#how am i perceived?

[betsofthorn]

Rough morning, unshowered, post-"workout", belly, tits, and leg hair out, procrastinating being a human me staring at my reflection trying to understand how other people perceive me.

[lgbtlunaverse]

Nothing will dispell the "the curtains were just blue" myth faster than writing something yourself, because the amount of pretentious symbolism i am putting in my silly little fanfics is ridiculous. I mean SO much with these words, literally every single one of them. This fic has twenty five typos and zero correct uses of punctuation but if there's curtains you bet your ass I put thought into what colour they were.

[givemeanaccountalready]

You know, I gotta ask, am I unhinged? A lot of my Milgram theories seem to rely on the idea of, “You know what would really hurt? This,” and then I find contextual evidence to support my crackpot theories, and I gotta ask you guys this.

[deep-space-lines]

An archangel is actually a type of babygirl,

We've all seen The gabe dress but I had a divine vision of him in a kroj (Czech folk costume) and y'know what? I was right. He slays. What's the point of art if not to take some fictional guy, say "that's my wife" and put clothes on him like a paper doll

Anyway I think everyone should draw him in their culture's folk costume now. I wanna start a trend

((bonus sketch idk if I'll finish,,))

[elation-station]

the town bisexuals are at your door it is time for you to pick a bride

[johnslittlespoon]

Tough And Sweet (Like You And Me) ♡

'Gale looks unfairly handsome in the soft golden light of the late evening, but even more unfair is the fact that John can’t just bridge the gap between them and kiss his feelings away. The more time he spends around Gale, the more it feels like he’s being consumed by his overwhelming infatuation, and there’s not a single thing he can do about it that doesn’t involve the risk of scaring the man out of his life.

So he shuts the truck door behind him after promising Gale he’ll text when he’s safe inside, and he tries not to stare too forlornly as the truck putters off down the street and rounds the corner.'

[ AO3 ]

[hajihiko]

Too bright☀️

[saotoru]

how they eat it

dante, nero, vergil x fem reader

tw cum eating

dante

dante is sloppy. he likes it filthy and messy. the sight of your sticky cunt covered with his cum drives him so fucking feral that he lowers his mouth onto you and laps it up, moaning at how good you both taste. he knows you’re still sensitive from your last orgasm, overstimulated by the way you squeal his name and pull on his hair, but dante doesn’t care. he needs to feel you cum on his face. he wants it so bad that he whines into your cunt, slipping two fingers inside you while his lips wrap around your clit, the sensitivity bringing you close to another orgasm.

“fuck, you taste so good, angel… tastes so good when you’re covered in me. cmon princess, squirt for me, please make a mess on me…”

a hand comes to press down on your lower abdomen and that’s enough to send you hurtling over the edge, all the pressure building up finally releasing. you shake violently while dante fucks you through your orgasm, but he’s got you, licking up all you have to offer. he pulls back for a moment to admire your pussy glistening with saliva, cum, and squirt, smoothing his hands over your thighs. “good job, pretty girl… give me another one, yeah?”

nero

nero is sweet, so gentle that it’s almost teasing. he’s nervous peeling off your panties to admire your pretty pussy, shiny with arousal. he’s so awestruck that he forgets he’s just staring and his warm breath tickles, making you close your thighs instinctively, a bit shyly.

“no, no,” he says as he gently pries your legs open once more. his eyes meet yours. “you’re so gorgeous.”

“nero…”

the whine in your voice is so cute that nero just can’t help but give you what you want. he presses a kiss at the junction of your thigh, his thumbs rubbing soft circles on your knees. “i know, baby.”

he loves to kiss everywhere first, softly, over both thighs and all over your pussy. he wants to show you how much you mean to him. it makes you squirm in anticipation with how slow he’s being, how ticklish his lips feel, that you almost whine again before finally feeling him press a long kiss to your clit. nero rewards you for your patience by making out with your sensitive clit, the moans it earns him spurring him on, his tongue parting your folds. he can’t get enough of your reaction, entranced by the way your hips twitch with every flick of his tongue. you’re so cute when you grind yourself against his face like this, that he can’t help but hump into the mattress, getting himself off to being used to make you cum.

vergil

vergil is actually feral. for someone who prides himself on composure and self control, he’s rough when he eats you out. he can’t help it. his burning desire to taste you is so overwhelming that all he can do is shove his face further into your pussy. he grips the soft flesh of your thighs hard and pins them to the bed, leaving you unable to squirm away from his relentless tongue. it’s too much, your clit still sore from your third orgasm but vergil isn’t done. he needs more. “your taste…” his voice is a growl, borderline inhuman. “it’s driving me insane.”

the nails digging into the flesh of your thighs become sharper, and you realize that he’s close to dting. the realization has your legs accidentally clamping around his head but vergil growls, large hands forcing you open and holding you still.

“enough. take it.”

you can’t interrupt him, not when he’s like this, not when he needs to have his fill of you. he mouths at your pussy, pressing his face into you as much as he can. slick coats his face, tongue, nose, everywhere, filling his senses with you, but it’s still not enough. he gives your clit a rough, hard lick, pleased how you writhe and whine beneath him. vergil loves how vulnerable and pliant you are, letting him make you cum again and again until he’s satisfied.

[sunlit-mess]

sick(?)

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[ruler-of-thorns]

Malleus having older sibling trauma. Malleus resenting how Lilia is able to openly express being Silver's parent but had to keep Malleus at arms length because of their roles. Malleus having to know someone who was presumably initially very cold and softened only as he was growing older while Silver had a very openly loving father immediately. Malleus being the child who taught Lilia how to parent and love. Malleus never feeling like Lilia truly loved him after seeing how he was able to love Silver. Malleus loving Silver because they're brothers and at the same time resenting him for having the father he always wanted.

[iedistis]

It's a shame they changed the Franc letters so much tone-wise because they gave Gortash a lot more nuance in his methods than what's going on in the patched version. Sure, those may be more banite but I always liked how in the original, the tyranny was not in the relationship between both characters but rather their acts committed together.

I enjoy Gortash as a character so much because he subverted the expectation of what a Chosen of Bane would be. His approach is deeply Machiavellian. The idea of him working his way up through the ranks of aristocracy by both cultural impact that is unignorable thanks to his machinery and a force of personality that disarms his targets emotionally and turns them favourable towards him on an interpersonal level instead of forcing them into submission via fear and threats(as one would expect) made it compelling. It made way for tyranny harder to uproot than one built on aggression because it would not just subjugate people, but change them. A person who fears you is closer to betrayal than one who loves instead. It is an alternative way of subjugation and I like to think that's what may have differentiated him from other Banites so much it made him a Chosen.

And those letters showed how that could've played out. They were deeply manipulative. Threats, if there were any, were in the beginning and faded into the background with the overpowering charm that continued on. The newer version falls flat in comparison. They start and end with thinly veiled threats and that's just not as powerful.

It sucks because I considered them a potential window into how the past relationship of Gortash/Durge could've started out too (regardless of how you interpret the nature of it). I don't think they could've gotten so close as to prompt something like the prayer of forgiveness like this simply because I can't see a Dark Urge responding to threats, fearless avatar of murder and all that. But the first version? Shallow flattery to get the foot into the door and appealing to their wants (like some good old torture racks) to ultimately foster an emotional attachment so severe it borders on heresy for at least one of them? That's awful. I like it.

In the patched letters he's just…evil. A more open and diplomatic (and perhaps more in line with bane) version of it, but also one a lot more predictive. Shame.

[lemonlurkrr]

who decided to use the hyrule warriors link model for the idk what word to use, eboy fuckboy pose edit things

[sailing-through-hawkins]

✧ written for ‘cake’ ✧ word count: 311 ✧ rated: T ✧ cw: suggestive ✧ tags: eddie being thirsty ✧ @steddiemicrofic ο(=•ω＜=)ρ⌒✧

Eddie doesn't know why, but this is the third time it's happened, and he's losing his mind.

"It should be good now."

Steve's bent over the engine of his car, it’s a hot summer day and Eddie is losing his goddamn mind.

“Eddie?”

What’s he supposed to say? ‘Sorry dude, got distracted by your ass again! What were you saying?’

The first time was manageable! Just hanging out in Steve’s bedroom, messing around with ideas for his walls, Steve dropping his keys as they got ready to go get the paint and Eddie unable to look away as he bent down –

The second time? Playing pool at the Hideout, Steve smirking at Eddie with half-lidded eyes under the low lights, sauntering his way over and slowly bending over the table and –

And now this? This is Eddie offering to help Steve out with his car troubles, only to be left awestruck when Steve shoos him away, pops the hood, shoves a rag into his back pocket which also shoves his shorts down just a touch and was that –

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo there, Harrington,” Eddie squeaks, audibly shutting his own jaw up as Steve crawls his torso out from under the hood, just so he can raise his brow at Eddie. Who just. Keeps. Digging. “Kind of a big leap for a first, isn’t it? Would have expected you to go for the wrist or something.”

The grin that stretches across Steve’s face spells fucking trouble.

“Didn’t know you were so curious, Eds,” he purrs, leaning back against his car, hiding away the glory that was his cake of an ass. “Who said it was my first?”

Eddie’s eyes snapped back up to Steve’s face, jaw left on the ground along with his dignity and any sense of calm.

“You got more?”

“You wanna find out?”

[fivewholeminutes]

See? He grew them out.

[eeveekitti]

day 28: RW 7 year anniversary

You are a slugcat. The world around you is full of danger, and you must face it – alone.

textless under cut