#Hazel Dente

[cyb3rri0t]

> compulsive preoccupation with a fixed idea or an unwanted feeling or emotion, often accompanied by symptoms of anxiety.

> озабоченность навязчивой идеей или нежелательным чувством или эмоцией, часто сопровождающаяся симптомами тревоги.

ещё штуки и митзеартист ниже // more stuff and meettheartist below

[emperorofthedark]

Happy Hazelween

[kamiiri]

“Oh. Oh, right. Um, I’m not here to order any drinks.”

“Interesting,” Annie said, unsure of how to respond. “You do know where you are, right?”

“I’m actually here looking to find some answers. About a friend. The police are useless, and I didn’t really know where else to go. I thought a place like this full of all these people...there's gotta be one person who knows something, right? I know it’s a long shot, but I was wondering if someone here might be able to help me.”

Annie was immediately intrigued. This mysterious quest for answers was already more interesting than every single one of her other tables. She sat down in the seat across from Ophelia. “Try me.”

[fishcemetery]

A random picture dump to get rid of unnecessary sim thoughts for the rest of the month

Who's got hooked onto a character that barely exists? Who's the dub-dub?? Who's the silly rabbit??? Yes, me, all me, and I'm not even done yet

[pirillalothario]

If You Can't Stand The Heat

Cap 0.03

"Isn’t my husband nice?

He left his first wife to marry ME.

He covers me with attention and luxurious gifts.

The heat of this city makes me weak and sometimes my pressure drops and I pass out, so my husband is building a pool in the garden. For me.

Well, not exactly. He hired Roland to build the pool.

And Roland is the best gift anyone’s ever given me.

Roland is our handyman, and he really can do anything!

He cooks and cleans the house so my husband and I can relax.

And when my sweet husband suffers his age and needs some rest, Roland keeps me company... And you should hear the way he says my name. "Hazel".. So hot!

Happy wife, happy life. Right?

Thank you for everything, my dear husband"

[simspaghetti]

Happy Birthday Johnny!! 🥳

[slumber-sims]

hey I made some more sims from ts2 on psp in ts4!!! I hope you like them ^^ a couple of them use a single pack but most of them are basegame!

[aondaneedles]

The merry widow of Paradise Place Deadtree.

[chrisnewbie]

What a night, Roland thought. I can’t wait to sleep this off. Don’t think I could handle any more freaky drama tonight.

[dadstielkline]

HAZEL COLLINS ACTING DEBUT

[eupheme]

— good rocking tonight

cooper howard | the ghoul x f!reader

rated e | 1.5k

tags: teasing, sorta sub!cooper vibes (aka you think you're in control but you're not), clothed male/naked female, panties-as-restraints, riding, vaginal sex

request: "i can see you enjoy having the upper hand for once." (loved this!)💖

“Can,” You breathe, as his fingers bite into your hips, “Can see why you like it.”

The Ghoul's teeth grit. A rough laugh that comes out ragged.

“You don’t know nothin’, sweetheart.” His eyes burn into yours, “But you can try. Go on, let’s see what you got.”

(Or - the Ghoul lets you take the reigns.)

You’ve never had him quite like this before.

The Ghoul’s hands pinch into your waist, his back pressed flat against the bedroll.

Tonight, you had gone to him. Stirring him from sleep with your thighs straddling his hips. Bared skin against worn, stained fabric.

He had awoken silently. Maybe he was never was - an old habit, as the world spun by. Easier to pass the time with your eyes shut, then watch the all of the stars fade into another grey morning.

Hazel eyes glitter in the dying light of the fire, beneath the low brim of his hat. Slow to move - a sense of safety in the boarded up house. Would’ve knocked you off him, otherwise.

Watching, as your hands plant against his chest. Feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath them, pulled-tight skin and muscle beneath the cotton and leather.

“You gonna take what you want?” He rasps, when you’re slow to slip him from his trousers.

A shallow upwards flex of his hips into yours. Near-hard by now, velvet skin beneath your fingertips as you draw him out.

Leaving his cock to arc towards the curve of his belly, as you settle back on your heels. Letting your pussy press against his base, skin growing slick with each rutting roll of your hips.

Keeping a steady pressure against your clit, as your head dips between your shoulders. Your own breath shallow, needy.

Biting back a grin - lifting, whenever he bucks against you. Letting him chase the warm heat of your cunt, never giving him the full satisfaction of feeling you.

“Can see you’re enjoyin’ havin’ the upper hand,” He growls. There’s a 'for once’ tacked on silently. Too used to calling the shots. To taking.

“Keep teasin’, and I’ll flip you over and fuck you myself.”

It has you clenching down around nothing. Knees pressing into his ribs, hands flattening against his chest - as if that could keep him from doing so, if he really wanted.

Unable to help the soft, bitten-back moan at the thought. Tempting, though not nearly as satisfying as the fact he letting you do this.

It’s not lost on you. The irony. The threat that slid between his teeth so quickly, when there’s memories that still spike warm in your belly. The flick of his tongue against your slit, only to pull away when you’re close. Edging you until there’s tears in your eyes.

But, you’ve always been merciful.

A rough groan is pulled from him when you seat yourself properly on his cock. The slide of your cunt against his hard length. Feeling the rough skin and the flushed tip nudge against you as your hips move. Until he’s slick with you, shining.

“Can,” You breathe, as his fingers bite into your hips, “Can see why you like it.”

The Ghoul's teeth grit. A rough laugh that comes out ragged.

“You don’t know nothin’, sweetheart.” His eyes burn into yours, “But you can try. Go on, let’s see what you got.”

Thoughts that are no more than fantasies, coming to you just on the cusp of sleep. Your panties, plucked where they still hook around your ankle.

Coaxing his hands away from where they dent into your skin, until you can twist the fabric around his wrists. Pushing them above and behind his head, stretching him out long and lean beneath you.

It’s no lasso - bound tight around your wrists or throat - but it will do.

His arms flex as he tests his bindings. You’re surprised he lets you, but then again there’s no allusion that this is exactly what he’s doing.

Letting you. Curious - knowing that the fabric would shed with the jerk of his wrists. That if you pulled anything funny, it would not save you for a second.

But you don’t really care about that.

You just want to watch, as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. Catching every detail of his face as your hips lift, lining him up.

The part of his lips, the jut of his jaw and the clench of teeth when you slowly sink down.

Something rough, bitten back.

Your own eyes threaten to flutter shut with the stretch - a whimper with the way he fills you, inch by inch. Slowly sinking down, until your hips sit flush with his. Unable to help clenching around him, when he finally fills you.

It has your back arching. A hand scraping across his leather vest, needing to ground yourself on something. The other drifting across your belly, as if you could feel against your skin the way he spears deep inside you.

“Fuck.” You groan, and he grunts - a twitch of his cock inside you. A shift of his arms, when you rock forward, a languid roll of your hips.

Getting used to the feeling. Knees pressing into the bedding as you rise up, a shallow drop down. Sighing at the way his cock drags inside you, as you find your rhythm.

Hands bracing on his chest again as you bounce. A shot of pleasure coursing through you each time you seat him deep inside you.

His eyes only leave yours to track down your body. Watching the sway of your breasts. Fingers curling, nails pressing into palms when they dip to where you take him.

The peek of his shaft before it’s buried in you again.

“That’s it,” He rasps, voice even lower in the late night hours, “Come on and take a ride, sweetheart.”

Encouraging you to use him, just like he uses you.

Growing more confident as your knees down press harder. Each thrust sharper, punching deep. Your breath ragged as you lean, finding an angle that has you bent over him. Sending the head of his cock against a soft spot inside you - ripping a needy moan from your lungs.

His legs shift, a boot planting against the floor. Using the leverage to thrust up into you - unused to staying idle. Warmth floods through you at the thought of him being unable to stay still, the sounds he makes - sticky and pooling low between your thighs.

Your clit grinds against his base but it’s not enough - your fingers trace against his chest, dragging against the exposed peek of skin.

Nudging against his lips and teeth until they part, until you’re pressing down against his tongue.

“Suck,” You coo, and he does - those eyes darkening as his tongue swirls around your knuckles.

Teeth pinching against your skin, showing his still-rough edges. A rumble against the tips with his low growl.

Lips glossy when you pull them free, spit stringing between two fingers when you slip them between your thighs.

You do moan then - a ragged, low thing. Soft and slick circles that soon press harder, as you ride him. Something swiftly building, as the angle of your body tilts lower, the slap of your hips coming more quickly. Louder, in the small room.

The Ghoul looses a groan that sounds close to desperate, as his chin tips up. His hips still meeting yours as his teeth nip against your breasts. Tongue soothing the skin after, then teasing the tight peaks of your nipples.

Your hand sliding from his chest to beneath his head. Curving where his neck meets his skull. The cradle of your hand cupped in his bound ones as his cock fills you again and again.

It had your thighs trembling. His name - something you use so rarely, sonething precious - huffed out on a soft whine. Your rhythm growing sloppy, off-balance as your nails scrape against his skin. Circling harder, as everything inside you strings tight.

Fraying, and then snapping. Messy, as you use him to bring yourself to the edge, and then toppling over.

There’s the faint sound of something ripping, as your blood rushes in your ears, pleasure coursing up your spine. A flutter blooming in your core, just as the world suddenly tilts on its axis.

Arms wrap around you, as the Ghoul uses his weight to roll you beneath him. Pinning you down in the bedroll - wringing your release from you as his hips snap.

Still grinding against that spot as his fingers swirl - making you see stars, in this covered room. Unable to help taking matters into his own hands, when he saw you slowing.

Tired of waiting to feel the way your thighs hook around his hips, ankles crossing to keep him inside you until the pleasure fades.

“Not bad, sweetheart.” He rasps - the hint of a smirk at the dazed way you glare at him, “But you’ve had your fun.”

Returning the favor, as he slips his fingers between your lips. His own mouth following, sharing you. Tongue slipping against yours - a groan as he tastes the sweet tang of your slick, as you suck his fingers clean.

The curl of his lips, bared teeth as he starts to pound into you. At the sound of your whine - the way you tighten around him again, already breathless.

“Now it’s my turn.”

thank you so much for this awesome request and for reading! I hope you liked it, would love to know what you thought! 💖

[a-leg-without-fear]

Poison🩸🌧️

got the feels and wanted to write about it

Ship: Old!Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader 🩸

Rating: 13+

Wordcount: 786

Warnings: disease, injury, blood, aging, kind of age gap? (they're roughly the same age but reader doesn't show it), grief

Your nose scrunched as it was hit by the all-too familiar scent that followed Logan like a shadow. Acrid, sharp, deadly. Seeped into his blood from his metallic bones, poisoning him. Killing him. Leeching his life and healing mutation to where he was a husk of the X-Man he once was.

It was 29 years to the day since you’d met him. When he'd woken up, terrified, on that chrome stretcher and nearly choked you to death. The blood flowing through his thick arms pumping by your ears and only proving what you’d hypothesized: his blood wasn’t normal.

Logan’s blood ran thicker than every other person’s. Tasted more metallic, more iron in his blood than the rest of the mutants that filled Charles Xavier’s mansion. You had always found Logan’s blood to be tricky to manipulate. Whether it be to stimulate his healing or to form the thick ichor to your desire, it just didn’t want to cooperate.

That same difficulty faced you now as you kneeled in front of your and Logan’s shared bed. The room rattled as another freight train barreled by outside. Dusty picture frames swinging on rusted walls, bottles of medication bouncing on wire shelves, creaking bed groaning under Logan’s weight.

You held a clean rag to a shotgun blast in Logan’s gut. His blood had soaked through two others just like it, now lying in the dented bucket at your feet. A vein in your neck strained as you focused on healing the wound.

“It’s no use, doll. I’ll be fine,” Logan grunted. He tried to wave you off with a withered hand. You smacked it away from your face. A low hum rumbled his chest.

“Shut up, old man,” you said. That earned a rough chuckle from his chapped lips. You glanced up at him from where you knelt between his knees.

If pure reverence was an expression, what painted Logan’s face in broad strokes fit the bill. Crows feet bunched around his hazel eyes, smile lines deepend by his close-lipped smirk, graying eyebrows turned up at the edges. He ran a calloused hand along your unaged cheek.

“Beautiful as the day I met you,” he whispered softly. Grief struck you in the chest like a wooden stake. 

It wasn’t fair. Logan’s adamantium skeleton sucked the life from him, making him age and decay, while you remained the same. Wrinkle-less, youthful, bright-eyed. You would pump your youth into him if you could. 

But you couldn’t.

All you could do was prevent the inevitable. Prevent what once seemed impossible, yet hung over you like a thick fog.

Logan ran his thumb under your eye, collecting a tear that spilled from your clouded eyes. You blinked up at him as a thick lump formed in your throat. Words unspoken passed between the two of you. Adoration, understanding, sorrow. Leaking from the hot tears spilling from your eyes and into Logan’s leathery skin. 

“I love you,” you breathed into his palm. You gave it one last attempt, healing the wound in his stomach. You could just barely feel the edges closing and the skin knitting together. The ligaments running through your neck and shoulder tensed under the effort.

“Love you too, doll,” he replied, using the hand not on your cheek to smooth down your strained muscles. Thinning fingers ran down your shoulder, passing over his borrowed flannel and your bare skin, then wrapped around the hand held to his gut. He laced the digits with yours, “Give it up. I’ll heal the old-fashioned way.”

A sigh rattled your lungs, anguish pooling in your chest like an oil spill. You let Logan drag your hand away from his stomach and to his face. Your crimson-stained fingers traced along the tough skin of his jaw.

“Always taking care of me,” he mumbled. Kind eyes ran across your pained expression. 

He tucked his fingers under your chin and brought your mouth to his. Plump, full lips met chapped skin. You poured your devotion into the kiss, licking into Logan’s mouth and clutching at his white tank top. His fingers dug in your silken hair.

It wasn’t perfect. It never was, when it came to Logan. Nearly thirty years of being together had taught you that fact. He was messy, rude, rough around the edges. Not to mention metal-clawed and built like a fridge.

And yet, despite it all, he was yours. You woke up next to him every morning, went to bed with him every night, much like you’d done ever since you met. Your lives were so intertwined it was hard to tell where you stopped and he began.

You knew, decades after Logan was gone, you’d treasure your intimate connection like nothing else.

[cvnt4him]

Do you think Deku is big on family?? He just SCREAMS dilf energy yk

Yes yes yes nonnie/nonnette. I think he is HUGE on family. Izuku js screams girl dad to me personally like I feel like he has 2 daughters idk how to explain it. Lemme js write ts for you..

Also this is x black reader.. I'm sorry💋

Reader n zuku are in their late 30's/ early 40's

Day 1 of izuku week!!

You and izuku had been together since highschool, you were quite literally highschool sweethearts. When he asked you to marry him at your highschool graduation you were literally sobbing. Just letting out tears and more tears.

When he told you he wanted to have kids you were a bit afraid. The thought of having to push a human body out of your literal birth canal terrified you. But he promised you he'd be there every step of the way. With him by your side you felt as if there was nothing you couldn't do.

That's how you ended up with the most beautiful girls in the world, izumi and zora. Those weren't the names you personally agreed upon but he made it his mission to have his daughters with names exactly like his. There was something so satisfying and gratifying to him about the fact there were his daughters. You had his kids. It was only fair he got to name them.

Izumi was izukus splitting image, she had curly green locs and big wide green eyes, she didn't have freckles however. Zora looked like you, a dingy greenish brown painting her hair and her deep hazel brown eyes not being as wide as izumis, her hair was more coily and voluminous than izumis.

Izuku loves both of his girls unconditionally, he loves when they have him play weird and wacky games like hospital or restaurant. Izumi is more of a loud and carefree kid, she loves singing and dancing and just being a kid. Zora is a bit too responsible for her age izuku thinks, shes very intelligent for the younger sibling and is very intuitive with things around her.

Izukus daughters are two different people but he can't help but love them all the more. Izuku sometimes loves watching you do zoras hair, putting cute little barrettes in her coily hair. He loves to watch the way you smile and do her hair, she winces slightly moving around from the discomfort. It was always easiest to do izumis hair in your opinion, not that you had a problem doing either of your daughters hair.

They were both huge Daddy's girls. He loved spoiling them absolutely rotten. They could just bat their eyelashes to him and he'd give them whatever they wanted. You hated how because he couldn't never dent them you were always seen as the bad guy.

Izuku would sit by the girls shared room door frame and watch you read to them, they'd say goodnight as you'd kiss both of their heads before leaving their room to your surprise you see your big husband with a soft grin on his matured face, his eyes soft and full of love.

Izuku was in love with you, the way your body had changed from giving birth, the stretch marks, the dimples and just everything about you. He loved you so much, you gave him a family, you gave him hope and reason to love, a home to come back to. The house wasn't his home, it was you and his daughters.

He would pound you from behind deep into your shared bed, whispering sweet things into your ears like how you were made for him and made to fit him. How you were so perfect and the reason he goes on. And so many more sweet things that made you gush and tighten around him.

Izuku midoriya was your big strong strapping husband who loved you so<33

AN: this was more of headcanons then a fic and i really enjoyed making this, lemme know if you want a little day in the midoriya girls' life!! I would enjoy making it!!!!

[kamiiri]

The Nighthowl Saloon was having an unusually busy night. Hoot had proclaimed that he would be the one to take down the Night Beast, and word of this promise got around quickly. His passion and willingness to throw himself to the wolf had brought back most of his regular customers and drawn in some new ones. Annie should have been happy that the bar was doing so well. She tried to be excited for Hoot. But all she felt—surrounded by people who were unknowingly rooting for her slaughter—was fear.

[petrichor-han]

idiosyncrasies and other little things; hansol vernon chwe

PAIRING | stoner!vernon x afab!reader

CAST | hansol vernon chwe

WC | 5.5k

GENRE | smut, fluff, very slight angst, college!au, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers

WARNINGS | casual marijuana usage (hitting the penjamin and smokin' a j), explicit language, explicit sexual content, miscommunication :( but happy ending :), embarrassing scene where he hugs reader in public

SYNOPSIS | you’ve been friends with vernon chwe ever since you met him at freshman orientation and he slipped you a messily rolled joint behind the tour guide’s back. three and a half years later his rolling skills aren’t the only thing that’s changed for the better, but you begin to realize that your time with him is running out as your graduation date steadily approaches.

A/N | i don’t know who started the stoner!vernon trope but thank you and god bless to whoever it was 🙏 here’s my contribution to the trope—a very american COLLEGE 🦅🇺🇸 stoner vern au. please reblog and consider leaving a few kind words if you enjoyed this fic!! <3

request to be added to current and future taglists HERE!

MASTERLIST | SEVENTEEN MASTERLIST

His fingers are slightly clammy as they brush against yours and drop the small, cylindrical shaped joint in your hand. You enclose your fingers around it as he retracts his hand, his flushed skin brushing against yours once more just momentarily—but it’s enough to make you almost choke on your own breath. 

The joint itself is small and messily packed—you can tell from the way it’s already all bent out of shape and dented, simply from him handing it to you. The rolling paper is slightly damp as well—from his sweaty palms, or yours? Likely, both. Regardless, it’s a kind gesture, and you can’t help but flash him a smile as the cheery RA rambles on in front of your entire small group. You can feel yourself drifting away from the scene, everyone’s voices getting drowned out as your gaze locks with his—his eyes are a warm, hazel-y color that reminds you of new leaves sprouting across warm caramel colored branches in the springtime, and you can’t help but stare back at him, your hand squeezing into a fist and further squishing the joint in your hand with a soft crunch. 

Crunch. 

You open your eyes, and then immediately narrow them at the culprit of the sound, the one that’s responsible for waking you from your dream of the past. It’s no other than the other main character in said dream—your best friend and roommate, Vernon Chwe. He stands at your bedside, shoving bites of cereal into his mouth as he watches you sleep, with a smirk on his face. 

“What the hell do you want?” you say, your voice quite bitter and laced with a raspy quality that only occurs in the early moments of your awakening. 

“You were saying my name in your sleep,” Vernon says, around a mouthful of cornflakes and granola. Somehow, he wedges a grin in there as well, his mouth full of smugness and off-brand cereal. “I heard you when I was walking by, so I came in.” 

You feel your stomach flip—firstly, you weren’t aware that you ever talked in your sleep, and secondly, out of everyone you could’ve been dreaming about, it had to be the one person you currently live with? Trying to be nonchalant, you close your eyes again and turn over so that he can’t see your face, unable to prevent the heat that’s rising to your cheeks as you think about the not so minor crush that you’ve been nursing on your best friend for the past four years. “Yeah, I was dreaming about our freshman orientation. I was saying your name because I remembered how you made me late for class the next day,” you say, walking the fine line between honesty and fibbing. 

“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” he says, rolling his eyes. He sets his spoon down in his cereal bowl with a clink. “You’ve only reminded me daily, for the past four years, about how I abandoned you at the dining hall. How was I supposed to know you didn’t know your way to class from there?” he asks, making the same excuse he’s made for the past four years. 

“It was the first day of class for us, ever. I didn’t know where anything was,” you retaliate, with the same retort you’ve used in response to Vernon for as long as you can remember. 

“Good to know that you feel the same about me in your dreams and real life,” he snorts, turning on his heel to leave your room. His cereal bowl is empty, and he has class in just half an hour—you know this, having lived with him for roughly three years now. His habits haven’t changed much, and disappointingly, neither has your dynamic. After your initial crush on him during your freshman orientation, it fizzled out once you realized he didn’t seem to have any romantic interest in you. However, a hint of a crush remained, despite your best efforts to quench it. Certain things, like the way he had a turtle shaped night light in his dorm room, or the way he looked during finals week when his hair was all messy and hastily stuffed underneath a hood or a beanie, made your heart race no matter how you tried to stop it. 

Really, there was just something about Vernon Chwe that your heart—and your mind—couldn’t forget, no matter how much you wanted to. 

No matter how close you got to him as a friend, and now as a roommate, a part of you was always hoping for more. Every little touch made your eyes immediately fixate on his expression, to see if he felt anything. Every kind gesture made you wonder if he was just doing something nice for a friend, or if he was doing it for a different reason. After all, he was the sort of person that was just generally nice to everyone, even complete strangers. His inclination of kindness to strangers was sort of the way that you two met—him slipping you a joint in the middle of a lousy speech from an annoying RA about dormitory safety. An unspoken promise to new friendship, and also to meet in the woods behind the dorm building after the horribly optimistic speech ended. 

As you ponder this, you consider staying in bed longer, pulling the sheets over your head and trying to fall back asleep, but then you decide against it—it’s not worth running the risk of sleeping through class. Though your first class doesn’t start as early as Vernon’s, it’s not that much later either.  Sighing, you get out of bed, rubbing your tired eyes, and start to get ready for the day. 

As you brush your teeth, Vernon peeks into your bathroom, as he fixes the sleeve on his denim jacket. You turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. 

“We should probably start packing tonight,” he says, as he finally fixes the button on the sleeve of his jacket and looks at you directly, his eyes meeting yours. You look away, feeling your heart starting to thump in your chest, and spit a glob of toothpaste into the sink. You turn on the water, watching it wash the foamy white substance down the drain, as Vernon continues to talk. “We have to move out by next week, but I think we can just start throwing our shit into boxes and call it good. It won’t be that hard.” 

Right. 

After four years of college—three of which were spent living together—it was time to move on, graduate, and be a real god damn adult. You almost swallow the toothpaste residue in your mouth as Vernon reminds you of this harsh reality. In about a week, you wouldn’t be living with your best friend any more, but instead living at home with your parents until you find a place and job of your own. And with the current state of the job market, you had no clue how long that would take. The thought of living at home again as an adult made you want to rip out your hair, but it was the better option when you considered the other one was to confess your feelings to Vernon and ask him to get a place together, as a couple instead of as friends. 

You take a deep breath. Technically, you didn’t have to confess your feelings. But how much longer could you go on like this, living with someone that you’re secretly pining for? It was fine during the on and off crushes you had on him throughout college, but as your senior year progressed, so did your crush on him. Now, it was nearly stifling to pretend you didn’t harbor any romantic feelings towards him, and act like you didn’t care whenever he mentioned some romantic venture or Tinder hookup (though, luckily for you, they were quite sporadic and never turned into anything that serious). 

“Yeah, we could start with the shared spaces and start dividing up all the stuff there,” you say, thinking about all of the knick knacks that litter the shelves and walls of your living room and kitchen. You rinse your mouth, and then start to wash your face. Vernon leans against your doorframe, watching you. 

“How are we supposed to split up the things that we’ve shared for the past few years?” he asks, watching as you pat your face dry with a towel. “I’d feel bad keeping them, but I’d feel sad if I didn’t get to keep anything, either.” 

“We’ll figure it out, now go,” you say, nudging him out of the bathroom. You can feel your emotions threatening to climb up your throat and spill from your lips—he looked so handsome standing there, leaning so casually against your door. His hair, slightly grown out and wavy, was falling into his hazel-y brown eyes as he looked at you. How were you meant to resist that look, especially when he paired it with a subtle pout upon his lips? It made you blush and your mind go fuzzy with adoration. Purely embarrassing—it was like you were a tween girl fawning over her first crush. 

“Wait, don’t you want to smoke before we go to class?” he asks, deepening his pout and holding up a joint that he pulled from his pocket. 

“Smoke, before we go to class,” you emphasize to clarify, raising an eyebrow. Vernon simply nods, a smile gracing his stupidly handsome face. 

“It’s the last week of class, come on. We’re not learning anything new any more,” he says, his voice slightly whiny. You can’t help but feel slightly happy that he wants you to smoke with him so bad—it’s nice to feel wanted by him. “And besides, it’s only a little.” He pinches his thumb and pointer finger together and squints. “Lil’ bit.” 

You almost roll your eyes, but catch yourself, and just chuckle instead. You want to cherish these moments, before you move out and all the memories of living with Vernon inevitably pale and then fade away. “Fine,” you say. “Let me finish getting ready for class first, I’ll be right out.” 

With a gummy smile that almost makes you physically sick with how adorable it is, Vernon leaves you to finish getting ready. 

A few minutes later, you’re pulling a jacket on over your thin shirt—it’s still a little chilly in the mornings—and walking out of your bedroom. Vernon’s standing by the large window in the main room of your apartment—the only one that opens more than a few inches. He’s opened it all the way, and he’s leaning out, enjoying the morning air. He has a slight smile on his face as a breeze rustles his soft brown hair. 

Sneaking up behind him, you snatch the joint from his unprepared, loose grip and exclaim in triumph. “Got it!” you sing, grinning as you dance around him. You hold it between your teeth gently as you hold still for a moment to light it, inhaling deeply. You lean out the window next to Vernon, who’s still softly chuckling at your antics, and pass the joint to him as you hold the breath for a moment before exhaling. Coughing, you look over at him. “This tastes kinda strong,” you choke, your eyes watering slightly. 

“I had to get out the good stuff for our last week living together,” he says, grinning cheekily. “Have fun in class while being baked out of your mind.” 

“Fuck you, man,” you groan, but he just snickers and wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. Your cheeks flush as you feel his lean, muscular body pressed to yours. 

“Come on, you know you feel great right now,” he teases lightly, gently squeezing you in a side hug. 

Stiffening, you chuckle awkwardly, feeling your heart beating faster. You were afraid he might be able to hear it, but a small part of you almost wanted him to hear it—to know the truth about how he made you feel. That, paired with the weed in your system, made you lean into his touch more, instead of pulling away like you normally would. He grins at this, and reaches up to ruffle your hair gently. He doesn’t say anything else, letting up on the teasing—which you’re grateful for, as it allows you to fully concentrate on the smell of his cologne and the deep, steady thudding of his heartbeat. 

You watch as he turns his head away for a moment to take another hit from the joint, his neck muscles flexing beneath his beautiful, smooth skin. The sharp curve of his jawline clenches as he tightens his lips around the joint, inhaling deeply. He looks like some sort of god—how was it possible for a human being to be this ethereal, this close to perfection? 

It comes out before you can stop it—before you even fully realize what you’re doing, and surely before you even think about the consequences of it. 

“You’re beautiful.” 

Your voice is soft and full of adoration—even the most clueless romantic would be able to pick up on it. Immediately, you press your lips together, in fear of more word vomit—or real vomit—escaping. 

Vernon stiffens, and then he pulls away as he starts to choke on the deep inhale he’d just taken, clouds of smoke billowing around his face as he leans out the window to try and wave the stench of marijuana outside. Your blood turns to ice as you scramble for an excuse; you’re given a short window of time as he practically hacks up his own lungs and hangs onto the windowsill for dear life. 

You flinch as his coughing starts to subside, and you realize you still don’t have anything else to say—no excuse, no explanation—your mind has simply gone blank. 

Naturally, you do the first thing that any intoxicated, lovesick person would do in this situation—you run away from it. 

You turn on your heel, grabbing your backpack from its place on the coat hooks by the front door, and run out of the apartment that you and Vernon share. You’re not sure if he turned to look at you, if he even saw you running away—you didn’t bother to turn around and break your own heart further. 

Even though it’s still an hour before your class starts, you find yourself ambling towards the general direction of the building regardless. Your apartment complex is quite close to your college campus, but it still takes a short while to walk there. 

If there was one lucky thing about your abysmal morning, it was the weather. As you start to slow your pace, looking over your shoulder to make sure Vernon isn’t following you or anything, the bright morning sunshine smiles down on you. There’s only a few clouds in the sky, and they’re puffy and white, drifting lazily across the wide blue expanse. Other students are enjoying the sunshine, already out and about in the early morning and sunbathing or throwing a ball around on the field across from the building you’re currently walking to. You almost crack a smile—it reminds you of the first year that you attended school on this campus, when you and Vernon attempted to follow the masses and try to sunbathe on the field, only to end up getting horribly sunburnt in the process. “It’s not even summer yet!” Vernon had protested angrily, as he rubbed aloe into his lobster red skin, sitting on the patchwork rug on the floor of your tiny dorm room. “It’s only the beginning of May!” 

You approach your destination with a grim look on your face. No longer are you among the dozens of bright, young faces that are enjoying the sunshine in their best years. Now, you’re facing adulthood—and likely, without your best friend by your side, since you’ve clearly retained your childish insistence upon avoiding your problems and quite literally running away from them. The thought makes your chest ache with longing and regret, so you push the thought from your mind and start to walk up the stairs, almost grateful for the guaranteed to be boring lecture—maybe it’ll take your mind off of things for a bit? 

Unfortunately, as you reach the top of the stairs, you see Vernon standing by the front entrance, checking his phone with a worried expression on his face. For a moment, you freeze—this is a chance to correct your wrongdoings, to show your growth and be honest with Vernon, as he deserves. 

But it’s just a fleeting thought, and humans are inherently selfish, after all. 

So you run away again. Slower this time, simply walking back down the stairs with your heart thudding madly in your chest, hoping that he doesn’t recognize you. Your guilt increases as you realize he’s missing class while he’s waiting for you, and you stop walking, freezing as you cling to the railing of the staircase. He’s your best friend—outside of your romantic feelings for him, whether they’re reciprocated or not, he deserves better. Yet you stand there, your feet stuck to the concrete as you hesitate, even though you know it’s the right thing to do. It’s so difficult to turn around and really face it. 

A gentle call of your name unfreezes you, allowing you to turn around and look. 

It’s Vernon of course—it always has been, and it always will be. 

His brow is furrowed, and as he realizes it is indeed you, he rushes towards you, taking the steps two at a time to get to you faster. Before you can even say anything in return, he engulfs you in a hug, wrapping his arms around you and gently placing a hand on the back of your head to press your face gently into his chest. His smell floods your senses, and tears prick your eyes. If there was some sort of higher being out there, how could they prevent you from having this simple joy in your life? The joy of being able to smell his cologne as he hugged you and pulled you close. There was nothing else that compared. 

“Why’d you run?” he asks, his voice thick with emotion, with relief. “I was worried. It’s not like you.” 

It is like me, you think, grimly. “I don’t know. I thought you might get angry with me,” you mutter, embarrassment flooding your body as Vernon raises an eyebrow at you. 

“What, for calling me beautiful?” he asks, chuckling slightly, nearly in disbelief. 

“Not exactly,” you reply hastily, pulling away from the hug. People around you are beginning to look at the two of you as you’re locked in an embrace, and you don’t want to attract any more attention than you already have. It’s humiliating enough for only Vernon to hear your confession, even though it’s meant for him. “For liking you as more than a friend.” 

Is there a word to describe the feeling that went through your body as you said those few words? It felt comparable to ice flooding your veins, to a wave of electricity running through your body—yet somehow, more deep and cutting and painful than either of those examples. There simply isn’t any expression or euphemism in the language to explain the horror and fear you felt as you watched Vernon’s eyes widen—so he hadn’t picked up on it, even then? Even after you called him beautiful, and ran away like a lovesick fool? Maybe you’re not the most clueless romantic—he’s the first, and you’re the lucky second. 

“You like me?” he asks, dumbfounded. He raises his eyebrows so high that his forehead wrinkles, that you can see the whites of his eyes. 

You look at the ground, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the concrete. “Yeah,” you mumble, unsure of how you’re feeling—a complex mixture of shame, relief, fear, and everything in between. 

A dreadful silence falls between the two of you, prompting you to look up at him to hopefully understand a smidge of what he’s thinking. He looks gorgeous in the morning sunlight, and he reaches up to scratch his head, his expression simply perplexed. “… Why?” he asks, finally breaking the silence. 

You’re surprised—Vernon, ever the predictable, introverted creature, has surprised you for the first time in years. How doesn’t he know? How doesn’t he understand? 

You stand there, your tongue feeling swollen in your mouth as you file through your thoughts, desperately trying to encompass your nearly suffocating, complex emotions into words. It’s much harder to do when put on the spot, however, and you stand there spluttering like an idiot as you try to tell him something about the way his jeans fit on his hips and the way he only ever uses Dior Sauvage (a dab on the wrist and then rubbed onto his neck just below the jawline). 

“I don’t know how to explain it to you,” you say, frantically, hoping that you won’t scare him away or freak him out. “It’s so many little things about you that made me realize how much I love you, in more ways than just friendship. I think… I think the mere idea of living without you and your nightlight and your stupid granola cereal is horrible. I don’t want to imagine it, let alone live it.” You throw your hands up in the air, feeling helpless, like you don’t know what else to do or say. “Fuck, dude. I just love you. And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I just don’t ever want to lose you. I lived so many years without you but I can’t go back to that now. Not when I know what it’s like to be close to you.” 

Your voice is soft at the end, as you’re afraid you might start to really cry, and you cross your arms over your chest and look down again, trying to will away the emotions that are surfacing after being bottled up for so long. 

“You know I love you too, right?” Vernon says, his voice serious. He reaches forward to gently pull your arms out of the insecure position, and he laces his fingers with yours. “Even if I didn’t feel the same way, you’d still be my best friend.” 

Squeezing his hands gently, you feel a million emotions rush through you at once—mainly relief, and then shock as you realize he feels the same way. You look up at him with desperate hope, tears burning your eyes, and find that he has the same expression on his face. He leans in slightly, and your heart skips a beat as you realize what he’s trying to initiate. Breathless, and tired of waiting, you lean forward too and press your lips to his, your heart fluttering as he kisses you back almost immediately, after his initial surprise. 

“Does this mean we can both skip class today?” he asks hopefully, mumbling against your lips. 

You chuckle, gently swinging your interlocked hands back and forth. “Yes,” you say, unable to resist his charms this time. “Let’s go home.” 

Upon returning to your shared apartment, you see the few empty boxes littering the ground; you were both meant to start packing today. However, instead of feeling the deep sense of dread that had been bubbling up inside of you for weeks, you feel peace—you aren’t losing Vernon the day you move out, he was always going to be there for you. Whether that was as a friend, a roommate, or a boyfriend. 

He seems to sense your contemplation, and gently presses a kiss to the top of your head. You can sense his hesitation, like he’s unsure if it’s something you’ll allow, and so you pull him into another passionate kiss, gently at first before descending into a mess of teeth and tongue. 

He pushes you down onto the couch, as if his desire had been pent up all this time, admiring the view as you stare up at him with wide eyes—you’re surprised at his sudden passion. 

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, as he leans down to kiss your neck. His hands travel down to the hem of your shirt, but don’t slip underneath, waiting for your reassurance once again. Perhaps, another little thing that you liked about Vernon—his subtle submissiveness; his tendency and instinct to let you guide him. Something that was so rare among men, despite how childish the average one seems to be. 

You reach down to gently guide his hands beneath your shirt, and when his hands cup your breasts his breath hitches slightly, as if he’s in disbelief that this is actually happening. He squeezes gently, eliciting a soft sigh from you. Groaning lowly, he pushes up your shirt—the mere feeling isn’t enough, he wants to see all of you as well. 

A swift tangle of limbs, and your shirt flutters to the ground, discarded and forgotten about. Vernon’s eyes settle on your cleavage, the way your bra is slightly too tight on you (you’ve been putting off finding out your actual bra size; it’s a hassle) and makes your breasts spill over the cups slightly. His hands actually shake slightly as they raise up to cup your tits again, and he handles them gently, as if he’s afraid handling you too hard might cause you to melt in his hands, as if you were Icarus and he were the sun. You reach back to unclasp your bra, too impatient to let him attempt it, and he gently pulls it off of you, his eyes widening as he exhales deeply, in genuine awe of your body. 

He leans forward, his hands sliding down to grab your waist, and presses gentle but sloppy kisses to your collarbone, his lips trailing down to the valley of your breasts. He moans against them, in absolute bliss. “Wanna see more of you… can I see more of you?” he asks, his voice slightly muffled as he keeps his face pressed in your cleavage. 

“Greedy,” you tease, reaching up to ruffle his hair playfully, making him exclaim softly in exasperation. But you make it obvious what your answer is, as you reach down to undo the button of your jeans, climbing out of his lap to tug them off of your body. Vernon watches for a moment, mouth slightly agape as his gaze drops to the curve of your hips and the way your panties hug your ass just right, before he realizes that he should probably start taking off his clothes too. Blushing slightly, he hurries to take off his t-shirt, throwing it behind the couch accidentally and deciding that he would deal with it later. His fingers feel frozen and stubborn as he fumbles with his belt, and you have to stifle a giggle at his persistent awkwardness as you lay back on the couch lazily, your fingers skimming the edge of your panties. 

Eventually, he gets the buckle undone and shoves his jeans down his legs. Once he straightens back up after stepping out of his pants, you feel a distinct throbbing between your legs as you see the noticeable bulge in his black boxer briefs. He notices your stare, and instead of teasing you, his cheeks flush darker as he kneels between your legs, hovering over you. 

“You know it’s been a while since I’ve…” he says, trailing off. He looks away, clearing his throat and pretending like the deep red flush on his cheeks is nonexistent. 

“Oh yeah, how could I forget the last Tinder hookup?” you say, chuckling despite the pang of hurt that cuts through your chest at the mere thought of Vernon being with anyone else besides you. “Why do you ask, though?” 

Vernon clears his throat again, and you can’t help but let a little giggle slip this time at his demeanor, like he’s trying to impress you a little even though it’s just you. “I just… I wanna be good for you,” he says, his voice slightly whiny and desperate, making your mouth go dry. ��I don’t want to disappoint you,” he pushes further, one of his hands sliding down the dip of your waist to grab the curve of your hip, squeezing gently. 

“You won’t. You couldn’t,” you manage to say, swallowing hard as you feel heat rising to your cheeks—surely, soon your blush will resemble Vernon’s. “I just want you.” 

Upon hearing that, Vernon groans softly, capturing your lips in a hot, messy kiss once more. You feel his tongue pressing against your lower lip, and you allow him entrance, whimpering softly as his free hand comes up to gently caress your jaw and pull you even closer. As if you could get any closer; your bare body pressed to his, your skin nearly melded together in a clash of perspiration and friction as you cling to each other desperately. Your mind is fuzzy with need as you reach down to swiftly pull off your panties, kicking them aside as Vernon follows your lead and pushes down his boxer briefs. Sneaking a glance before he pushes you down gently and positions himself between your legs, you feel a flash of excitement and anticipation as you see his size. 

You catch your lower lip between your teeth, biting gently before letting go, exhaling deeply as you feel the blunt head of his cock slicking against your clit, and then against your entrance. He mutters, fuck, under his breath as he feels your silky folds against his tip, and as he presses harder against your tight hole, he looks up at you, catching your eye to make sure you still want this as much as he does. You give a slight nod, your gaze pleading with him to just do it already, and he does—he thrusts forward, pressing his cock into you, making your eyes widen and a high pitched whimper escapes your throat. 

“Oh my God,” you say breathlessly, a slight moan edging into your voice as he bottoms out in your pussy, his hips flush against your supple flesh. One of his hands rests faithfully on your waist, just above your hip, while the other wanders up to gently squeeze your breasts. He can feel so much of you, and he wants more—perhaps greedy was the right word to describe him. He doesn’t think that he could ever go back to just being your friend, even if it’s selfish to think as much. Naturally, that’s when you choose to say it. “I love you,” you whisper, this time knowing exactly what you’re saying and not caring about the consequences. Vernon’s greedy heart flutters at your heartfelt declaration of love, and he leans down to kiss you as he starts to thrust into you, his hips smacking against yours as he fucks into you desperately, mercilessly. 

“I love you too,” he moans, his grip on your waist tightening. It’s all he can muster out as he pounds into you, his thoughts clouded with pleasure and the absolutely ethereal sight of you, nude before his very eyes, all for his viewing pleasure and no one else’s. 

He can feel it, and he knew from the beginning that he wouldn’t last long—which was why he was so concerned about it in the first place. He stifles a whine, and bites his tongue as he moves the hand that’s squeezing your tit down to toy with your clit, eliciting a gasp and a shaky moan from you. His fingers are slightly rough, calloused, and the friction on your sensitive nub makes you throw your head back as you moan with pleasure, feeling your orgasm starting to approach from the combined stimulation. You reach over to grab his arm, trying to steady yourself as you feel the powerful sensation approaching. The sound of skin against skin echoes around the room as he fucks into you more erratically, panting loudly. His fingers on your clit start to slip around from your wetness and his waning stamina, but he steadies himself and bites down on his lower lip, trying to hold out for you, just a little longer. 

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, washing over your entire body and making you gasp and shiver. Vernon feels your pussy tightening around his length, his eyes widening as he pulls out quickly, groaning loudly as he spurts thick white ropes of cum onto your thighs and stomach. Breathing heavily, he lays down beside you, rolling onto his back. You both stare up at the ceiling, without saying anything. For a moment, the two of you lay there in near silence, as you catch your breaths and realize what really just happened. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see Vernon shifting, turning his head to look at you. 

You look back. He smiles at you, and you can’t help but return it, giggling at his goofy grin, at his messy hair, at everything. It’s all so perfect—he’s so perfect, in a way that only the two of you will ever understand. 

Wordlessly, he reaches over to your coffee table and picks up one of his cartridges, attached to a battery. He hands it to you before taking a hit himself, grinning at you toothily, and you can’t help but grin back as you take the pen from him. 

Truly, it’s the little things.

© petrichor-han 2024, all rights reserved

[charliesvarietyhour]

me while playing fo4 because i’m an opinionated bitch and i disagree with bethesda’s character design

anyway. presenting,

a detailed look at every companion’s appearance, according to me.

(these are all headcanons. they might not be yours, but they are mine. i wrote this as a fic-writing reference, but i don't mind sharing so long as we're all nice about it. also, spoilers ahead for companion quests, both in vanilla game and dlcs. you've been warned okay love you have fun. sorry in advance that you can clearly tell who my favorite character is.)

cw: heights represented by the united states customary system. sorry metric users :/

Ada. Modified RobCo Assaultron. 2074 model. SN has been sanded off and replaced with "ADA", painted carefully (lovingly) in blue script. It's clear that it has been reapplied multiple times, as many times as necessary. Post-Mechanist quest, she requests to have the names of her fallen friends painted on her body as well.

Cait. Pre-addiction recovery, scrawny-strong. Blood, muscle, bone and not much else. Very short. Like, south-side of 5'3". Has a very rectangular body shape. Hard angles. Was bright strawberry blonde when she was a kid, but it got darker as she got older. Hazel eyes. Freckles year-round and all over. She doesn't burn super easily, but she doesn't really tan either. Just freckles. Nose is crooked from being broken too many times. Post-addiction recovery she is a beef. cake. With Sole's help and resources she gains plenty of weight post recovery. Other than the normal weight gain that comes after recovering from addiction, she finds she enjoys exercise—especially weight lifting—and that it helps her manage her cravings. Her biceps are unfair. If I can be honest, I really only shared this so I can start proselytizing for my Fat Cait Agenda.

Codsworth. Standard GAI Mister Handy. 2076 Model. SN: 01HND-7619-0163. This is only visible because the 2076 Handys had their SN's embossed. All other markings that were printed or painted on have eroded away. A cute fact about Codsworth is that, despite his 200 years of wear and tear, he doesn't have a single dent on his exterior panels. Not. A. Dent. Scratches, yes. Scuffs, sure. No dents. He takes his structural integrity very seriously, thank you. He will brag about this if you let him.

Curie. Pre-companion quest, Modified GAI Miss Nanny. 2072 Model. SN has been scratched off and replaced with what is probably "CURIE", but the combination of chicken scratch writing and 200 year old marker makes it illegible. Post-personal quest, Generic Female Synth Body. Average body weight, brown hair, brown eyes. (I know she technically has "Hazel Blue" eyes but I disagree. It's my post and I get to make the rules here.) Her only deviation from "average" is her height. Generic Synth Height is 5'10", for both male and female synths. Takes time to look neat—neatly trimmed nails, trimmed hair, etc—and enjoys it.

Danse. M7-97 was a vanity design* so Danse looks a little different from the Generic Synth design. Still has the brown hair, brown eyes, but is a touch shorter than the standard. 5'8". Latino or Hispanic. His hair is insanely thick, but his beard always grows in a little patchy and with the odd blond patch just below his right ear. (This was not an intentional part of his “design.” Genetics, even synthesized genetics, get funky sometimes.) Carries weight like a strongman weightlifter. Thicker than average, even for the Brotherhood, so he's always had to have his flight suits and PA specially altered. (Thicker than average in regards to BODY TYPE you sickos– This is not that kind of post lmao.)

(This post from slocumjoe is a huge influence for my headcanon for Danse! Thank you for going through your archive to find it!)

Deacon. The Average Guy Ever™. Average height, average build. I'm firmly in the "Deacon is a Good Spy, actually" camp, so. Uncanny ability to adjust how he looks just by altering his posture. His weight has always easily fluctuated, so he can go from stick thin to bulked up in a matter of weeks. No matter how many surgeries he gets, he cannot hide the freckles. They always come back. He would have had piano hands if he hadn't been a chronic brawler in his youth. Knuckles are very crooked now. Eyes so blue they're nearly grey. Ginger. Has long eyelashes that are frankly illegal for someone who covers his eyes all the time.

Dogmeat. Dog. He has six toes on his back left foot.

Gage. 5'11". In an alternate universe, would tell people he was 5'9" just to fuck with them. Was a towheaded kid whose hair darkened significantly as he grew up. If he spends a lot of time out in the sun, though, it will turn a sandy blonde/light brown. He keeps his hair short because otherwise it gets very curly and floppy and it really kills his "bad-guy raider" vibe. Would be one of those white boys who tans super well but also thinks wearing sunscreen is for the weak. Scarred to shit. Holds onto muscle for a really long time. Underbite. Slutty little waist because I think that's funny.

Hancock. John Prime was already pretty wiry to begin with, and becoming a ghoul has only emphasized this. 5'7" but seems shorter because he's always leaning on something. Draping, even. He's like if a man was also a liquid, somehow. His remaining hair is incredibly thin, but is the most vibrant golden blonde anyone has ever seen. Eyes are dark due to discoloration, but sometimes—if he's taken in a ton of rads—the edges of his irises will glow subtly. Several piercings on his ears, but he used to have more. Lost them on account of his nose falling off. (You know how it is.) Replaced them with an astonishing collection of rings. Cheekbones that could slice a brahmin. Missing his fourth toe on his right foot.

MacCready. Definition of scrunkly. Not a lick of fat anywhere to be found. 5'5". Has a Gunner tattoo on the left side of his forehead and he hates it. It's why he wears his hat so low. Had an ear pierced once, but it got ripped out ages ago. His left earlobe is split now. He very clearly needed braces growing up but obviously didn't have access to that. Bottom teeth are crooked. His cuticles are picked to shit. Sandy brown hair. Cuts his own hair, but only cares about the hair around his face. Line of sight. Sniper. You get it. Is generally too lazy/uninterested in the rest, and will neglect it until it gets too long, so. Mullet (hot).

Nick. See, the problem with my synth grandpa is that this is the only character whose design Bethesda completely and utterly nailed. Like yeah, he does look like that. You got it. You did it. Perfect, no notes. Like all other Generic Synths, he's 5'10".

Old Longfellow. Exactly what you would expect an Old Hermit-Mariner Driven To Eldritch Madness By The Fog and The Sea would look like. The wildest eyebrows anybody has ever seen. Like you could take a comb through those bad boys. His hair is past his shoulders and fades into his beard. Stark white hair due to the stress of living alone on an island and from What He's Seen. You cannot convince me that there are not some Lovecraftian nasties living in the sea. They Know Longfellow, but Longfellow Knows Them. 6' until he stands up straight and then he's like. 6'5". Liver spots across his face and hands. Looks like he has cataracts in both eyes, but somehow can see better than you.

Piper. By far the companion whose Bethesda!verse appearance I disregard the most. In my heart she is a South Asian woman. On the taller side, between 5'8" and 5'9". Super thick, dark brown hair that in fact does just Look Like That (unfair). Her hair grows from fairly far down on her neck. Deep brown eyes. Spends lots of time on her makeup, even when she's out in the 'wealth chasing leads. Prefers red lips and dark liner close to her lid-lines. Her cupid's bow is super pronounced and she does her makeup to highlight it. On the softer side in regards to physique. Has a burn scar on her right forearm from a cooking mishap back when she was still trying to figure out how to live on her own and take care of Nat at the same time. Bites her nails.

Preston. Personification of someone telling you that everything is going to be all right. Tall, 6'. Pretty standard physique for someone who grew up on a farm and then became a soldier in a wasteland militia. Very square hands. Lets his hair grow out a little bit because he (forgets about it) likes it. Brown eyes that look like honey when the sun hits them. Other than the two scars on his face—one running down his left cheek, the other a small nick on his top lip—he has a scar from a bullet wound on his right shoulder. Has a stick and poke tattoo of the Minuteman coat of arms on his left arm, just where his shoulder meets his bicep. Top lip is bigger than his bottom lip. Dimples when he smiles. Huge smile, smiles with his whole mouth. Legs like an adonis. Someone get this man into some 4' inseam shorts, STAT.

Strong. Super mutant. He was a Butcher, so he's a little beefier than your average mutant. Of course, this is only known to other mutants, as the subtleties of mutant physiology tend to be lost on non-mutated humans.

X6-88. Generic Courser Build. While Generic Synths are designed to blend in with the everyman, Generic Coursers are designed to inspire fear in every man. (booo bad joke tomato tomato) 6'3" but stands so perfectly straight that he seems taller. Has the superhero build, but like naturally. Keeps his hair in a short fade. Bottom lip is lighter than the top lip. Has little lines around his mouth from all his frowning. Has one (1) singular scar on his chin. He won't tell you where he got it (it's from him eating it on concrete steps. That was the one mission he asked for an extension on, so the evidence of him beefing it would heal.) Also chronically wears sunglasses. Behind those aviators are grey eyes that are so pale and sharp, they almost look white.