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soapskneebrace · 6 months

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muses - part one - next

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader Word Count: 2.8k Rating: Mature (mostly Soap being Soap) Warnings: please see this post for notes about this reader character Also on Ao3.

An artist meets her muse, and a solider meets his.

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit.

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm.

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it.

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face.

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it.

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.”

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however, has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately.

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too. And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold.

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

Author's Note: THE PROMISED FIC. I really hope y'all enjoy this one, I've been teasing it since March and I have so many plans. This fic has a special place in my heart because it's drawing heavily from my college days--my bachelor's degree is in fine arts, and I have a lot of fond memories of many hours in the studio both as a student and as a model.

I expect this series will also have a looser timeline than my Neighbors series, so I'm open to suggestion in terms of scene ideas! I already have plenty, but if I know my mutuals, y'all might have some good ones as well. No promises I'll write them, but you never know.

Thanks everyone for your patience, and I hope you'll look forward to where this fic goes!!

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megaloserrr · 4 months

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silly lust doodle i forgot to post when i made it

#losersart #utmv #lust sans #sorry not sorry for drawing fat lust again #it will continue to happen. repeatedly #HES SO FUN TO DRAWWWW #and plus sized bodies r becomimg easier n easier for me and i like the roundness #squishhey #my little meow meow my silly guy..... my muse....

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avocadotoasting · 4 months

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Temperance

Chubby!Fem!Reader | 1.5k | NSFW

Synopsis: Someone has had his eye on Reader for quite some time. Perhaps he seeks a reward for his patience.

(Characters inserted in a list below!)

CW: Use of Aphrodisiacs, Suggestive Dubcon, Suggested Yandere Themes

TEMPERANCE: Restraint or moderation.

Confined to your peripherals, he always waited. He wasn’t typically one to take a first strike. Haste wasn’t in his nature, no–he was a gentle beast hiding in plain sight, administering his own guerilla warfare on your unknowing resistance.

He was a saint, blessed and utterly overflowing with patience.

Often, far too often, you would conglomerate with your friends after a long day, enjoying social drinks and jovially laughing any cares away. You shined. You rivaled all bodies that shone in the sky–so radiant, ebullient, and full–how could he have not watched for all this time? All of nature encircles their existences around the luminaries bound around the earth, and you–who shone brightest–were at its center.

He too would enjoy a relaxing drink after his own long day, a ritual of sorts to begin his communion in basking in you from afar. To drink his drink was a promise; he held a promise that one day the taste of you would be dancing on his tongue, so saccharine-sweet and satisfying, hazily teetering him closer to a euphoria unknown. Once in a while, you’d make eye contact. And so generous you were, so generous you always were when you’d offer a smile every time.

Another drink. Another promise.

At times he would bring his own bric-a-brac to mind at his table so as to not alarm you. After all, with patience came subtlety, a vestibule inseparable to his primary house of virtues. And in this house he worshiped you for well over a year. He committed himself to his routine since he first laid eyes on you–gravity and destiny inescapable from a beauty that rivaled even the stars.

Today, he drank his final glass of promises. His back left pocket burned, seared, singed through the very fabric of his pants in urgency of his self-ordained inhibition to come to its end. In it was the crumbling of his house of patience. In it was a scorched earth tactic to raze all he was and begin anew with you emerging from its ashes. As a sign to swallow his final oath to himself and you, you made eye contact with him–and more of the same. A familiar smile, a familiar wave–and inside him, a familiar rush overwhelming every nerve in his being.

Your friends waved you off in the next moment, leaving you alone after some charming and laugh-filled goodbyes. How lucky they were to have you. How lucky he would be soon.

He raised himself from his table to return to the counter, ordering two drinks for the first time, and turned back to you to ensure his waiting had merited its value. You looked down to your phone, he could tell, mindlessly enjoying some time to decompress from the daily gossip. He smiled.

The bartender placed the two drinks on the counter, and he thanked them politely, as he always did–manners must coexist with patience, after all. Briefly, he stopped at his table, and he observed the drink that would be yours. One swift motion of gentle tampering ensured the fate of your drink. Of you.

Surely you’d never know. Surely you’d forgive him. A penitent man like him would repent under you for every day for the rest of your life, as he’d never do anything to wring you misery. He worshiped you, after all–this was just a vessel to finally show you.

Finally.

The word echoed in his mind with each step forward.

And finally, there was you.

“Still here, huh?”

His greeting was gentle, comfortable, he hoped to rival the gravity of the warmth you reflected. You looked up, blinking a few times before a wince of familiarity rang in your features. You smiled.

An invitation.

“Guess we both are.”

“Still have energy for a little more company? I always see you and–”

“Yeah, I do. And I see you too.”

Before the both of you could speak again, you both shyly laughed, and he sat in front of you, placing the drinks on the table. He clicked his tongue, mindfully placing your fate before you–a prayer on his tongue.

“Let me keep you company then,” he insisted, eyes glassy with his silent plea. You curled your lips playfully as you took your first sip of your drink.

“I suppose I’ll let you.”

His eyes followed the glass to your lips, and he finally felt himself smile with satisfaction. He leaned back in his chair.

That you will.

–

His fervor was relentless. With each snap of his hips he made new promises, new oaths to you, his beloved, so perfectly folded under him with generous and gorgeous flesh soft against his own–he promised to repent for his primal selfishness in the handling of your perfect body. But fuck–the way your lips so drunkenly slobbered around his thumb in your mouth, glassy, heated eyes rolled back into your head with mascara long since ruined since he began his debauchery, it was now that worship truly began, and he was a penitent man.

Your entire body was searing hot against his own with forced zeal he wrought to you from a bottle, but the results were undeniable. You had soaked his eager length again and again as he laid explosive love to you like he would die if he didn’t, and your body begged for more, just as he planned. He placed yet another soft bite on your ample breast swaying under him before pulling away to observe his work. You were covered. A living shrine, a temple breathing and writhing under him–covered by his devotion. And for the fourth time, you would be filled.

Another promise, he hoped, would take fruit.

“So fucking perfect,” he cooed sweetly, a poisonously sweet love possessing his body to burrowing his length into you to the hilt as he finished again, “So perfect around me, so fucking hot and wet–”

You, at the mercy of inorganic, potent lust, cooed back–incoherent and insatiable. He only nodded, removing his thumb to kiss you into his bed for yet another time. He pulled out and observed you. So painfully cockdrunk, so woefully lost to sin, exactly how he wanted you. Undone. Wet. Desperate. As he pulled out again, he hear you whine and buck and he gently shushed you with his finger, placing his greedy, erect cock on your hungry clit to rub it gently. He cooed again to soothe you. A gesture of his selfish love.

“I love you,” he sang, “Love you so, so so much–love of my life.”

He kept rubbing, his own pupils blown wide with his madness, leaning close to you. You didn’t care. You had long forsaken sight to chasing high after high since the first release, and your body was still on fire. He felt it. He felt your soft body arch against him as his stimulation wrought the beginning of another gorgeous, wet crescendo from between thighs so thick and delicious, and he grinned wide.

“Do you want to cum, my love?” he asked, slowing down his tormentous rubbing. You whined under him.

The answer was clear. But who was a man to deny the sweet sound of his own god begging for him?

“It hurts waiting, doesn’t it, Beauty?”

You nodded, whining louder.

He smiled, his temperance bearing fruit at last at its end after hours, months, and a year of waiting–his grin wicked, he leaned in to place a hypocritically chaste kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll let you finish if you can make me a promise,” he cooed into your ear, placing a kiss just on the shell.

He felt you nod, pleading for any release of this heat.

“Do you promise to marry me? Marry me and be a good mommy to my babies?”

An unexpected pause under him–even in your altered state, it was a big ask, but he could still feel his leverage, and he rubbed hard again to take advantage. He waited long enough, and he was going to get was he waited for. No matter how hard he’d have to tempt you. Bait you.

You were right here.

“You’re already so full, baby–taking so much of me like you were meant to–”

You let out a pained gasp, edged so close to another high as he stopped again, and he rolled his hips to further torment you. You whimpered, low and pathetic, and all he could gauge after wave and wave of the edging was how hot your body seared in its heat. He knew eventually you had to give. And he knew in a game of waiting, he would win.

He will win.

“I know you need to,” he teased, his voice lowering, “you can feel how much it burns–”

“Please–”

Finally, a word from you, a white flag to beg for your reprieve.

“Yes–Yes–Please, just let me cum–please, it hurts, it burns, I need it, I need you–”

Happy to oblige, he finally inserted himself back inside of you, giving himself his own sense of relief and using his fingers to rub you to another delicious climax, all for him to savor. To savor again, and again, and again.

Surely you would forgive him. Sometime down the line.

He could wait.

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Characters: Koushi Sugawara (Haikyuu!!), Thoma (Genshin Impact), Kento Nanami (Jujutsu Kaisen), Larry (Pokemon), Jumin Han (Mystic Messenger), Or imagine your own!

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#chubby reader #plus size reader #toast.writes #toast.nsfw #yandere x reader #x chubby reader #x plus size reader #pokemon x reader #haikyuu x reader #genshin x reader #jjk x reader #mystic messenger x reader #toast.yandere #a/n a few muses were strongly in mind while writing this BAHAHAH i hope i can write more frequently!!!#hi everyone

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fatalrosecreations · 8 months

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I wish more creators took bigger sim bodies into consideration. Pose and clothes creator alike. Sucks when I can't find clothes to fit bigger bodies because the punpun pops out or it crunches badly or clips horribly. Like obvs it's impossible to fit all body types right, there are probs 100s of body presets in all shapes and sizes.

However, is it too much to ask that they fit all of the base EA body sizes, big and small?

There are bigger rigs for posing. I know it's harder for group poses but it's super easy for singular poses.

And before we go there...I'm not hating skinny bodies, I use skinny sims all the time. I use various size sims. It's just personally, when I use my simself, she reflects my body type and sometimes dressing her low key just makes me sad. It's why I became a creator. Idk just some food for thought.

Goodnight babes <3

#rosie rambles #rosie rants #plus size sims need clothes too #posing big sims is easy peasy #Im down with the thickness #we love ALL body types around here #late night musings

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bluejeanbeans · 2 years

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Jean Paul Gaultier’s muse Stella Ellis walking in the Thierry Mugler 20th Anniversary Celebration [F/W 1995]

#stella ellis #plus size model #thierry mugler #runway #fashion #90s #supermodel #f/w 1995 #1995 #f/w #jean paul gaultier #muse

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rav3nmuse · 1 year

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Muse’s likes of the Month!

This is a month old and I forgot about it but oooh well. Added some more fics to it tho so enjoy

MISC 💙:

German mascato - This wine was sooo tasty! I decided to treat myself and it was worth it. The notes of lychee is what sold me. Worth $18 but you can prob find cheaper elsewhere.

This meme // honestly yahh that’s all I just felt it very deeply .

Manhwas & Webcomics & Manga Corner:

Helja and the Lich King by @thebigpalooka //webtoon/webcomic - fantasy style read. Theres love betrayal, magic and more. I read this story like every week story telling is really good.ongoing

The Invisible Man and His Soon-to Be Wife // manga - office romance between an invisible man and blind gf. Sets place at a detective agency. The world is filled with mythic creatures and humans. This such a cute read.ongoing

The Fantastical After-School Writing Club // webtoon/manhwa - this an archenemies to fictional lovers. These teachers take on a job to teach these kids how to write. They literally get sucked into the stories the kids make. Funniest shit ever also something suspicious is going on in with the kids and the town ppl. ongoing

Songs & Albums🎧:

This artist deserves more streams! The quality of their music is good.

This was a fantastic album. All the good modern rnb jazz feels

Books & Fics 📚:

That Time I Got Drunk and Saved A Demon by Kimberly Lemming // book - A funny and smutty reread. I love black women being loved on by hot male leads set in fantasy worlds. Also love a good monster romance. I’m waiting for book 3 in the anthology to come out this week.

Plaything By @nymphoheretic // fic - demon slayer hantengu x fem slayer reader. I’m a monster fudger till the day I die. A foursome done soooooooooooo well.

Choso Drabble By @preciousamethyst // fic - choso x plus size y/n. This was so funny! I’m happy you wrote it. Remember she’s and they’s - be his sleep paralysis demon. Never let him

High Fashion By @bussyqueensblog // fic - deku x plus size y/n x kiri. Ooooooo this latest chap was soooo freaking good and smutty! Love a black plus size girl in a throuple to infinity. Y/N is living my my dreams.

Miguel O’Hara Drabble By @privateparty3 // fic - Miguel o’hara x black fem chubby reader. Yoooo this was soo fucking good and smutty. Villain x good guy. And they have babies - LOVE! haven’t even seen the movie yet but this fic made extra feral for this man.

#muses likes of the week #muses likes of the month #plus size reader #black reader #music suggestion while reading #book talk #booktok #chubby reader #black fem reader #smut #monster romance #manhwa #webcomic #webtoon

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seireiteihellbutterfly · 6 months

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My Bleach OC

So it took a lot of time to put together. But I did it! My OC for Bleach is finally ready. As always with my OC characters, I pay homage to my South Asian roots in terms of their personality and abilities.

Name: Keyuri Ramish (she/her)

Age: 30 in human years (~300 in shinigami years?)

Physical Description: 5 feet 6 inches tall, tan skin, long black hair that is often worn back in a braid. Her body is very curvy, falling under a plus size category, close to an hourglass/pear figure. Her waist is narrow, but she has very generous hips and thighs that are quite toned and a full bust. Her figure makes her self-conscious at times. Large brown eyes, thickly lashed, like a doe’s.

Position in Soul Society: She’s the third seat of Division12, captained by Mayuri Kurotsuchi. Her responsibilities mainly deal with the Research and Development team, creating new gadgets to help deal with hollows and other reiatsu anomalies. She also assists on missions remotely by observing shinigami reiatsu signatures on the R&D’s computers when they try to tackle hollows.

Personality: She’s a little reserved, but is a very warm person once she opens up. Very tactile, and expresses her affection through touch. Enjoys reading, writing, and practicing yoga. Observant, sharp, witty, and loves good banter. Gemini, coffee addict, and loves pastries.

Background: Keyuri is of South Indian origin, reborn into a community called South Asian Soul Adminstration (shortened as SASA, basically South Asia’s equivalent of Soul Society). When her parents first noticed her developing strange reiatsu, they admitted her into a temple soul school, where the priests helped her harness and develop her spiritual abilities. But Yamaduta (messengers of death, SASA’s equivalent of Shinigami) are considered as bad omens in their society, so her advisors work to have her transferred to Soul Society, believing it is a better place for her to grow her abilities and also train her zanpakuto correctly. Her zanpakuto itself is quite rare in the soul world (described in detail below)

Zanpakuto Background at SASA: Zanpakuto souls are not ingrained into a katana at SASA. Zanpakuto spirits are born, through a cycle of birth and rebirth. Once every few years, enough soul energy concentrates to allow the birth of maybe 2-5 zanpakuto. The priests at the school typically take the most talented students of that year to receive their zanpakuto. The students are taken into a separate spirit realm, where they wait in the dark, sometimes for days, until a zanpakuto spirit chooses to be born into their sword. This creates a deep bond, since the soul chooses the Yamaduta its born to. Keyuri waited 2 days before her zanpakuto’s soul came to her. Students that do not get a zanpakuto born on their first try wait years before the next birth can happen. Some SASA Yamadutas never get a soul born to them, and have to work on their other spiritual abilities to make up for not having a zanpakuto. Because of this, Yamaduta zanpakuto are rare, even within SASA.

Keyuri’s Zanpakuto: Her zanpakuto is rare, even in terms of SASA because when her zanpakuto’s soul was reborn, it was the soul of a dying sun god from somewhere in a different solar system. Zanpakuto spirits that are born under such circumstances are called Celestial zanpakuto because it can draw on the energy not only from the Yamaduta, but from all the celestial heavenly bodies, such as the sun, moon, stars, and meteors. Keyuri has admitted multiple times the frustration she faced with her Zanpakuto because there is little information on how to train a Celestial zanpakuto, let alone learn to develop and channel its abilities since they can be highly unpredictable. She admits she has said mean things to her zanpakuto in frustration, only to be hurt when she realizes how hard it was trying to befriend her.

Name: Akashvani (translation: Sky Gift)

Command: Glow, Akashvani

Appearance: Akashvani takes the form of a graceful katar, with a hilt wrapped in fine, royal blue silk embroidered with golden threads. The blade itself gleams with a silvery hue, etched with delicate patterns reminiscent of swirling constellations.

When activated, the blade elongates and emanates a soft, radiant, blue light. The hilt also elongates, giving her better control for attacking.

Shikai main abilities:

Starlight Strike

A trail of stars begins to emanate from the blade and can be controlled at will. It’s impossible to count how many stars are present at any given time, but they glow as they move, creating a beautiful sight to see. Each individual star in the trail can grow to be over 4000 degrees Celsius, effectively burning and melting anything caught in it’s way. The stars glow brighter when they come into contact with an object and start to heat up, in some cases, creating a blinding glow where no one can see what’s happening.

2. Phantom Eclipse

Mimics a lunar eclipse, creating shadows at strategic attack points. Keyuri can use the shadows to blast the enemy with the moon’s energy, dealing close range damage.

3. Radiance Shield

Constructs a protective barrier infused with the warmth and strength of solar energy. This shield absorbs incoming attacks while radiating a rejuvenating warmth that heals minor wounds of allies within its range.

#my muse #bleach oc #my oc character #my oc #plus size oc #indian oc #South Asian oc #fanfiction #bleach fanfiction #indian writers

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