to the main story.

The Boys start Secret Santa, Ben pretends to do his job. Usual Warnings, plus smut. Much fluff and smut.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, tooth rotting fluff, smut (fingering, oral f receiving, p in v sex), established relationship, Christmas Special

Part 2

Read on A03!

Doing this in Butcher’s apartment was a terrible idea, because the asshole only cleans when it’s his weekend with Ryan, and you’re right on the wrong end of that. Doing it immediately after work was a worse one, because you’re in heels and a too tight bra that you’re not allow to rip off, throw in Ben’s face, giggling when he all but tackles you into bed.

Doing it without Ben here to smile and pout and snark at might be the worst idea you’ve ever had.

And you’ve had a lot of remarkably fucking terrible ideas.

You’re not really paying attention to your friends around you, because you’re staring at your phone. Turning it around between your hands, waiting for Ben’s text to let you know Ryan’s home from school. That he’s not being bullied, and he’s doing his homework, and his powers didn’t cause what the principal had referred to as structural damage to the school’s foundation, and what Ben had correctly said was just a fucking accident. It’s not Ryan’s fault you pussies put the baseball field right next to the goddamn building.

There haven’t been any incidents since then—Ben had taken Ryan to a large, empty field and helped him figure out how to not turn a ball into a genuine weapon—but it’s still a delicate situation. It took a lot to get Ryan into a public school. A lot of promises of Ryan won’t hurt anyone, you fucking pussies, he’s not a damn baby, and bargains of Ben and I will donate, and go to all the fundraisers, but you’re not allowed to explicitly advertise that Ryan’s here, and many, many thinly veiled threats of if you don’t treat our son like a proper fucking human, I’ll let my wife yell at you. And she’ll rip you to fucking pieces.

You wouldn’t have ripped anyone to pieces. Literal pieces. Emotional pieces had been on the table, as had reputational pieces. It was one of the very few advantages of being so highly and strangely regarded as the woman who killed Homelander and the founder of the Soldier Boy Relief Foundation. People respected you and your opinion, which was an interesting choice on their part, but served you well. Ryan had gotten into the school, and he seemed to be liking it, so you hadn’t even been that mad at Ben for threatening the superintendent.

But you also don’t really get mad at Ben. Not ever. You whack his arms and wrinkle your nose and elbow his gut, but he always feels that you don’t mean it, and you never fight him when he tugs you into his arms and kisses you breathless and dizzy. When he mutters promises about fucking you stupid later, and calls you a brat, and chuckles when you grind onto his thigh in the middle of the office, and you miss him so much-

It’s barely been six fucking hours, Sunshine.

You scowl into the air, even as your whole body sings from the feeling of Ben, strong and deep and flaring in your chest. Shut up, you’re supposed to be picking up Ryan-

Already got him. We’re home.

You were supposed to text me, Benjamin-

Why, I’m telling you right fucking now-

Because Singer’s still on our ass. You sigh, tapping your fingers on the back of your phone. And the Ben’o’phone isn’t admissible in a court of law to prove we’re well-suited parents.

Singer can shove it up his fucking dick-

Ben, please- You cut yourself off as your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a message.

Benjamin; Stupid fucking handsome asshole husband

Ryans hoem

R u fuckingg happy sunshine

You smile, typing back Yes. Thank you, grumpy.

Shut the fuck up, Ben grumbles in your head, and all his adoration flares in your chest as you smile into the air like an idiot.

I love you, you massive fucking man-child.

I love you too, brat. Why the fuck aren’t you home yet.

You can almost picture his half-pouting scowl, feel the warmth of his body around you and smell pine drifting through the air. Meeting with everyone.

Everyone.

Yep.

Why the fuck is everyone meeting without me-

Because you’re picking up Ryan.

We could’ve made fucking Butcher do that-

Butcher doesn’t have a super awesome wife who’s going to tell him everything when she gets home, my love.

There’s a pause, and then Ben mutters between the low words of your friends talking around you, Be fucking fast.

MM says your name, looking between you and the bowl on the center of the table. “You put Ben in there?”

I always am. You nod to MM as Ben moves back to a quiet, warm hum in your chest, and tuck your phone into your pocket. “Yeah. I’ll give him his name when I get home.”

“And we’re sure Ben knows how Secret Santa works?” Hughie scratches the back of his neck with a sheepish expression, and you sigh.

“No. But I can explain it to him.”

“Old cunt ever even celebrated Christmas?” Butcher mutters, his feet kicked up on the table. “He don’t seem like the spirit of givin’ type.”

You flip Butcher off, your words short and firm. “He’s not a million Butcher, he’s celebrated Christmas before.”

Ben seems to love Christmas. Or at least grumpily acknowledge it with a soft, easy glow over his ribs and a relaxed face, which is the closest thing he gets to loving something that’s not you or Ryan. He’d told you, at the beginning of the month, that it was the only time his father didn’t drink as much. The only time his mother got to love him and not be caught between he and his father’s fights. The only time he got something as a child that he wasn’t expected to feel sorry or wasteful for receiving. 

You wish there was some sort of supe that could communicate with ghosts or raise the dead. You’d mimic their powers, bring Ben’s father back, and then kill him again.

“Alright, Love.” Butcher raises his hands up in mock surrender. “Just makin’ sure.”

“Suck my fucking dick-“

“Can we, um,” Annie gives you an apologetic look as she cuts you off. “Can we draw? Now? Everyone has work tomorrow, and I would like to go home and eat my weight in sushi.”

Hughie nods, grinning down at Annie. “And watch Love Island.”

“Love Island?” MM raises his brows, and Annie blushes.

“It’s fun-“

“Names, cunts.” Butcher leans forward, pulling his paper, and looks around at the rest of the group. “Before time get’s all our sorry fuckin arses. Except yours. Love,” Butcher winks at you. “You’re stuck ‘ere till the sun goes out.”

“Eat me, Butcher.”

“Oi, I’m not above tellin the Gov you said that-“

“Ben would kick your sorry ass if you said that, Butcher.” MM’s voice is flat as he interrupts, leaning over the table to draw his paper. “You might be a supe now, but that motherfucker would beat up a mountain if it insulted her honor.”

You snort as Butcher’s sour expression, and give MM a grateful nod. Everyone here knows you don’t really have honor—at least not in a way that matters—but they also know that Ben doesn’t really care about that. His notion of your honor is subjective. You’re, apparently, above killing and straining labor, so he does that for you, but he also threatens congressmen and rude parents of Ryan’s classmates with his wife. You don’t lie to him, but he’s flat out encouraged you to commit perjury. He’d threatened a journalist who said you spread your legs for any powerful supe, but then shoved your knees apart to bury himself inside you and fuck you until you were a slurring, whiny mess under him.

It seems to mostly be about what you think of the insult. If that mountain called you a slut and you laughed, Ben would just glower, standing tall and ridged at your side. If it said the same thing and you stopped talking—cold spreading through your body and a ringing in your ears—Ben would make the mountain regret being born.

You miss him so fucking much.

Once everyone has a name and you’re sure no one’s pulled their own name, you leave Butcher’s apartment with grins and half-goodbyes. You, Annie, MM, and Hughie will all see each other tomorrow, and Frenchie, Kimiko, and Butcher will do the same.

It’s a short drive home from Butcher’s apartment, but that’s by design. For Ryan. Butcher lives in the city, and you and Ben are in the outskirt suburbs. You’d say Ben’s benefitting more from this arrangement—Butcher lives right above their office, while you have to drive to downtown for yours—but you’re the one who fought for this. The one who convinced Ben that Philadelphia would be a good place to live, because there was enough to not get bored, not enough that you’d never have peace, and it was halfway between New York and Washington. Most of the supe cleanup contracts that Ben, Butcher, Frenchie, and Kimiko got contracted for ended up being in New York—you’ve called Ben a murder maid several times, and he always rolls his eyes, kisses the top of your head, and mutters we don’t fucking murder people, we just get them in line when they’re being damn idiots—while a lot of your work is in DC, dealing with the more technical side of the post-Vought mess.

Ben hadn’t wanted you to call it the Soldier Boy Relief Foundation. He’d scowled at you as you’d told him and MM the idea, and their glares had been almost identical.

“There’s no fucking way you’re calling it that.” Ben had snapped, and MM had shot him a look of surprise.

“I mean, not that I don’t agree,” MM had said, scanning over Ben with a frown. “But why the hell do you think that.”

“Because Soldier Boy’s fucking dead. You,” he’d bumped his shoulder with yours, rough affection spreading over his ribs, even as he continued to glower. “Fucking killed him, Sunshine. Don’t use that name.”

You’d wrinkled your nose at him. “First of all, that’s very romantic, Pretty Boy. I’ve always wanted to metaphorically murder my husband.”

Brat-

“But,” you’d continued, kicking Ben’s shin as he’d started to smirk. “I have reasons to name it that.”

MM had scoffed. “There is not a chance you’ve got reasons to justify using that name-“

“It will draw attention.” You’d raised your fingers as you listed the reasons, using a bored, plain tone. “The whole point of this is to get as many victims of Vought and Homelander as much help as possible. Labelling it with Soldier Boy’s name will put it on people’s radar-“

“So would calling it the Starlight or Anomaly relief Foundation-“

You’d shaken your head, giving MM a flat look. “Annie’s supe name is already tainted in the public eye. Mine is controversial. If people hear the Anomaly Relief Foundation, they’ll form an automatic opinion based on the trials and news stories they’ve read. Soldier Boy will get people to actually look at what we’re doing. Older victims will be more likely to come out of the woodwork, supes that admired Ben growing up will be more willing to see what we’re offering them, and congress is full of old white assholes who will love it.”

MM had frowned, but nodded for you to continue, and you’d raised a second finger.

“Vought’s copyright on Soldier Boy expired last year, but Starlight and the Anomaly won’t be available for public use for another forty. Even if Vought goes down, they could drag us with them on petty litigations and technicalities, and we don’t need that right now. Finally,” you’d raised a third finger. “I think it’s poetic, and funny, and rubbing how we won in Homelander stupid dead face.”

You’d won that argument. And the argument about where to live. And the argument about letting Butcher have alternate weekends with Ryan.

That last one had been the easiest to win. For the name debate you’d had to convince Ben and MM, and for the city debate you’d had to convince the whole team of stubborn assholes you called your friends, but for the last one you’d only had to convince Ben. And you always convince Ben. He puts up a grumbled argument, and you tear down his points with teasing, loving words, and he gives in with a grunt. But you always see his small grin, and feel all his love and care and affection bursting from that piece of him near your heart, and he devours your face and neck and cunt until your knees get weak and you almost fall over.

You might love him more than life.

He’s waiting for you when you get home. You barely open the door before he’s on you, sweeping you into a long, deep kiss and groaning down your throat.

Hi, Benjamin. You mumble between your heads, and his chuckle rolls through your whole body.

“Hi, Sunshine.” He grins at you as he pulls away, hauling you up his chest as you gape at him a little stupidly. It’s not fair how he somehow keeps getting more handsome, how a domestic, peaceful life looks so good on him it might drive you insane. How his shirt under your hands is clean and soft and easy to tug on, to pull him back onto your mouth. How, when you finally get your shoes off, they’re on a mat right next to his, and that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. How his beard is so well-trimmed because there’s nothing to rush for, and the whole house smells like pine because of Ben’s constant presence, and when he carries you up the stairs he doesn’t bother to look where he’s going because he already has the path memorized.

“Wait,” you push up on Ben’s chest, dropping your chin on his shoulder. “Ryan-“

“Hi!” Ryan calls your name from downstairs. “I’m doing homework!”

Don’t know how the fuck he’s my blood. Ben mutters in your head, never breaking his pace. He’s all damn smart and good at homework. “You know the drill, Kid?”

“Dinner in forty, only bother you if it’s an emergency!”

Smug pride inflates in Ben’s chest, and when you lean back he’s already grinning at you with darkened, blown out eyes, his half-hard cock already poking at your thigh.

You wrinkle your nose at him. We are not fucking with Ryan in the house.

We fuck with Ryan in the house all the damn time-

When he’s asleep, or watching TV, or has his headphones on. Not when he can hear it.

Then we’ll have him put headphones on-

You are not asking Ryan to use his headphones so we can have sex. You give Ben’s borderline pout a sweet smile, and lean forward to kiss over his beard. But when he goes to bed, I’ll let you do the thing.

Ben’s hunger grows white-hot and ravenous in your body, and when you meet his eyes, they’re darkened and peeling you apart. You have to squirt.

I can’t control that-

Whatever. Ben kicks open the door to your room, shooting you a wink. You have to let me make you fucking squirt, beautiful. No holding back.

You snort. When have you ever held back during sex.

I managed not to fuck you for six goddamn months. His voice is almost a growl in your head, and it’s not help your resolve to not have sex in the slightest. That’s some goddamn restraint, brat. He drops his mouth to that one spot on your throat, sucking and biting until your fingers curl in his hair. You’re fucking hot.

Thanks. Your voice is breathless, even between your heads, and you give a weak pull of Ben’s hair that only spurs him on. Wait, Ben, I need to talk to you-

That makes his pull away in an instant, his attention vigilant as he scans over your face, your skin suddenly wrapped in his concrete resolve. What the fuck is-

Nothing’s wrong. You take his face between your hands, giving him a soft smile. It’s about the meeting with everyone.

The one that you didn’t fucking invite me to.

The one, you swat at his arm, sticking your tongue out. That I’m trying to tell you about now, you big baby.

Fine. Ben grumbles in your head, watching you expectantly. What.

Have you ever done Secret Santa before?

Once. Vought party in the 80s.

You raise your brows at him. Really? How did that go?

I don’t fucking remember-

Well, it was forty years ago. You hold his face between your hands with a mock pout. Is your memory going, Benjamin? Do Ryan and I have to put you in a home-

Shut the fuck up, brat. Ben moves you flat on your back, kissing a very distracting line along your jaw as your finger curl in his hair.

Ben- You tug him back up—because if he keeps that up, you’ll never get around to telling him anything except more—and the asshole rises up with his hunger covering your bones and muscles, his body big and warm and strong over yours-

“Yes, darling?” Ben drawls, smirking down at you, and you scowl.

“You’re such a fucking cunt-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, still hovering over your body. “Tell me what the fuck the meeting was about to so I,” he pushes his knee between your thighs. “Can focus on this.”

Not with Ryan in the house-

You’ll just have to be quiet. He presses his knee up, bumping right over your clit, and grins at your small whine. Tell me about the meeting.

We’re, fuck- You grind pathetically against him, and Ben drops his weight to down to trap you against the mattress stilling the movements. You dick-

I’ll give you my dick. He kisses you once, long and slow, guiding your arms fully around his neck. Just use your fucking words, beautiful.

It’s a miracle you remember how words work, let alone say any of them, because Ben dives back down to your neck—keeping you pinned down as he works you into a gasping, writhing mess under him—and everything becomes very simply Ben in your mind and body.

“I, um,” he nips at your throat, and you have to swallow a moan. “Kimiko wanted to do something, for the Holidays, and Hughie suggested Secret Santa, so we’re, fuck, Ben, we’re doing that-“

Ben rises back up to frown at you, and you whine at the loss. “Doing what.”

“Secret Santa,” you whisper, taking the moment of his distraction to wrap your legs around his torso. “I put your name in, and, um,” you let go of him for a second, fumbling around in your pocket for Ben’s paper, folded neatly while yours was crumpled. “I grabbed yours.”

Ben wraps an arm around you as he sits up, pulling you to fall over his chest and curl in his lap. “That,” he nods to the paper, still in your hand. “Is who I have to get the gift for.”

You nod with a hum, passing it into his hand. “I didn’t look,” you say, watching him un-wrinkle it. “So don’t-“

“Butcher?” Ben looks up at you with a scowl, a hot, stinging itch spreading over his skin and sitting in his fingers. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with Butcher.”

You sigh. “Tell me. Don’t tell me, Ben.”

“I had to fucking tell you,” he snaps your name, glaring at the paper. “I can’t get a gift for fucking Butcher, all he does is fucking work and pussy around, fucking asshole probably doesn’t even want anything like a normal damn human-“

“There has to be something.” You mumble, tapping your fingers on Ben’s arm. “We’ll figure it out, Ben. I’ll help you. But you can’t tell anyone I did, and you have to pretend you don’t think this is stupid-“

“I don’t think it’s stupid-”

You give him a flat look. “Benjamin-“

“I think Butcher’s a fucking ball strainer.” Ben shrugs, fisting his paper into a ball and tossing it onto the floor. “But I’ve got you, Sunshine, so I’m good.”

You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Ball strainer’s a new one. I like it.”

“Good,” Ben mutters, relaxing under your hands, the glow returning in his chest. “Who the fuck did you get.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why the fuck not, I told you mine-“

“Which you weren’t supposed to do.” You give him a flat look, and he rolls his eyes. “It’s Secret Santa. You’ll find out with everyone else.

“What’s the fucking point of being married,” Ben grumbles, pulling you a little further up his chest. “If my wife won’t tell me all her secrets.”

“You already know all my secrets, Benjamin.”

“Not fucking all of them-“

“This isn’t a secret.” You smile at him, and the glow spreads up his spine. “It’s a surprise.”

“Whatever.” He grumbles. “Sounds like a fucking secret.”

You kiss his cheek with a soft hum. “Grumpy-“

Your words die in a yelp as Ben flips you over, crashing his mouth into yours with a fervor, his hands squeezing and kneading at your waist.

“Brat,” he growls, and you have to bite your tongue to hold down a loud plea of his name. “I’m going to fuck you stupid, Sunshine, make you fucking drool and beg.” He bites on your lower lip, his knee pushing back to your core, and you whimper. “But you need to keep quiet.”

You will not be able to keep quiet. You’re grinding desperately against him, your mouth slack and open, and your whole body warm and sensitive and buzzing with Ben. Leaving wet, open kisses down your neck, replacing his knee with a broad hand cupping your pussy, groaning onto your skin as he twitches against your thigh.

“Ben-“

“Do you need some fucking help?” He drawls, crawling back up over you with a smirk. “Can’t keep that smart, pretty mouth closed?”

“Fuck,” you gasp as he pushes your panties to the side, running one finger between your folds. “God, Ben, fuck you-“

“I will.” He winks at you, his whole body still filled with adoration and hunger as his tone becomes stern. “Just ask real fucking nice, and I’ll fuck you all you damn want, Sunshine.”

“Ben, please-“

“Think you can keep it the fuck down?”

You nod frantically as Ben’s thumb moves to your clit, rubbing around it but never on it. A metallic tang sits in your mouth as you chew through your cheek, and Ben must see the tint of red or feel the sting of pain, because he pulls back suddenly, and you can’t stop your moan of protest.

“Not going to let you fucking hurt yourself.” He mutters, raising your legs up as he pulls off your underwear. You can talk here, he balls up the cloth, rising back up over your body. But that’s it. Got it?

You glance at the underwear in his hand, and swallow as you realize what he means, your mouth falling open without a single other thought.

Fucking words-

Got it. You smile up at him, curling a hand in his shirt to tug him down into a deep, easy kiss, pulling his tongue between your teeth. Fuck me.

He rises back up, scanning over your features with an attentive, rough care that pulls you apart and makes your whole body molten. There’s a sharp, sore ache over his skin and in his muscles, his free hand trailing slowly over your thighs, and God, if he doesn’t fuck you right now you might die.

Please, Ben. You grind up into the air, letting all of your love and thirst for him leak out of your body and into his. Please.

You can see the moment it hits him. His eyes flash, his nostrils flare, and if there was anything holding him back from just fucking you it’s gone. He presses his thumb on your lower lip in a silent request for you to open, and when you do he looks almost feral. He groans as he stuffs your panties into your mouth, tracing broad fingers over your cheekbones and squeezing your waist as he draws back.

Going to go slow, he mutters in your head, angling your hips up into the air so your ass is resting on his thighs, your dripping pussy is fully at his mercy. Take my fucking time.

Ben-

He slaps your pussy once, and your moan is muffled as your eyes roll back in your head.

So fucking wet, he says your name in the silence, smirking at you as he repeats the movement and your hips buck into the air. And fucking needy, already whining and I’ve barely damn touched you-

Please, you widen your eyes at him, your fingers curling in the sheets when he drags his thumb up, over your slit, and presses hard on your clit. Fuck, Ben-

What do you want, darling. He presses his thumb down, angling it so he can tease your already fluttering cunt with two forefingers. You want my fingers? He shoves them deep into you, crooking them as they hit that deep, soft spot that makes everything in your body sing.

Fuck-

Or, he kisses a sloppy path down your chest—pausing only to flick his tongue over your nipple and smirk at your high, muffled noise of need—and moves one hand back to your hips, adjusting you further upwards as he buries his face between your legs. My mouth?

His beard brushes and tickles your thighs as he tongue-fucks you, his nose bumping your clit, and God, it’s everything. Ben’s everything. Just the sight of him—in all his stupid, handsome glory, all of it just for you—makes you dizzy. And he’s touching you like you’re holy and grinning against your cunt as you make high, muffled sounds, and you’re so close already and he’s so good-

Ben. You don’t have to the strength to push up on your elbows and fully look at him, and he’s holding you still with big, warms hands that pull and rub at your skin, so all you can do is moan into the mock-gag and arch your back when he licks a rough stripe up your cunt. Fuck, Ben, I need you, please-

He hums against you, flattening his tongue on your clit as one hand snakes back under your ass, playing and teasing around your cunt, never pushing in. You like this, darling? Like getting my mouth and fingers the needy fucking miracle you are, like it when I fucking worship your perfect pussy-

Yes, please-

He shoves two fingers back into you, pumping and scissoring as he flicks his tongue over that bundle of nerves. Tell me how good it feels, Sunshine, talk to me-

So good, you whine, and he chuckles in a way that rolls right into the tight coil near your gut. Fuck, Ben, fuck me, please-

That what you want? He rises back up with one last suck of your clit, leaving you whining and empty and fuck, he’s so handsome and all yours and looking at you like you’re some sort of god-

Benjamin-

His cock slaps on your clit—you don’t even know when he took off his pants, because everything is just a haze of warm and pine and Ben and good—and you fucking squeal.

You want my fucking cock, beautiful? Want me to make you squirt all over my fucking dick, fuck you like you deserve, fuck you until that smart, pretty mouth is fucking drooling and screaming my name-

Please, you hook your legs around his waist, trying to guide him inside you. Want you-

Beg.

I did, you asshole- The gag barely muffles your moan as Ben teases the head of his cock inside you, and you almost fly off the bed. Fuck, please-

More.

Please, Ben, please fuck me, please-

Good girl. He pushes himself inside you without further warning, primal satisfaction glowing over his ribs and abdomen as ghosting, iridescent fire covers your skin. So fucking beautiful, he growls your name between your heads, dragging himself out and slamming back in with a bruising force. Fucking perfect. So tight and wet for me, Sunshine, always so fucking good-

Ben groans as you squeeze around him, but he doesn’t pick up the pace. He just moves your hips a little higher, towering over you as he slowly thrusts in and out of your aching pussy.

Fuck, you’re a goddamn marvel, beautiful, feel like fucking heaven, could die here-

Ben, you whimper around your underwear, somehow finding the strength to reach up to him. Please, faster-

It’s all he needs. Ben’s praise becomes slurred as he fucks into you at an inhuman pace, his skin slapping sinfully against yours and his cock bumping your cervix with every thrust.

Christ, fuck- He falls over you, kissing over your collarbone before sucking on your neck, his movements becoming jerking and uncontrolled. You’re- fuck- Such a good girl, taking my cock so fucking good, fucking made for me, best fucking pussy I’ve ever seen, fucking love you-

You’re so close. Everything in you is alight and desperate for release, and you’re only a split second from begging for it when Ben groans against you, rising up to watch you with a devout, starved focus you can feel pounding in your heart.

You’re perfect. His voice in your head is deep and so fucking hungry, and you whimper. Cum, Sunshine.

Release rips through your body, and Ben rips your underwear out of your mouth, slamming his lips over yours and kissing you into the mattress. You scream down his throat as he fucks you through your orgasm, and when something warm and wet flows out of your pussy, Ben’s cock starts to jerk and spill into you. It’s so warm and blissful and made of Ben’s ardor and pleasure, and it sends you over the edge once more.

Neither of you try to move for a minute, Ben’s brow dropping to yours as you sit in his safe, certain warmth.

“We’ve got dinner.” He mutters, kissing the space between your eyes as he pulls out of you. “Go shower, beautiful.”

“You need to shower as well-“

“I’ll shower after.” Ben shrugs, rubbing on your thigh as he sits on the edge of the mattress. “You’re a bigger mess than me, darling.”

“Then I,” you mumble, and he rolls his eyes, jagged affection flaring in his body. “And I’m only a mess because you’re a tease, Pretty Boy.”

Ben snorts, leaning down to give you one last, soft kiss. “You love it,” he mutters onto your lips. “See you downstairs.”

You don’t move for a while after the door closes behind him, and you don’t know how long passes when Ben sparks in your chest, his words low in your head.

Move, Sunshine. Dinner’s almost ready.

Shut up. You smile at the ceiling, because he’d known you would still just be lying, fucked out, in bed. I hate you.

No you don’t. You fucking love me. 

I’m allowed to feel two things, cunt.

But you don’t, brat. Say it.

You roll your eyes, pushing up on the bed. I love you, you dick.

I love you too. You feel him glow in your body, and you shuffle to find where Ben had tossed your pants. See you in ten.

You nod mindlessly into the air, and pull your own paper out, smiling easily at the name. See you soon, my love.

—————

Ben worked in a fucking office. He did a goddamn commute every weekday, got dropped off at a fucking office, received a paper bag and a kiss on the cheek from his wife, then worked from nine to fucking five.

In a fucking office.

At a fucking desk.

Ben had a fucking desk. With a computer and stupid chair that spun in a circle and a mug that his son had gotten him. It said World’s Greatest Grandpa, and his wife had almost fallen over laughing when Ben showed it to her.

You think that’s fucking funny, Sunshine-

I know it’s funny, Benjamin. She’s kissed him, alive and beautiful in his arms, leaning into his body like she’d never want to be anywhere else. And they were out of Dad mugs, so it was either that or you being the World’s Best Mom.

Ben had rolled his eyes, then kept that mug where he could see it all the time. At his desk.

In his fucking office.

His office with a horrible fucking paint job, and lights that barely worked, and a printer that he had no damn idea how to use. It was why he made Kimiko print out photos of Her and Ryan, and he spent most of the day just fucking staring at them and bothering Her through the brain connection while she worked.

Because Ben was—as She’d call it—being a dramatic fucking man child. He only actually went in once or twice a week, for briefs on new missions and paperwork on old ones. The worst part of the whole fucking thing was that he still couldn’t figure out the fucking computer, and every few weeks he had to sleep at a hotel in New York for a case. In reality he got paid damn well, woke up next to the most beautiful woman in fucking history every morning, and picked his son up from school every afternoon. He got to do work he didn’t hate, and work with people who he—against his fucking will—liked enough not to kill.

Butcher was calling it a Private Military Company. She called it Supe Cleanup. And murder maid, but most supe cleanup.

She was fucking right. In all the jobs Butcher had found for them, exactly two had been non-supe related. And whatever She said was the goddamn truth anyway, because no matter what Butcher claimed, they worked for Her. She got Neuman to give them all their damn cases, was the one who funded a lot of their fucking bullshit, and She dealt with most of the aftermath. Butcher wouldn’t say it because he was a pathetic fucking pussy, and She wouldn’t say it because she was too kind for her own damn good, but everyone else knew.

She was the fucking boss. She called the shots, and looked damn hot doing it. She was the one who killed Homelander—all Butcher had done was shoot a fucking gun, any asscuck with eyes and hands could’ve done that—and the one who built this shit up in a matter of months. She had the ideas for the supe reform programs, and employed all the lawyers who represented the countless victims of Vought and Homelander. Christ, She even got Butcher the damn license to be a private contractor, and convinced that Defense Secretary pussy to hire them the post-Vought efforts. She was the one with a real damn job.

Ben, Butcher, Frenchie, and Kimiko sat around until someone told them there was work to do, and then they damn did it and went home.

She testified before congress. She dealt with all the fucking press idiots, and offered the supes second chances the pussies didn’t deserve, and made sure everyone got their reparations. Ben wasn’t really sure what the fuck the actual mission statement of Her whole thing was—She’d explained it, tits pressed together as she crossed her arms, and he hadn’t remembered all her big, fancy fucking words—but he knew she was doing something good. She ran a real company, not a group of four fucking assholes.

“It’s not a company, Benjamin.” She’d told him, straddling his torso and pouting down at him as his hands kneaded her skin. “It’s a non-profit.”

“What’s the damn difference,” he’d grumbled, and she’d sighed, tapping her fingers on his chest.

“Well, if it’s a company I don’t get any government funding. And as a non-profit we get exempt from certain taxes, and it lends us a certain credibility, which is important because a lot of people aren’t going to trust us. Which I understand, this is a mess, but we also can’t give the media or public anything that might lend to confirmation bias-“

Ben had pulled Her down as she started to spiral into a fucking overdrive, and kissed her until she relaxed in his arms.

Don’t fucking hurt yourself, Sunshine. He’d muttered. You had me with ‘well’.

That was- She’d let out a small gasp as Ben nipped on her upper lip, her voice breathy in their heads. I hadn’t even started talking-

I know. He’d smirked against Her, rolling them over so he could look down at Her beautiful face, how it was open and easy and all his to keep joyful. You have me all the damn time, darling.

Good. She’d smiled up at him, Ben might have drowned in how fucking perfect she was. Because you have me as well.

He didn’t have Her now. Ben had Her everywhere in the world, except in his arms. She was in the flicking, golden light of the office, and the off-key, horrible fucking humming Butcher was doing across the room, and wallpaper of his phone. Both She and Ryan were in pieces all over Ben’s desk as well. Not just in the pictures, but the little paper guide She’d made him to the internet. It told him how shit like URLs and emails and incognito mode worked, and it was in Her handwriting because She loved him enough to help him with this. Ryan had contributed, and drawn a little fucking smile on the corner of one of the pages, and Ben kept it open to that section all the damn time.

Ryan was mostly in that stupid damn mug that Ben kept on his desk every moment, even when he wasn’t using it.

She was mostly in the ring on Ben’s finger. Matching Her’s, the only thing he ever owned that he gave a shit about. He’d had houses and trophies and diamonds and stupid fucking crystal plates that barely damn worked, but they’d all been replaceable. This ring wasn’t. It was made of all the stupid scrap Frenchie had found in the pawn shop, and fireproof because his beautiful, perfect wife was a fucking menace.

And She wasn’t fucking replaceable. The ring proved that Ben had Her—alive in his body and consuming his every damn thought—and he’d never fucking lose Her. He simply fucking refused to, because he’d never, ever be able to find someone he knew how to love half as much. Christ, he’d never had a goddamn chance, because loving Her might be the only thing Ben had ever been a natural at. He’d learned how to do it without effort, like it was something he was born for, and he’d never want to do anything else again. He was the only pussy in the world who was worthy of it, as well.

Ben was worthy of Her, because he fucking understood that She was priceless and holy. That loving Her was a task, but fuck it was worth it. Every nightmare and hollow, glassy stare when she retreated back into pain—the feeling like torture in Ben’s body, making him feel fucking sick until she smiled again—was well worth it to love Her. Worth how he might not be the only one who got to see all Her damn perfection on the surface—beauty and kindness and smart words that came with a smarter fucking brain—but it was Ben alone who got to see everything. The whole picture of this insane, infuriating, perfect woman.

And fuck, She was a masterpiece. And She was all fucking Ben’s. All his to tend to and hold, all his to throw around and fight besides, all his to grin at and care for and really fucking love. All Ben’s to give the whole damn world, and then reduce it all to a moan of his name when he fucked Her. When he buried his head in Her pretty pussy that tasted like a heady, slightly bitter, powerful fucking drug and rubbed Her clit until she squirted all over his fucking face. All Ben’s to trace with worshipping, firm hands, all Ben’s to get fucking high on.

Because sometimes he’d have his hand braced near Her head as he fucked her, and she’d be a needy fucking mess under him, and he’d trace fingers over Her lips and cheekbones before brushing the hair from Her face.

And his ring would catch the light through their blind shades.

And Ben would lose his fucking mind.

He’d hit a pace that was inhuman, and kiss Her everywhere he could fucking reach. Breathing would feel pointless, because he had his wife under him, screaming his name and being the only thing in the whole world that mattered. All of Ben’s existence would narrow to his mouth on her own, or kissing at Her breasts, or sucking on her clit. His hands would be for squeezing and pulling Her skin, or tracing and teasing over her perfect body, or thrusting fingers in and out of Her pussy. Shoving them deep enough his ring would come out covered in her arousal, crooking them until she was pleading and whining under him, and tasting Her when he pulled them out, leaving Her ruined and whimpering on the edge.

And he’d split Her open on his cock, make Her say his name like a prayer, and fuck Her until she squirted all over his cock and he could pump her full of his cum-

Stop distracting me, Benjamin.

I didn’t fucking do anything. He drawled Her name between their heads, smirking into the air. You’re the one who’s distracting me, brat.

Shut up, you’re probably at your desk watching baseball. And you know what you fucking did.

Ben rolled his eyes, turning off his monitor, and with it the MBA game. I don’t have a damn clue what you’re talking about, Sunshine, you spoke first-

Because you started getting horny and loud in my brain, and I’m at work. I can’t start masturbating while I talk to MM and Hughie, they’ll never look me in the eyes again.

Tell them to fucking leave.

I’m not kicking them out of our meeting so we can have mind sex.

You’ve kicked them out so we can have real sex-

Ben could almost see the wrinkle of Her nose. That’s not the same, you looked like you were going to kill them if they didn’t leave-

I hadn’t seen you in a fucking week-

Three days, don’t be dramatic-

And, Ben ignored Her, pushing on. Those pussies chose to leave, it’s not like I fucking threatened them-

They could see your boner, my love. Her voice was bored and amused in his head, and Ben wanted to fucking eat the sound and turn it into a moan. And you almost broke down my door demanding we go on a date, and I quote, ‘right fucking now’-

We should go on a date-

Ben-

Tonight, darling, keep your damn head on. You can stash Ryan at Butcher’s, the asshole looks fucking lonely anyway-

Don’t call it stashing, Ben-

Fine, drop him there after you pick him up-

I was actually, um, I was going to- She paused, and Ben could almost hear her nervous swallow. I wanted to ask, and you can say no, but I-

Words, darling-

Could you pick up Ryan today? I have to go do something.

Ben frowned into the air. Something.

Her voice hummed in his head. Yeah.

Are you going to fucking tell me-

No. It’s a surprise.

It’s a fucking secret-

Ben. Her voice was soft and gentle in his head, and that alone made his frown drop to what She called a pout.

What.

If it was a secret, I would’ve told you I’m working late, or going out with Annie and Kimiko, or something else stupid. But it’s not a secret, I just can’t tell you right now.

She was right. She was always fucking right, and Ben had an idea what this was, but he still missed Her. Wanted to touch her and walk with her and make Her bury her face in his arm when he teased her. You’re going to fucking tell me.

I promise that, by the end of the month, I will have told you. And we can do that date on Christmas eve. Whatever you want.

You don’t have to damn bribe me-

I know. She sighed in the silence, and something in Ben ached as Her own guilt clouded over his eyes. But I want to go on a date with you. And I really want to tell you what I’m doing-

You’re getting a gift. Ben said between their heads, and there was a brief silence before She responded.

Shut up.

Ben drawled Her name, grinning at the air. You’re going to get your gift for the stupid fucking Santa thing-

No, I need to go to the mall for that. Actually, She paused, and Ben felt a smile tug at his lips as he pictured Her pretty face starting into the air, her fingers tapping her desk or leg. Could you take Ryan to the mall? Help him get his gifts? And maybe new pants, I think he grew again-

You have to go with us to get the tree.

If Her nose hadn’t been wrinkling before, it sure as fuck was now. I thought I didn’t have to bribe you, Pretty Boy-

It’s not a fucking bribe, Sunshine, it’s a deal. You go do your secret shit-

My surprise shit-

And I’ll get Ryan and do the fucking shopping. But we’re doing that date, and you’re coming with us for the tree.

Okay. Deal. Ben?

He grunted Her name between their heads, and something warm spread over his whole body at the sound of Her sweet, sharp, infinitely adoring voice.

I love you. She whispered. Thank you-

Don’t. Ben muttered. I love you too. But if you’re not home by midnight I’m finding you and carrying you back.

Her giggle was soft in the silence of the office, and Ben didn’t bother to fight the wide grin on his face. Promise?

Brat.

Cunt.

She faded back into a quiet, perfect presence over Ben’s skull, and now he actually had to damn work. But then he’d get to pick Ryan up—Ben didn’t fucking know how shopping worked without Her there, and he didn’t think Ryan would either, but they’d figure it out—and kiss Her dumb when she got back from whatever the hell she was doing.

She’d tell him. Ben didn’t have a single fucking doubt She’d tell him, because they didn’t keep secrets from each other. Ben could feel Her all the fucking time, and knew exactly where she was across the city, and he didn’t have a single damn desire to keep anything from Her at all. He didn’t see the point in it. That’s what fucking marriage was for, Ben giving his everything to Her, while She gave every part of her right back.

It’s why he was so fucking ready for the holidays. Ben hadn’t had a real Christmas since he was fucking six or seven. They’d either been spent at boarding schools or in military camps through his youth, or at drug-fueled parties through his career. Or just fucking alone. When everyone had people to go to that they cared about more, and Ben didn’t have a single fucking person who saw him as their person.

He’d told Her that, and something soft and pained had flashed over her beautiful face as she held his face between his hands. He’d expected an age joke—So in a hundred fucking years, Pretty Boy?—but all he’d gotten was a gentle, slow kiss and loving words.

You’re my person, Benjamin. She’d mumbled against his lips. And as long as you’re stuck with that, we can do whatever you want for Christmas.

I’m not fucking stuck with it, he’d grumbled, hauling Her up his chest. I love you, Sunshine, you’re not getting rid of me until I fucking die.

She’d hummed, smiling at him. So in like a year, old man?

Ben had rolled his eyes—there She was—and kissed Her until she was squirming above him, then fucked up into her as she screamed his name.

And he didn’t really fucking want much else. There were to many damn traditions for this shit. Activities he didn’t understand, and mistletoe he didn’t fucking care about—he didn’t need a damn plant to tell him when to kiss his wife—and cards that were fucking pointless because they had six friends who they saw every damn day.

He wanted to do some of it though. Ben wanted to eat all the food, and watch whatever movie She told him to—he didn’t understand how a movie about the Grinch could be the best Christmas movie ever fucking made, Benjamin, but he’d watch most anything if She sat with him —and he really wanted to do the tree. To get a big one that made the whole house smell good, and he could cover it in stupid lights.

It should be rainbow lights. She’d fucking love rainbow lights, so Ben should get rainbow lights.

Ben should get them a lot of fucking things. He should get Ryan whatever the hell the kid needed to be a kid, and Ben hadn’t been a kid since the fucking 20s, so he’d have to ask Her and see what that shit looked like now. Probably sports gear, and a real phone that wasn’t a damn brick, and a trip to some museums because Ryan was like Her, and they both liked smart shit, and museums were full of smart shit.

She should get a trip to a museum as well, just Her and Ben. She should get twenty more houses, and a massive library that was just for Her to be a genius in, and as many breaks and vacations as Ben could drag her on. Back to their villa in Rome every summer, and up to Boston to visit Her sister, and every other beautiful place in the world.

She should get the fucking world. Ben should be able to drag the sun down from the sky for Her to hold, and break of a piece of the moon for Her to touch.

But this—a normal, easy holiday where Ben could buy find Her something as perfect as she was for a gift—was going to be damn good place to start.

End Note: It was bold of any of them to think Ben would be able to keep any sort of secret from Her.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask! (Separate from main taglist)

Taglist

@manicjk @lordofthunderthr @artemys-ackles @brtodd @ej13928

@deansbbyx

[richarlotte]

What did you do/use for your facial beauty glow up?

Lip Filler.

I have 1.5 mL of lip filler at the moment and probably won’t get more any time soon. In my mind, it’s the perfect amount; it gives my lips a delicious, just bitten look, and it doesn’t look or feel unnatural. I’m someone who loves subtle changes; I’m not the sort of girl who’d go crazy with surgery, and I prefer to make my changes slowly. I started with .5 mL, slowly went up to 1.5 mL over the course of two more appointments, and I think plumping my lips up completely changed my lower face and made me look younger and more feminine.

Polynucleotide Injections.

This treatment is major in South Korea; it’s very popular, and one of my best friends went and came back singing its praises. After weight loss, this is the most important thing I have ever done for myself. These injections boosted my collagen production and made the terrible dark circles and puffiness under my eyes disappear. It took a few weeks for me to see the results, but I look like I’ve had an upper and lower blepharoplasty now; my eye area is completely rejuvenated and the skin is bright, and while my initial reaction to the set of treatments I had was intense, the end result was better than I could’ve ever hoped for.

A Comprehensive Skincare Routine.

The skin is the body’s largest organ, and the first step to learning how to care for it is understanding that you and it must be hydrated. Learning that what I put into my body was just as important as what I put onto my skin helped me change my approach to skincare. I mostly use French, Korean, and medical-grade skincare products, and I switch them out each season so that I can approach my needs correctly. Washing and changing my sheets twice weekly, going on a low estrogen birth control, and adding N-acetylcysteine to my supplements helped me more than I could ever say.

Minoxidil. 

Using Minoxidil to grow my eyebrows out was one of the best decisions I’ve made for myself. I love the look of thick, lush eyebrows, but I don’t actually like thick brows. I used minoxidil to grow my eyebrows until they were thick and I could have them threaded and thinned out just a bit, straightened, and tinted until they were the shape and shade I wanted. Minoxidil is a great tool; it's decently affordable, and while the results take a while to appear, once they've been appearing, they’re very noticeable. I also use a regular lash serum on my lashes to grow them; it’s from The Ordinary, and I think it works slowly but nicely. You do have to be very precise with your application of Minoxidil, but other than that, it’s very good for filling in sparse eyebrows.

Weight Loss.

Losing over 80 pounds, doing a complete overhaul of my diet and limiting the amount of processed foods I consume, making an effort to care for my body and mind, and changing my mental and physical health for the better completely changed my world. My insulin resistance is totally gone, I’m healed from the PCOS that once plagued me, I no longer eat the foods I have sensitivies to, and the inflammation and water retention I’d have the morning after are gone, and I feel like my best self. My double chin has been vanquished, my bone structure is visible again, and I love the way my nose looks, and I am so much more confident about the shape of my face. Losing weight is the best thing I have ever done for myself, and I’d recommend it to anyone who feels like they need to overhaul their life.

Proper Styling

Learning how to do my makeup, contouring my face with self-tanner, and styling my hair were all major parts of becoming more confident with my face. Now that I know what I’m doing with myself and I’ve been able to identify what suits me best, things come easier. Proper styling is what’ll make or break you. You could be the most beautiful woman in the world, but if you don’t care for your appearance, you’ll struggle. I put a lot of time and effort into learning what looked best on me, learning how to style myself, learning what worked with my facial shape and bone structure, and figuring out which lash maps, brow shape, makeup style, and colors suited the overall aesthetic I was going for. Learning about makeup products, trying a variety of different makeup styles, and new makeup techniques made a world of difference for my styling journey too.

Braces.

I had braces on for just over a year—traditional metal, power chains most of the time—and they were worth every cent. I was always insecure over my teeth, and fixing them has really made it easier for me to smile and express myself. Although they’re not perfectly straight or blindingly white (Kirsten Dunst is known for her smile for a reason), I’m confident, and I love them. Taking care of my teeth is something that I really struggled with at one point, and I have had to make a real effort to get better at that. I still have my dental routines, wear my retainer at night and through the day, and do brightening treatments, but I’m focused on the health of my mouth instead of aesthetics now.

These are the major things.

[drdemonprince]

Something I'm having a hard time understanding in the framework of privilege and power is being multi-gendered. Do I have male privilege if I sometimes ID as a trans man and other times as a butch woman? I thought the answer would become clear as I got older and "decided what I was" but it's become increasingly clear that I'm both depending on the day or just the angle I look at myself from. I'm comfortable with that in my personal life but it places me outside of these conversations (or in multiple conflicting places?) and it's a bit of a mindfuck when trying to make sense of how I relate to all of these structures. I sense others also don't know what to do with me and avoid the topic at all costs, or worse, try to convince me that I'm confused about my identity in order to make me easier to digest. The stupid transandro shit has really muddied the waters as well, a few years ago I felt like we were moving towards being able to have a constructive conversation about it as a community but we've taken some massive steps back. Basically I feel like Schrodinger's masc

I think this confusion reflects that you, like a lot of us, were likely enculturated to understand oppression as a matter of personal identity when it is instead systemic and material in nature. Your oppression does not flow out of your head or your heart. It is enacted on you from the outside by legal, social, and economic systems that operate in a series of observable ways. How you personally feel or self describe doesn't functionally matter a ton one way or the other. What matters at the end of the day is the violence that gets deployed against you by the state, the threats that are levied at you by an employer, the consequences that you face should you fail to adhere to social norms correctly, the resources you can or cannot access from a doctor, the wealth you have access to or do not have access to, the people that you have the power to use the police, psychiatrists, social workers, or the forces of mass social rejection against, and so on.

[ehlihr]

Hi!! Do you have any advice on drawing ears and how they are positioned on the face? I noticed that the way you draw ears is quite varied compared to other artists, even with different types of pointy ears like on your OCs or on Falin! I really love looking at your artwork and it was a detail that caught my attention!

Really quickly roughed this out for you but i have to say i actually consider ears to be a serious weakpoint of mine so this isnt really a reference so much as things i keep in mind — i basically have to adjust them every time i draw anything to get a feel for them! Ears are a part of a character’s design so i adjust pointiness and shape to match the character’s vibe.

I feel like the biggest pet peeve i have is that people forget perspective is a thing! Ears are aligned to the brow ridge and where the nose connects to the upper lip, yes, but a character facing any direction other than profile’s ears will recede in perspective and appear to align more with like, the cheekbone or the eye, depending.

Last note is when i say “suggest don’t tell” that’s really advice for anything — sometimes suggesting a structure is more important than getting it exactly right. It’s also jarring for a viewer to see one hyper detailed area of focus when the rest of the image doesnt have that and it’s not on purpose — is the ear more detailed because the artist wants you to notice it, the character is listening hard, etc? Or is it detailed because the artist was unconfident about which details to include and unintentionally gave a tell as to a weak area of their work? I feel like i can always tell when an artist used an Abnormal Amount of Reference for a spot of a drawing because they lacked confidence, correctly went to get reference, but then failed to pare down the detail to match the image. Ears can be a tell for me in my work anyway. And people facing away from the camera.

Hopefully this helps but i really dont know how to draw ears well i feel really unconfident about them lmfao.

Anyway thanks for the message!! This is very unstructured but hopefully its some decent insight into how i think when drawing ykwim

[translunaryanimus]

Chenesht Blue Patches and Modesty

aka. I fucked up a little and never properly explained these. If you have spent any amount of time on my blog you may have noticed that I draw all Cob Chenesht with these vibrant blue patches on their faces and necks (and sometimes bodies). Unfortunately I never really explained what these were beyond a 'sexed display structure' and also, I haven't been drawing them correctly! Here to help me out as a demonstration is Temiraan, a Chlâsle ethnicity Cob (depicted here in barbie doll nude format). Even though I always draw them with their blue patches flushed when in color, Tem looks like this a vast majority of the time!

The only visual indicators that they're a Cob are the prominent ankle spurs, smaller size, longer whiskers, and more complex facial patterning.

However, when Temiraan is flustered, all of these patches on their body flush and turn bright blue. The patches are informally referred to as 'blush spots' but have different names in different dialects.

The blue patches on Cobs are areas of high bloodflow that flush when one is excited, aroused, flustered, or even overheated/sweaty (think how some humans turn pink when they're really hot). Realistically they wouldn't show in 90% of scenarios unless a character is an easy blusher, I just tend to draw them so people know they're there. Reeves have them too, but they lack the characteristic patch of blue on the neck and typically only have them on the face. They also flush less brightly, as evolutionarily Reeves were never selected for their bright colors, they were selected for size and strength.

The prominence and semi-sex related nature of these blue patches is also why Tem's culture (Chlâsle) places an emphasis on modesty and covering up, they view it as crude and inappropriate to expose large patches of blue. This is why you'll see Tem wearing loose, thick clothes and some form of head and neck covering in every situation where they're depicted in public. This emphasis on modesty is not blanket across all Chenesht cultures.

[victoriadallonfan]

Cape Creation Game: Ghosts

The theme of this game is to create a cape or cape team based on a ghost theme.

The powers do NOT have to be literally ghost in execution (see: Triumph, Dovetail, Barker, and Biter for animal themed capes that don’t have animal powers).

Examples:

Ill-Manored - (Shaker). A young woman with a twisted sense of humor, Ill-Manored (IM for short), works to infect areas with her power, turning them into parts of herself over time, growing in scale and scope (a single hour can turn a small room into hers; an entire day can claim a small house).

Once she has infected an area, every non living item or part of the structure can be manipulated by her: she can see through paintings and pictures that have taken on her likeness, shatter glass at enemies, weaken floorboards, and bar entrances and exits. The highlight of her career being when she turned the entire top floor of a luxury hotel into a haunted prison for ransom.

She used to be hired as a sort of body guard for master minds or gang leaders, but the way she uses her power tends to damage the property and her sense of humor (which trended to trapping and tormenting occupants regardless of alliances) had her being chased out of her city. Now she works as a wanderer, disguising herself as unpowered and hiding in buildings before soaking up the structures in her energy and holding people hostage for funds

Astral Pathfinder - (Master/Striker). One of those capes who loves having a title more than a name (and gets upset when you don’t use it correctly), Astral Pathfinder can touch anyone and have them be forced out of their body as an invisible projection, able to pass through walls and fly at speeds similar to a slow car.

Once projected, the “spirits” can spy on people without hassle (though they do cause glitching in cameras and electronics), and briefly possess enemies for long seconds, they will be eventually rebuffed and sent hurling back to their original body. The one drawback to this power is that staying out too long from the original body will have long term health defects eventually.

He can command these projections to do his bidding, but prefers to ignore this power unless absolutely necessary in use of battle, as he wishes to keep his position as a spiritual guide of willing participants (many of which find astral projection to be liberating). Not a hero per se, he is a nominal ally of the local protectorate for facing down many villains in the west coast region.

The Dead Girl - (Stranger-Master). It’s a harsh world post-Gold Morning, and everyone has their own sorts of defense mechanisms. The Dead Girl has one that is particularly effective; upon any sort of injury inflicted upon her, she dies. Not literally, of course, but to the mind of her attacker it will look as though they just murdered a small child.

From there, they will be assailed by illusions of jump-scares of their actions and interactions killing people and animals they feel any sort of fondness for, ramped up depending on their level of intimacy and harmed done to the The Dead Girl. At the high points and damage done, they can even cause the dream like illusions within illusions, harming their sanity greatly.

The Dead Girl walks a rough path as a junior Warden; her power is most effective when she is quite literally in harms way, but she is just a 13 year old girl, and the wrong injury could be fatal to her. The fact that her power has no off switch beyond time it takes for the effect to wear off (from minutes to days), also adds some moral greyness to how the Wardens want to use her power in the field.

[whorediaries-09]

SO SORRY TO ADD ANOTHER A OTHER REQUEST :( BUT CAN WE MAYBE HAVE LIKE A SOFT NICE DATE THAT SLOWLY TURNS INTO SMUT WITH RON? PLEASEE? Also hui :3

hi lovey, thank you for sending in the request, hope you like it!

i think he knows; pairing- ronald weasley x reader warning(s)- mentions of war, 18+ content, fluff. a/n- contrary to popular belief, i am in fact quite alive and breathing.

little train.

' he got that boyish look that i like in man, i'm an architect i'm drawing up the plans. '

going on a date after the war was...intimidating, to put it in within a play of a single word. and surely ron wasn't expecting himself to be in a sticky situation with the pretty healer who had tended to his wounds after the traumatizing events. he ran his thumb over the now healed scar.

it'd tell a tale.

he remembered you. he could recall the dullness of worry in your eyes. the shine of hope in your eyes. even if your hair was matted with blood and rubble, you were the diesel to the fire that so timidly burned. the bruise under your eye was fresh, deep blue blackening, a shard of glass hanging from your chin.

he wish he could paint the blue golden.

with the last tug at the leather strap of the watch around his wrist, he decided he'd get the flowers. it would add a nice touch, a 'gentlemanly effect', he liked to think. even if it did seem to be a bit cliche. perhaps he thought of the smile on your face when you got the flowers (he was hopeful that you liked flowers). or perhaps he was just afraid of the aspect of a hormone rushing pregnant ginny hitting him on the head because of his 'less gentlemanly thoughts'

he remembered harry patting his shoulders, throwing out advices. ron rolled his eyes. he recalled when harry was swooning over cho chang, describing his very 'wet' kiss. he kicked harry in the shin, pulling a laugh out of his friend, grumbling harry wasn't much of a 'playboy' either.

so, he found himself standing in the flower shop, having absolutely no ideas about flowers. he watched the half a dozen barely bloomed pink roses being tied together. god forbid you weren't allergic to them. or didn't laugh at him for being too cliched.

he wished hermione had actually written that book about girls.

*-

it was fruitful, his attempt to choose the flowers. he'd recognized it from the shine in your eyes and the beautiful curve adorned on your lips. he'd found you beautiful when you were on the brink of death, disguised as a savior, so heaven sent. but now, when you held his hand, touching the scar you'd mended, talking away about stuff he couldn't really catch up on, your hair smelling like something so desirable, he found you breathtaking. he was mesmerized by you.

you felt like a forbidden treasure, the diesel to the fire in his heart that raged it's flames ever so timidly.

you'd liked the flowers. ron silently thanked the gods that you weren't allergic. you liked a lot of things, he learnt. cats, photography, literature, music, and a good fuck... was amongst the few things you liked. he was sure you'd said that intentionally just to pull out a reaction. the evil trick was recognized by the pretense innocent mischievousness in your eyes.

he was glad he coughed the drink in his mouth instead of spitting it right onto your face. you'd smiled, throwing him a dirty wink, twirling the straw of lemonade with your tongue. the dim carnival light angled your features, bringing out the best of your bone structure.

'well, to put it correctly, i enjoy a good fuck...' you said, after ron had recovered from his coughing haze. he wiped the edge of his lips, a nd putting on his best front, he responded,

'well then i can promise you an enjoyable time with me sweetheart,'

it was said with an awkward stance, a constant shift of octaves. but it still made you flush as the flame of the fire of his burning heart tickled your skin. you'd be his fuel, his diesel. you'd be his muse, the tale he recite.

*-

by the time it was time to leave you by the doorstep, the sky dizzied itself across the luminated street scattered with gravel. his fingers were melted within the crevices of yours, fit snug like a puzzle. he liked the way you laughed, the way your voice did throbbed so serenely against his eardrums while narrating tales, the way your eyes lit up against the dim lighting. 'liked' would be an understatement.

for the first time in his life, he was thankful for his freckles. he hoped they hid the flush of his pale skin.

'you're...kind,' you stated, shimmying on your tiptoes.

'hmm... why do you say so, sweetheart?' he asked.

'i know you live on the other side of town, and you came by to drop me...' a stupid line pops up in his head, but he doesn't say anything. he almost bites his lip to not let his boyish thought control his action. so, he smiles.

and lingers. holding your hand. the distance between him and you isn't much, the little roof over the entrance of your house providing him the needed protection from rain.

he can feel your breathe upon his already warm skin. it excruciates his patience. it plays with his senses, the sweet fragrance of petrichor infused with a scent, that reeks of you. it's blissful.

still, like the boyish man he is, he does nothing. he lingers, letting a silence wrap the little bubble of tranquility. it's comforting, in a strange way. he can't figure out what to do, when the sound of the rain, the running vehicles and the croaking frogs blur, when he feels your fingers tighten around his.

your lips lingers a little too close to his, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. or rather the side of his mouth. his mind reels when you place forward your request, your thought.

'the rain won't stop. not now anyways.' you whisper, lips brushing his earlobe. he doesn't recognize what takes over him within the click of your doorknob and the placement of your hand on his waist, as you pull him towards you.

but he enjoys it, the sudden rush of hormones. it's quick, it's something he's not felt for a long time. so long, it almost feels foreign. perhaps, it is. it's a warmth he's never felt, no never in his teenage years has he ever felt the need of touch. he's never realized the need, he thinks.

it's maddening, your touch all over his body when he finally crashes his mouth with yours, pushing you against the unlocked door of your house. he stumbles as you grab your neck, breathlessly cradling your cheek within the crevice of his palm. the scar you'd fixed touches the one on your chin.

it's a tale to be kept silent, to be a concealed message. like a string of fate, perhaps.

his teeth nips softly at the bare skin of your neck, your back pressed against the cold wall of your house. he feels the heat radiate off your body, moans leaving your mouth. your name rolls of his tongue as your fingers pull his hair, pulling his face away from your neck.

'is this okay?' he asks, concerned. he thinks he's fucked it up, by jumping on your bones. to his relief, you smile,

'it's...more than okay. can we go to the bedroom please?'

'sure, sweetheart. whatever makes you comfortable.'

*-

you've got your hair tangled up in his ginger locks. the moans spilling from your throat echoes through against the walls of your bedroom. his lips aren't on yours, as much as he'd love to taste your moans and sounds, your noise is honey-dripping gold in his eardrums.

his cock plunges deep within you, till your room loses the smell of your sandalwood candles. it reeks of sex and skin, the physical intimate bond of unheard individuals. it reeks of something magical, a golden desire painting over deep blue bruises.

it's fueling, to feel his touch on your skin. it diesels the fire that ignites within you when he snaps his hips against yours. the sound of his gasps, your moans, and skin slapping fills the room. you roll your eyes, as he thrusts himself angled perfectly so as to hit your sweet spot. you see white, moaning his name,

'fuck please, ron right there,'

his silver chain dangles over your lips. you wrap your lips around it, bringing his face closer. he gasps, his finger slipping between your connected bodies. his calloused thumb rubs over your stimulated clit, making you arch your hips, searching for more friction.

'you're making me feel so good, sweetheart,' he moans as you clench your walls around his girth. the coil building in your stomach drives your to the edge of your sanity.

'yeah?' you whisper back, half heaving, half controlling your urge to scream. it's heavenly, the combination of his perfect thrusts, the rubbing of his finger against your clit. you wrap your legs around his body, pulling him closer, to feel him, to touch him.

his girth plunges in you, and you feel your coil unraveling through you, your thighs shaking as the orgasm bubbles over the brink. it's pure heavenly insanity, a break through from the scorching insatiable desire for him.

you feel him release within you, wrecking your guts. your orgasm paints his abs, as his lump body falls over yours, his weight dead. he hides his face into your neck, smiling. the tranquil silence settles, carving a little bubble of comfort. neither of you hear the rain pattering against the gravel.

perhaps, truly it was just an excuse. excuse for a fate, for a destiny. to rebound broken strings of souls.

'you don't break promises do you?' you ask, laughing.

****************************************************

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

(if you want to be tagged please send a request through my inbox. specify whether you want to be tagged in just the series or all my upcoming works.)

[warriorcatsofficialfacts]

i have this ongoing headcanon that the animals in warrior cats (which to be perfectly apparent. aren't cats. they're a fantasy species which physically Resembles cats) don't have genetic heredity when it comes to Pelts but have highly genetic heredity when it comes to face and body structure. this explains why seemingly nobody noticed riverclan suddenly having two kits which visibly resemble bluestar in color. resembling someone in color is simply not very remarkable. meanwhile mapleshades kittens are identified as half clan because they are more physically suited to swimming than things their alleged father was good at. if i'm remembering correctly one kit is also specifically said to have a similar Structure to appledusk.

in this framework the warrior cats animals (which i feel the need to restate are not cats) pelt color would be completely or almost completely random, and if you had a similar coat to your parents it's just a fun coincidence. however in Structure there is a clear family resemblance.

this makes sense and you understand it

[the-avengers-not-the-nazis]

Better than nothing

Summary: You and Castiel work together to help make Deans birthday cake.

Word count: 1.1k

A/n: Not my favorite but I just needed something to work on. ENJOY :)

༺═────────────═༻

“So how do we do this?” Cas asked, the dough laid out flatly on the counter, three eggs rested on top of the mushy substance. 

Glancing over your shoulder from the mixing batter, you checked to see if the angel was correctly following your instructions. “Cassie, when you fold the eggs into the dough, you have to crack them.”

Cas furrowed his brows, facing the counter in front of him once more. “But, I don’t understand, you said we had to fold the eggs inside, you said nothing about cracking the eggs open.”

“Yes, I did tell you that, but we can’t eat eggshells, Cas.”

“Why not? Eggs are full of protein and nutrients for the human body.” He told you, slowly cracking each egg into the dough. 

You let out a sigh, wondering how your life had come to you teaching an angel of the Lord how to make a hand made birthday cake. “Cassie.” You mumbled, setting down your mixing bowl and making your way to the angel. “The chicken and the yolk have the protein, the shell just protects them.”

Cas let out a quiet hum, watching the way the yolk broke up into the sticky dough. Mixing into the other ingredients slowly, his hands continued to stick to the batter. “When would I know to stop mixing?” He asked, blue eyes meeting yours as he continued to mix. 

“When you can’t see the eggs by themselves anymore.”

He nodded slowly, hands kneading the dough until the eggs were deeply embedded into the batter. “What do we do with it now?”

“Now,” you began, quickly bringing over a pan to hold the cakes structure. “We place the dough in the pan, and let it bake for ‘bout thirty minutes.”

Cas lightly picked up the dough, placing it in the pan you held out for him. After that you placed it in the preheated oven, gently closing the door before setting the over timer. “What do we do while it’s baking?” He asked you, wiping his hands on his trench coat, any of the dough that stuck to his hands coming off on the poor jacket. 

“Well,” you began, making your way back to the mixing bowl, the whisk sitting upright in the homemade frosting. “I need to add the finishing touches to the frosting, but we do need to clean up the kitchen before the boys come back.”

“Right.” Cas muttered, picking up all the empty measuring cup that was laying around and placing them in the sink. “Would we also need to sweep up the flour on the floor?”

“Yes, Cassie, that would be just fine.”

As Cas cleaned the kitchen, you finished up the icing, placing it onto the countertop and helping out the angel with washing the dishes as he sweeps. 

Ding

“Y/n, I think the cake is done baking.” Cas told you bluntly, crouching down to sweep his dust pile into the dust pan. 

“I think your right, Cas.” You told him, wiping your wet hands onto a nearby rag as you went to retrieve the finished cake. 

The heat from the oven graced your face, the top layer of the cake a nice and warm bronze. “Perfect.” You hummed to yourself, using the rag to take the hot metal pan from the oven. 

“Hey, Cas?” You asked the angel, placing the pan on the counter to cool down. “Do you wanna swap? Me clean the rest and you ice the cake.”

Cas gave you a quick nod, swapping places with him, you watch out of the corner of your eye as the angel spread the blue icing across the now cooled down cake. Bits of the cake coming up with the small spatula he was using, an annoyed expression playing on his face the longer he tried to get the icing to stick. 

“Do you think Dean will like this?” He asked placing the spatula down and admiring yours and his work. “Because it looks a little…”

You walked over to his side, the rag you’d been using tossed over your shoulder as you looked over the cake. It was a dark blue, slight holes from where the icing wouldn’t fully cover the it, it also leaned on its right side. Though it shouldn’t since it was baked in a straight circle pan. 

“Funky looking?” You finished for him, both your and the angels head cocked to the side as you took in the celebratory dessert. 

The sound of doors opening suddenly caught your attention, “We’re back!” Sam called from the top of the stairwell, Dean behind him as he tried to look for any form of surprises for his birthday. 

“We’re in the kitchen!” You called back, placing one or two more dishes in the sink before you were met with the sight of the two Winchester boys. 

“Happy birthday.” You and Cas told Dean, bodies hiding the jacked up cake from the older man. “Why don’t you sit at the table and we will get started?”

Dean gave you and Cas a quick thank you before following your instructions, Sam made his way over to you. A shopping bag held tightly in both hands. He stopped momentarily in front of the cake, placing the bags onto the counter before facing you completely. 

“I thought you said, you and Cas were gonna make a pie?” Sam whispered to you, eyeing the lop-sided cake with curiosity. 

“We were,” you whispered back, placing a couple of candles on the cake. “But then we realized half way through that we didn’t know how to make a pie.”

Sam hummed at that, leaning over the counter as he slowly lifted the cake up and towards the table. “And clearly the cake looked a whole lot better than the pie.”

“Better than nothing.” 

Making your way to the kitchen table, you placed a small party hat on Deans head. Ruffling his hair briefly before taking a seat, Cas and Sam joining you after lighting the cake. 

“Well isn’t that a pretty cake.” Dean joked, swiping a bit of icing onto his finger and in his mouth. “Delicious too.”

“Yeah, well, it was either this or a box of Mac and cheese we’d be singing you happy birthday to.” You told him, swatting his hand back as he tries to get another taste. 

“It’s perfect.” He told you, giving a quick thanks to each of you as you all started to sing happy birthday to the older man. 

This is what he needed for his birthday, not a big party with some random people he barley knew. No, instead for his birthday he got a cake that was made by the people he loves and a day out with his brother, as Dean just pointed and said he wanted ‘this or that’ for his birthday. 

It was truly a day he would remember, for the rest of his life. How ever long or short that may be.