#Leather Repairs Pale Green

[geeksleather]

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[a-leg-without-fear]

Entre, Rouge🩸🔥

this is very silly

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader 🩸

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 666

Warnings: story is told from Wade's perspective. need i say more?

Phew!

Okay, that last Wolverine didn’t quite work out. Several stab wounds in the shape of adamantium kebabs aside, I just wasn’t a fan of his vibe. The puffy hair, the leather ensemble, and the missing hand? No thank you. I’d like an intact Wolverine with access to a shower and a hairbrush to help repair my universe.

I sat on the log I once shared with the extremely-departed Logan. Lots of blood and guts spilled everywhere, pieces of TVA agents and metal bones strewn about the snow, thick snowflakes falling through the naked trees and onto my illustrious red suit.

Oh, I should probably introduce myself.

The name’s Wilson. 

Wade Wilson. 

Wade Winston Wilson. 

Doctor… Esquire. 

Also known as the ever sexy and permanently alive Deadpool. Sure, I look like the gum-covered underside of a highschool desk, but it doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop in my quest to fix my universe and save my friends. Like Lancelot and his Holy Grail, I’m going to find a Logan and shove him into my timeline until he fits. Or do whatever happens in that story.

The little dimension doohickey I nabbed from discount Mr.Darcy sat in my gloved hand. Lots of retro graphics and shiny buttons made it look like a flip phone, but fancier. I was scrolling through universes to try and find my next target.

“420? No, I don’t think I want pothead Logan. 69? Now that’s just too obvious,” I muttered with a laugh while flipping through universes. The numbers scrolled by like etch-a-sketched fruit in a slot machine. Except without the pants-tightening excitement of winning a jackpot.

My yearning for walking through rows of old geezers sitting in their own piss puddles while mindlessly playing the slots was overtaken by a fascination in the universe that filled the screen. Confetti exploded in my head like an edged bottom who’d held out as long as he could.

“Bingo!” I said, jumping up from my spot on the crumbling log. My fabulous boots made a nice crunching sound as I walked through blood-stained snow.

Earth-80085.

The Legiverse.

A universe filled to the brim with horror, trauma, copious sex scenes, and hyperfixations switching faster than Nosferatu fiddling with his light switch. You know the one.

I jammed the “go” button on the doohickey and a huge portal appeared in front of me. Orange, glowey, translucent, door shaped. Kinda looked like jello if you squinted.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked myself, naïvely, “I’ll get burst like a blood-filled water balloon by Leg’s OC of the week? Nah, she wouldn’t do me like that.”

Taking in one last chilly breath of determination, I skipped through the portal.

What I was not expecting to step into was a bedroom.

Pale green curtains blocking out any sunlight, wooden walls with cutesy pictures, cat towers and toys scattered on the carpeted floor. And…

Is that… moaning?

My head whipped in the direction of that delicious sound. Rumpled and soaked sheets, wooden headboard slamming into the wall behind it, bed creaking under the rapid movement.

And there, tangled together in the way God definitely didn’t intend, were you and Logan. Him driving into you, toned abs flexing with each thrust and fluffy hair bouncing, with you squirming and moaning beneath him. Logan’s rough hands felt along your lucky hips.

“Damn,” I whispered. Why did you get to have all the fun? Can’t I get a little Lo-Lo action?

I hung my head, disappointed, as I pressed the “leave” button on the doohickey. It wasn’t fair! Readers get to fuck whoever they want, however they want, whenever they want. They even fuck me on a regular basis! And where does that leave poor Deadpool? Either in another fanfiction or taking care of myself the ol’ fashioned way.

Ignoring the growing discomfort in my rather-flattering pants, I stepped back through the stupid doorway to continue my search.

Why are all the good ones fucking, crucified, killing me, or Henry Cavill?

i got drunk and watched the third "night at the museum." this popped in my head while watching hugh be a silly man

[positivelyruined]

could’ve, should’ve, would’ve (tamlin’s POV)

And now that I'm grown, I'm scared of ghosts

Memories feel like weapons

And now that I know

I wish you'd left me wondering

The Spring Court was empty — ruined.

So was he. Who was he without her? His mate.

His beloved.

He’d given up everything for her. Everything that he had and so much more.

Tamlin cradled his bottle of gin, stumbling through the old garden path, occasionally raising it to his lips.

It was down to drops now.

Even a drop was better than nothing.

It had been months since he’d dared cross the threshold of the outdoors and the ruined manor, but tonight he did.

More beast than man, truly. His mind had given into the lunar lunacy. It was broken, shattered, beyond repair.

It was a full year since he’d last seen Lucien.

My own goddamn fault. Tamlin loosened the cork and licked the edge of the glass bottle. I broke the one person who still cared.

Spring was fading. With only one ritual completed in three years, the grass ran dry and the flowers didn’t bloom. Snakes swept through the tall grass, tangling around his limps before moving on to find better prey. Even the beasts knew that he was nothing.

He stumbled at the brick base of the house. Slivers of his memory sifted through the cracks and painted a much different picture of verdant greens and bright reds, alive and welcoming. Spring was in shreds.

He weakly pushed aside the stubborn grass, growling, when it did not relent in taking him back four years to when he watched her float down the aisle.

Then run.

No — it was all he could think. It was all he could say.

A harsh whip of lighting split the sky open and Rhysand fell from the heights, landing dramatically behind her. Behind Feyre — his girl, his huntress, his curse breaker — a person so perfectly broken that her pieces fit inside him with astounding clarity.

“Feyre, darling.” The curled lips, the cruel eyes, and the victorious smile of a man who had just taken everything that Tamlin left.

Feyre is no darling. Tamlin spit in the grass. She had always been broken bolts and shreds of glass — with a soul harder to bewitch than any he’d known. She was the thorns to his roses. He kept her safe and she kept him wild.

He lay back in the pale yellow lawn — letting his head spin from the amount of liquor he’d just consumed. He’d wake up here tomorrow — fresh as a newborn babe. Such was the burden of immortality. Not even his worst vices could bring him into the relief that was an eternal sleep; but they could certainly leave him in misery.

A thousand and one bright lights stared down at him from above — swirling and spinning to the erratic beat of his broken heart.

“You mock me!” Tamlin shook his fist at the stars. “You mock my pain.”

They responded in silence.

Salty tears flooded his eyes until he could look on no more. There was no relief. His fire was spent. His skin was leather. For being a high lord, he looked nothing like himself.

I miss who i used to be… He thought, muttering to himself.

He was the last one in this place — a lonely ghost with a penchant for heavy wine and out of tune songs. What was the use in screaming if no one heard?

It was not his scream that he heard.

Tamlin squinted as a bright ball of light came hurtling towards him from the night sky. I am seeing things.

Or, am I about to die?

Sweet cauldron, release me. Would you not bring her home or let me go?

He closed his eyes, but there was no silence, and no impact of starlight falling across his limbs. There was only screaming — terrible, aching screams that echoed from a short distance away.

He sat up straight and instantly regretted the way blood rushed to his head.

Someone. There was someone else here.

Tamlin forced himself onto all fours, pushing his tangled hair away from his eyes, and scrambling towards the source of the noise.

There — lying just where he’d lost her — was Feyre.

Mangled in blood, straight up naked, and holding onto herself like an anchor, Feyre Archeron quivered in the cool night air. Her eyes swam. Purple tears bled from the corners and glowed on her cheeks.

“Help…me.” The voice was so familiar, yet burdened by years of decay and worthless words.

She reached towards him, hands trembling, and grabbed at the collar of his shirt. Her quaking hand stilled on his neck..

Tamlin backed away, wide eyed, and wonder struck. The touch of her hand on his skin was like a bandage on a raw wound. Slowly, the magic in his blood flooded him with a burst of restoration.

The bottle disappeared. The weeds, the snakes, and his wild appearance retreated inwards, revealing the man he was underneath.

“Tamlin?” Her eyes fluttered closed and she fall against his chest, blood trickling from every part of her.

It was not red. It was maroon. Her once bright life force was completely entrenched by the dark, purple magic of the most powerful high lord.

“Feyre?” He whispered, clutching her to his chest. “Feyre…”

Her eyes rolled back into her head.

“FEYRE!” His desperate scream pierced the night sky.

This had to be some cruel trick. He couldn’t touch his mate for the first time in years only to have her die in his arms. That was not happening.

Tamlin clung to her thin shoulders, shaking them rapidly. His eyes ran wild as the day she’d been taken. “Fey…”

He lay back in the grass, sheltering her broken body inside his own. The drowsy glow of his healing powers lifted her from the ground and poured whatever remained of him into the cold stone in her chest.

Everything, everywhere, all at once — began to change.

The dark, night sky brightened into a fresh Spring morning and the grass around them was slowly saturated in a warm emerald light.

His ears were buzzing.

Tamlin opened his eyes.

It wasn’t buzzing…it was singing. It was birds — the very emblem of spring.

He looked down at his hands. No longer were they the crooked claws of a beast, but the smooth, fair skin of a High Lord.

“Feyre?” Tamlin watched as breath returned to her body, flushing her gray skin with a familiar, soft pink. “Wake up.”

Feyre’s gray eyes opened in the sunrise, reflecting every color onto his face. “Tam…Lin.”

She reached up, gently tracing the features of his face. “High lord — my high lord.”

He actually smiled, pressing a barrage of soft kisses against her forehead. “My high lady.”

“Uhuh —“ Feyre shook her head, stubbornly. “Never a high lady. Only yours.”

“Yours.” Tamlin nodded. For once, his tears had someone to catch them. “Only yours.”

[cemetery-irises]

liveblogging my idv pokemon outfit concept creation because i have no idea what i wanna do but people need to look like something!! (adding to this with pure unfiltered thoughts whenever i get an idea) (this will be so long forever even before i add to it be warned and mainly for archive purposes so i can look back at it for reference)

tldr: what the fuck am i doing i am so clueless on what these people should wear

emil - some sort of baggy, pastel coloured cardigan, probably pink/mint green with cream accents and grass stains probably fairly pale since theres little to no natural sunlight in both ballonlea and the tangle, and he uses a parasol otherwise, for his hair im thinking probably longer than canon?? not overwhelmingly so, but probably just above his shoulderblades. also he has little glowy freckles that are just mushroom spores as well as a morelull that kinda just. sits on his head

now the hard part..... everyone else........

frederick definitely has a suit with a train i think! he prefers to use fairy/ghost types (mecore) and i think it should reflect in what he wears while being elegant. he should get heeled boots methinks

for norton i kiinda wanna keep the self repaired aspects of his clothes. i like the slight stinginess of his personality and i think that his clothes reflect that well, because is there reaaallyy a point in buying new clothes if he could fix them himself and they still do their job........

ive no idea what to do with him though. not a clue....... i was thinking maybe leather or something to show he's a spikemuth local, but im not sure on it,,,

orpheus i just want to give a pretty monocle to and call it a day im so clueless on him. i wanna give his clothes dragon-y aspects though since he specializes in dragon types i'm just. not sure how to incorporate them yet

andrew.... ive been procrastinating on this for him....... for soo long..... im thinking he gets to wear a real big (though worn) hooded travelling cloak since it somewhat resembles a robe (or whatever the fuck you call his canon fit) with the iris remaining ofc, and he carries his mimikyu around in the hood whenever its not up. as a barefoot wanderer myself i think we all know what my first response is but i think he can pull off boots

grace...... grace is soo fucking preetty... ive no idea what to do with her either though, but the simple sort of charm fits her well i think. she could pull off literally anything though agghg

honestly i think ithaqua design is perfect already if you take away all his hunter-y aspects like the stilts and the mask (he might be able to keep his axe. as a little treat) nothing to say for now

luca balsa. the professors son. he has the new eccentric skin no comment. next

alva should wear a vest with rolled up sleeves i think. also he has long hair in a ponytail because i think he should and we were robbed because why is this 46 year old man putting hair gel in and slicking his hair back honest question

[climbthemountain2020]

Hope of Spring - Chapter 6

Hi I'm back!

Find this also on Ao3!

Find Chapter 5 here

When Penny and Tamlin returned to the manor at dusk, Tally had managed to fill Penny’s room to the brim with all sorts of new clothes and shoes. As she had asked, most of it was pants and tunics and the occasional leather corset belt. She had loose linens for sleep, and more boots and slippers than she’d ever seen in her life. The boots were smooth leather, maybe the nicest pairs she’d ever seen. She ran her fingers over the soft surface of them and couldn’t think of anything she’d ever owned that had been this nice. 

Tally had also managed to sneak in some gorgeous dresses made of satin and tulle and delicate embroidery that Penny had no idea when or where she’d ever have a chance to wear. Tally had even washed, attempted to repair, and folded the clothes that Penny had come in to give her a piece of home. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had gone so out of their way to take care of her. Penny’s eyes stung with tears and she turned and abruptly embraced the fae. 

“Tally, you have no idea what this means to me. Thank you.” She managed to choke out. Tally hesitated in the hug for a moment before sighing and returning the embrace. 

“Now, now, Miss Penny. None of that.” she pushed off with one more strong pat of Penny’s back. Tally made her way to leave the room. “ There’s no need to fret. We want you to be comfortable here.” 

And she was. Penny hadn’t known comfort or peace or joy like she had experienced in the last 24 hours for the past six years. She held her old clothes to her chest as she sat on the bed. Tamlin had seemed surprised that she’d said she wanted to stay, but with every moment here, she was more sure there wasn’t a life worth going back to. Even if she couldn’t help with the timeline here, could she be happy here? Could she build a life in this magical world? 

Pressing her face to the folded clothes once more, she inhaled deeply then turned to put them gently into a box beneath the bed. Even if this wasn’t forever, she was determined to enjoy her time here, and she couldn’t do that while she held onto the remnants of her other life. With one last look towards the box under the bed, she turned and left the room. 

_________________

Tamlin and Penny fell into a rhythm easily. They would eat breakfast together most days, then Tamlin would go to patrol and Penny would seek out the employees of the manor and ask how she could help. Most often, she found herself in the kitchens, where she was entranced by all of the ways the cooked foods that she'd never even considered. Everything tasted so much better here, and she was bound and determined to try everything. There were roasted meats that simply fell apart in her mouth, with spices like nothing she'd ever experienced. Fish from the nearby streams with lemons grown in the groves that surrounded the manor and greens from the local gardens were a favorite of hers. The little desserts that the kitchen came up with were absolutely out of this world. Penny considered herself a fairly good cook, but this food made everything she'd ever made pale miserably in comparison. Tamlin had taken to pushing the dessert tray towards her at the start of every meal with a joyful smile because he knew she wasn't going to wait until the end of the meal to try the newest treat the kitchen had come up with.

The staff loved her, after the first few days of adjusting to her presence and insisting she didn’t need to help. Once she pushed that she wanted to help, and “what else would she do here?”, they relented. Soon, the smiles became less polite and demuring and more friendly and mischievous. They even went so far as to rib her a bit about being “the High Lord’s new lady friend” with raised eyebrows as she scoffed and blushed and sputtered. 

It was hard to parse out her feelings towards Tamlin. Just over a week in and she felt strangely compelled towards the male–a rash turn from her normal reaction to any men she met. He was frustrating beyond belief at times, prone to quick frustration and impatience, but she could tell that he was fighting the impulse. She couldn’t help but feel he understood her in a way that most people did not. While they hadn’t had the opportunity to speak openly again about their personal fears or shortcomings, that day in the meadow had changed how she viewed him, and she was resolute in her claim that she wanted to get to know him outside of the knowledge she’d gained from others. 

She truly enjoyed spending time with him, especially when that gruff exterior lifted and he smiled or laughed with her. She felt like she was seeing a side of him that not many were shown, and it made her feel special. However, that feeling tipped over into the occasional burst of butterflies in her stomach when he would look in her eyes or say her name. She worried that, for her at least, the lines were dangerously close to blurring. She couldn’t deny how attractive she found him. In fact, her first impression continued to be correct in that she thought he may be the most beautiful individual she had ever seen. She was doing her very best to hide these thoughts each time they came up. She refused to ruin this budding friendship, especially when she was staying with him. As far as she knew, Tamlin was too hurt by Feyre to ever even consider caring about someone in that way again, and she refused to put him out or harm what they had by entertaining her rogue thoughts. 

So, instead, she cooked. She helped in the gardens. She brought lunch to the sentries, all of which she now knew by name and joked with every chance she got. She helped Tally with various tasks in the manor and learned to truly enjoy having friends for the first time since school. She loved being in Spring. It was a freedom she hadn’t had in as long as she could remember, and it felt more like home than anything she’d known since childhood. The sun on her face and the wind in her hair stirred something beneath her skin that made her heart feel wide open. She wasn’t sure how or why she’d ended up here, and there had been no response to the parchment she sent. But Penny was glad she was here. She was glad to feel like she was home. 

__________________

A few days later, Tamlin invited Penny to come on border patrol with him. She hadn’t been on horseback since she was seven and went to the saddest State Fair she’d ever seen, where she’d ridden a horse so old and angry she feared she may never ride one again. So Tamlin insisted she ride with him until he could teach her to ride on her own. He helped her up onto the horse, a beautiful white mare, and instructed her to hold on to pommel in front of her. Tamlin swung up behind her and settled in, and that familiar rushing filled her chest. This was perhaps the closest they’d been, and she couldn’t help the flush sprinting up her chest to the tips of her ears. 

If Tamlin clearing his throat and shifting around was any indication, he couldn’t help noticing either. 

Horrified and embarrassed, Penny willed herself to think about anything else. 

“So, what are you looking for when you patrol out here?” She blurted out in a rushed panic. Tamlin laughed, his breath too close, fanning out over her ear. Dear God. 

“Monsters, mostly.” He whispered. Her throat was drier than the desert. 

“Oh, that’s–wait, monsters?? What do you mean??” He laughed, a full belly laugh this time as he raised his head back to the sky. 

“Fear not,” He cackled. “Most won’t come out during the day, but I will protect you regardless.” She could tell he was joking with her. She jammed her elbow back into his gut and heard him grunt. 

“You’re a dick, you know that?” He laughed again and it warmed her like someone was winding a steady flame through her chest. 

“Only for you, Sunshine.” 

“Sunshine?”

“Yeah, you know, because of your bright and sunny disposition.” At that, she turned over her shoulder to glare at him, prompting a wide grin from him that made him appear more boyish than she’d ever seen him. In fact, at this proximity, she could tell that he looked much more well-rested than he had two weeks ago. Perhaps he was finally getting some sleep. Penny was glad to see it.  

“I know you don’t think I’m fully human, but I also have no idea how I would defend myself should I need to.” She became serious. “Could you show me, maybe?” She was nervous to ask. Despite giving him his own chance for them to get to know each other, she remembered how he had outright refused to train Feyre, despite her begging. He surprised her. 

“Train you? I would be happy to train you. What do you know?” She could barely get over the shock long enough to form an answer for him. He hadn’t even hesitated. 

“Uhm, well, some very paltry self defense classes from a few years ago. I worked out occasionally at home, but nothing serious. We’d probably be starting from scratch,” she said apologetically. 

“That’s actually for the best. Then we can build from the ground up. Would you like to start tomorrow?” There it was in his voice again. Hope. She couldn’t even bear to look at him as a feeling she couldn’t begin to describe bubbled within her chest. Could I be different? Could he? She squashed the thought so violently she almost felt herself jerk back. 

“Yes, tomorrow, I would love that. Thank you, Tamlin.” As they finished the ride, she could barely keep a tether on the excitement rolling within her, and that night she fell asleep still trying to get a leash on that hope and joy that threatened to break free and override all her common sense. 

______________

If Penny had thought that it was difficult to keep herself together over Tamlin before, the training dialed that up to a level where she was struggling. She was so thrilled to be spending every morning training out near the barracks with him, despite him absolutely kicking her ass on a regular basis and in a litany of creative ways. 

The first week had been entirely strength training–he hadn’t even let her touch a weapon. She was embarrassingly out of shape, as evidenced by her sweat-covered form all but limping back to the manor every afternoon to collapse while Tamlin did patrols. Occasionally, she’d lay on the couch in the study and read in the evenings while he worked on paperwork, but she was so exhausted that she’d found herself passed out and carried back to her bed more than once. The thought set her off blushing all over again and she’d have to cover her face with a pillow then scream her frustrations into it. 

Training in itself was hard, but focusing on training with him standing feet away from her, haloed by the sun and often shirtless, was enough to make her want to run into the woods and keep the monsters company herself. She was spending as much mental energy berating herself and trying to get herself together as she was spending physical energy to get into shape. After the first week of grueling strength training, the soreness was finally starting to abate and she was getting at least somewhat over the shock of seeing Tamlin walking around shirtless. Then came the added struggle of starting hand-to-hand combat. 

Repeatedly, he was having to fix her form, which required his hands on her body. The reactions he was pulling out of her had her feeling like a teenager again. She insisted repeatedly in her own mind that she stay focused on the task, but all that focus seemed to evaporate as he stood pressed against her. There was absolutely no way he didn’t know what was happening, either. She hated that most of all, knowing that he didn’t feel the same about her and she still couldn’t get it under control. More than once she’d dunked her head repeatedly under a cold bath to remind herself that he wasn’t interested and she was supposed to be learning how to fight, not fuck. 

Tension aside, she’d been in Spring now for what she assumed to be about a month, and her friendship with Tamlin was something she treasured. They had an easy way about their banter that was a far cry from his attitude in her first days at the manor. She wasn’t afraid to put him in his place when his temper got away from him, and that seemed to be something he needed more than he would ever admit. Her stubbornness could absolutely get her in trouble, but something about him wouldn’t allow her to back down. 

There was also an intimacy to the friendship that Penny had never experienced before. She was so comfortable being in companionable silence with him, and it never failed to strike her as comforting. The most surprising change, however, was how the two of them could play. 

In the weeks since they’d been training, that touch had become more commonplace, and his walls had fallen further. It allowed him to be, as odd as it sounded, silly with her. She’d caught the open jaws of his sentires and staff as the two of them joked easily, and she couldn’t help but wear it with pride that she had drawn that out in him. She may never have him as more than a friend, but this relationship was unlike any other she’d ever had before. It filled a place in her heart that she’d long since sealed off and left empty. Even if she could never have him the way she truly craved, she would do everything in her power to keep him in her life this way. 

The long, warm spring days carried on, and she felt more and more like this was truly her home. Though Tamlin and his staff had almost entirely fixed the manor from the war years before, there were still places where the ravages of Hybern and the situation surrounding it were evident. They were working to replant the southern groves of fruit trees that had been razed, the new barracks had finally been finished shortly after she arrived, and the towns were all but entirely rebuilt and thriving again. When she went into the local village for supplies, the people were always friendly and kind, though she still met whispers of “the High Lord’s lady friend” wherever she went, and it was always a task to get them to allow her to pay for things. That’s where she had found herself today, and she was now returning to the manor with paint for the last remaining room in the manor. 

Tamlin had told her that a room upstairs, the library, had been particularly hard for him to be in. Due to that, it remained in tatters from the war and its aftermath. Ripped paintings had lined the floor, books thrown from the shelves, and a suffocating layer of dust lined every surface. He had held a pain on his face that hit her straight in the chest as she watched him open the doors and bring her in a few days before. 

“It’s time to do something about this. It’s the last room. Will you help me?” And so she had. She could tell it was hard for him to sort through this, and she could very well guess why with all the torn and shredded canvas on the floor. She helped him sift through and throw away everything that needed to go. They spent two days cleaning, reshelving, and tearing out the torn wallpaper. With each task completed, it seems the weight on his shoulders lightened a bit, and by the third day, they were ready to paint. 

Penny had selected a pretty, silvery gray for the library, thinking how it would catch the sunset through the windows on this side of the house. With their brushes, they talked while they painted. With each stroke, it was almost like she could feel the closure for Tamlin. He joked with her and the light seemed to re-enter his eyes little by little. 

“You see, I know you’re a shapeshifter already, so I only ask because I am genuinely curious.”

“You’re a smart ass, is what you are, Penny.” He quirked a brow from across the room. 

“Listen, I think that you would be a simply wonderful puppy. I could carry you around, give you treats so you learn to stop acting like such a dumb ass when you’re cranky.” He gave a half-hearted glare. 

“Careful, or I am going to pick you up and start carrying you around when you tick me off.” He pointed the brush at her accusingly.

“You can’t just remove me, Tamlin. You’re stuck with me harassing you endlessly, that’s the deal. I don’t make the rules.” He came to re-dip the brush in the paint and bumped her to the side with his hip, accidentally pushing her back into the freshly laid paint on the walls. In the same moment, both their eyes widened. His with amusement, and hers with disbelief. As she slowly peeled her back from the wall, she shot him a glare that could have sent an army fleeing. 

“Tamlin. Did you just get paint all over my back and hair?” She asked with a deceptively calm voice. His laughter was barely suppressed as his eyes danced with amusement. 

“Of course not, my lady. It would appear you got paint all over your back and hair.” He couldn’t hold his laugh anymore. “Truly, silver is a wonderful color on you. Really brings out your ey–” He couldn’t finish before she slopped her entire paint brush over his face and ran it from eyebrow down until it plopped down off his lower lip. Beneath the paint, his eyes opened and the look within them was as playful as it was feral. 

The laugh burst forth out of Penny before she could stop it, as Tamlin reached up to rub his hand down his face to remove some of the paint. “I’m going to give you a five second head start–” But Penny was already off, tearing out of the room and down the hallway giggling maniacally. She vaulted over a chair the staff had pulled out to clean and whipped around the hall corners as she heard his footfalls turn the corner behind her. With a shriek of laughter she threw herself around the bannister to race down the stairs. 

The excitement was crawling up her throat and bubbled out of her as a high pitched laugh. 

“Sunshine!” He called out behind her, closer than she anticipated, and with one last shriek she grabbed the post at the bottom of the bannister and swung herself out into the foyer at a sprint. Before she could get more than five steps towards the study she was grabbed up from behind and jerked back into his chest. Her breath stuttered as his mouth found her ear. 

“Caught you.” She felt the growled whisper all the way down to each and every one of her toes. Just as she was about to say fuck the friendship, she felt Tamlin straighten up behind her and place her back down on the floor to clear his throat. She was worried she’d taken it too far, but then she turned to follow his gaze to the person she hadn’t noticed up to this point standing in front of the open study. Standing there with a curtain of long hair, as red as the sunset, and his jaw on the floor in shock, was Lucien Vanserra, looking at the two of them like he was witnessing the second coming of the Gods. 

[experthiese]

B A S I C S

Name: Arsène Lupin the Third

Age: Late twenties / early thirties

Birthdate: 10th of February

Species: Human

Gender: Some flavour of nonbinary. See this post

Orientation: Bisexual

Profession: Master thief. Zenigata's specialest little criminal

P H Y S I C A L A S P E C T S

Hair: Black, soft and fluffy. Kept short with his iconic widow's peak at the front

Eyes: Very dark brown. They look almost black until the light hits them

Skin: Pale where his suit covers. Otherwise he has a tendency to tan, à la his Part 6 counterpart's colouring

Height: 180cm / 5'11

Weight: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. He's skinny

F A M I L Y

Siblings: None that he knows of

Parents: Lupin the Second, dead

Grandparents: Arsène Lupin, dead

Other Relatives: If there are any, they've long since cut themselves off from the Lupin name and all it symbolises

Any Pets?: None

S K I L L S

An expert in safecracking, code breaking, and most other obstacles intended to keep him away from his desired treasure

Master of disguise and mask making, and is able to perfectly replicate people's voices - regardless of pitch or accent difference - with minimal observation required beforehand

Polyglot. Constantly expanding his language library, and is at least conversational anywhere he goes in the world

Experienced gunman. Though his aim's got nothing on Jigen's, Lupin's Walther is never far from his side

Catlike agility, including a talent for stealth, acrobatics and dexterity

High intelligence, and a perceptive ability far above what he lets on. Lupin is rarely able to be snuck up on, and instead uses his incredible situational awareness to call attention to those who believe themselves hidden

Machine invention, maintainence and repair. All of Lupin's little gadgets were designed and made by himself, and he invests a lot of time (and money) into repairing any damage that comes to his beloved Fiat or other cars

T R A I T S

—— Positive —— Ambitious, charming (or tries to be), confident, intelligent, resourceful

—— Negative —— Childish, deceitful, hedonistic, impulsive and unable to resist a challenge, possessive

L I K E S

Colors: Red, green, pink, and blue. His favoured jacket colours. Yellow features a lot in his chosen outfits too

Smells: Gasoline, cigarette smoke, Bleu de Chanel (his cologne), Chanel No. 5 (Fujiko's preferred perfume)

Textures: Silk, satin, velvet, leather, metal

Drinks: Red wine, expensive alcohol in general

O T H E R D E T A I L S

Smokes?: Yes

Drugs: Used to in his younger years

Driver License: He's got one. He's a pretty good driver, too, at least whenever he's not being pushed into life-or-death car chases

Been Arrested?: One hundred times caught, one hundred times escaped ;P

[themusingsofafanficwriter]

The True Meaning of Family - Chapter 1

Summary: A found family Supernatural AU. Ophelia Humphries is an English 19-year-old who is just trying to finish her online history degree when she receives a letter from two brothers she never knew she had.

A/N: Okay so this isn't the first time I have uploaded this but the account it was on got deleted AND the chapters have been edited a little. This is a multi-chapter fic. You can also read it here on AO3.

T/W - Meantion of death... I think that is all for this chapter

A street light switched on casting an orange glow over the young woman at the library table.

Her typing slowed as she came to the end of her paragraph. She looked up at the clock hanging on the far wall. Half past six. Her European history teacher had given them an assignment to write a blog about any historical subject.

"You must keep a healthy and vibrant blog, updated twice, no, three times a week. Now this will be 60 percent of your final grade, so make it good people." said Mr. Sutton.

Those words rang in her ears, history was her passion and while she couldn't get the grades to go to a physical university she loved her course and she wanted to get this project perfect. Ophelia pressed the publish button on her article about the laws around witchcraft in Britain. Taking one more glance at the clock, she closed the lid of her laptop and slipped it into her dark green tote bag.

The heavy wooden chair made a scraping sound as she stood up, cutting the silence. A girl sat a few tables from Ophelia looked up at her, the noise distracting her from her colourful notes. They held eye-contact briefly as Ophelia walked passed the girl's table heading towards the book drop off point.

"Did you find everything you were looking for my dear?" the old librarian asked slowly. His name tag said Bernie Harrington and he was dressed in a pair of brown trousers that showed the signs of repair, a cream shirt and dark blue knitted jumper. His white hair was bright against his dark skin and made him look much older than his face did.

Ophelia smiled at the kind eyed man. "I did. Thank you so much for your help Mr Harrington, this book was just what I needed."

"I'm sorry you can't take the book out, it's just too old to trust to most of the public, I hope you understand dear."

"Of course I do, Mr Harrington, I'd be upset if anything happened to it." Ophelia said in a whisper as she delicately placed the leather bound book onto the cart next to Bernie.

The book was called The Persecution of Witches and was well over 100 years old. Its pages had the smell of dust, time and smoke from when people could smoke in libraries in time gone by.

"I assume you know this book is said to be cursed dear? The legend goes that those who stare at its pages are persecuted by the supernatural" Bernie added, his eyes glimmering with humour.

The short girl let out a snort that startled her and replied "Mr Harrington, you don't believe that do you?"

"We should all be aware of the supernatural my dear, no matter how improbable it sounds." With that Bernie picked up a stack of books from the desk next to them and placed them on the cart, pushing it towards the shelves. "Have a good night Miss."

Stepping onto the pavement the autumn air caught Ophelia by surprise. The wind stang against her pale skin, turning her cheeks red almost instantly, and flung her curly black hair from where it usually hung around her chin. She brought the collar of her heavy winter coat up to try and shield her face from the harsh weather. She took a deep breath of freezing air before heading towards her car.

Reaching into the back pocket of her mom jeans she grabbed her keys. The metal was cold against her fingers as she unlocked her 1970s black ford mustang. Climbing into the front seat immediately felt like a hug.

The car had once belonged to her grandad, the man who was the only father figure Ophelia had in her life, if you didn't count the gaggle of men her mum brought into her life as potential step-father, Ophelia didn't count them.

Memories of her grandad William and the time they spent together were littered all over the car. Most notably was the photo of William holding a baby Ophelia while he lent against the car. Ophelia picked the photo off the dashboard and turned it over. Written in her grandad's handwriting it said the start of an adventure.

Her grandad passed away 6 months ago and each day it was hard to be without her best friend.

Closing her eyes for the briefest of moments, Ophelia could have sworn she could smell him. The smell of apple pulp from his homemade cider and leather from his jacket filled the car, comforting her despite knowing it was all in her mind.

Her phone interrupted her reminiscing. She had a single notification from her mum.

Sweetheart, can you come home at some point soon, we need to chat about something that has come up.

Love mum x

Ophelia hadn't been home in a few months, after her grandad died her mum's boyfriend Brad began to be too much for Ophelia to handle. It started off with him making fun of little things that she would do like wearing statement shirts or wearing fun makeup. It then became bullying and when she stood up for herself, her mum made the decision to stick with Brad over Ophelia.

Ophelia had bounced between friends from school, sleeping in her car and staying in cheap hotels and bed and breakfasts with the little money her mum gave her each week. She hates using that money, her mum only gives her it because she feels guilty about asking her to leave.

Sighing, Ophelia knew if she didn't respond that she would get a less than friendly message from Brad.

Ophelia hit the reply button and began to type.

Mum - Just got out of the library, I can come over now if that works for you.

Ophelia x

Seconds later her phone beeped again.

That would be great love, Brad is just getting ready to meet up with some friends from work so we will have the house to ourselves.

Love mum xx

Two kisses this time. Something was off. Her mum rarely sent kisses on the end of messages and when she did it was only ever one, and, come to think of it, her mum never called her a pet name.

The car's engine spluttered into life as she turned the key, glancing at the time. Quarter to seven, she should be at her mum's by quarter past seven. Putting the car into gear, Ophelia headed toward her mum's home.

Ophelia pulled up to her mum's country home. It was a dark and sinister looking building but it held many happy memories for her. Memories of family Christmases with her mum and grandad, and birthdays and new years celebrations.

Locking her car behind her, she started the walk up the sandstone slabbed path. The garden's grass was artificial looking and the flowers were placed precisely and symmetrically.

Ophelia hesitated at the perfectly painted grey door before giving three firm knocks. Her stomach was in knots waiting for someone to open it. Footsteps could be heard on the other side and so could voices. She knocked again and fidgeted while looking at her feet.

The door swung open, startling her. Brad stood in the doorway, filling it almost completely. He was tall and proud looking, Ophelia's mum said that's what first attracted her to him. Ophelia always thought he looked arrogant. He was dressed in a suit that probably cost more than a small car.

Brad came from a wealthy background and had never had to work a day in his life, a couple of years before he moved in he inherited his dad's fortune. Ophelia's mum was working in the bar when he stumbled, already drunk, through the door.

"She's here" Brad yelled into the other room, his crooked smile set Ophelia on edge, his breathing set her on edge, everything about him set her on edge.

"Brad." Was all Ophelia could say. Her voice was nowhere near as strong as she wanted it to be. He could tell this.

"Well come on in Ophelia, it's good to see you, how have you been keeping?" His hand gripped her shoulder as he ushered her into the front room. She tried to wriggle free but his grip was too tight.

"Fine Brad, just fine." She said through gritted teeth.

The front room where Brad had ushered her to was not what Ophelia had expected. Before she left the room was decorated in warm colours. Reds, browns and oranges filled the space once upon a time, but now, now it is just white. Obviously Brads doing.

There were pictures of Brad and Sandra, Ophelia's mum, where pictures of Ophelia used to be and candles were tacky ornaments her grandad bought them from his various travels.

In the middle of the room was a small coffee table, on that table was a box of tissues and a tea set. That tea set. That tea set of blue and white only came out when major talks were to be had. This tea set of blue and white had chips and cracks all over it where people had thrown it at walls and even each other. Ophelia smirked to herself when her eyes glanced at the sugar bowl that had a nasty chip taken out of it where she had thrown it at Brad and missed. It hit the wall behind him.

Ophelia's mother, Sandra, sat in the middle of the room next to the table pouring a cup of tea for herself, then, one for Ophelia. Sandra was slimmer than Ophelia remembered, her bones looked sharp and dangerous but overall Sandra looked too frail to hurt a fly. Her dyed blond hair was slicked back into a low bun that only emphasised the inch or so of natural black root.

Ophelia lowered herself slowly into the chair opposite her mum.

"Darling, it's lovely to see you." Sandra said with a smile. She tried to look happy but her face was blotchy and red from where she had obviously been crying. "You look well, I love this shirt you're wearing."

This was a lie, Ophelia wore loud printed shirts that she mainly borrowed from her grandad, since his passing she had to find new ones at charity and second hand shops. Sandra hated how Ophelia dressed. The one she was currently wearing was pale pink with an 80s geometric pattern in light blues, greens and yellows.

"What's going on mum? What do we need to chat about?" Ophelia asked softly, cautious of how fragile her mother looked.

"It's about your dad sweetie." Sandra hesitated.

"What about him? Has he come back?"

"No, 'pheila, he isn't back. You see, you got a letter and I know I shouldn't have opened it but it had an overseas post mark." Sandra reached to the table, moved some magazines and passed Ophelia a letter.

"What's this mum?" Ophelia was confused. She never got post, let alone post from overseas.

"Your dad is dead." Brad interrupted the silence.

The room fell silent again.

"What do you mean he's dead?" Ophelia said slowly, trying to come to terms with the information. She didn't even know the man yet she began to softly cry.

"Exactly that, he's been dead almost 15 years now." Brad continued with no sound of remorse or sorrow in his voice.

That was most of her life. At 19 years-old Ophelia had only spent a few months with her father John Winchester when she was a baby before he had to go back to America. Her mum says it was a summer fling that evolved into something more when she found out she was pregnant. He stayed for the entire pregnancy and roughly half of her first year before leaving. They never heard from him again.

"Love, you read the letter." Sandra's cold hand reached for Ophelia's knee in reassurance.

Her hands shaking, Ophelia removed the letter from the envelope and began to read.

[blorbologist]

Which version (i.e the comics, cartoon, original campaign art, other fanart, etc.) of Percy and Vex do you typically visualize when you write your stories? Is that version of them your favorite?

Hi!! sorry this took so long - I wanted to compile the official art and really think through my answer.

A disclaimer that I usually default to drawing them fairly close to TLOVM's style, because it's simple and very visually distinct and I'm still learning to draw people. I think it's a very well done simplification of the characters that translates well to animation (though I do have my little quibbles with it)

Percy is pretty straightforward and doesn't vary much in my mind's eye; I love Vox Machina Origins and the new official art Percy, however I think both make him look a little too old and sexy for 'mid-early 20s' (I say, in my mid-early 20s tkrggkrtn). I also don't really like any red on him, though the new art is dark enough to still look nice. The stupid nerdy glasses are a must. He needs good boots - either his Spider Climb boots or just... good walking boots. IDK what TLOVM Percy is wearing but he won't get nowhere without being caked in mud. VM Origins Percy's host of belts and holsters is great (THIGH HOLSTER??? HI) and the pale coat lining + pants accent the hair nicely, though I also like new art/TLOVM Percy's dark look with the pale ascot.

My hot take is that I actually adore the TLOVM hair; it makes him look young and concerned with his appearance and really helps keep him from looking too Old. I dislike the green eyes though, had hopped so bad that they'd turn blue once Orthax was evicted or would be blue in flashbacks, but! Nope! Green for no clear reason! That's not a Whitestone color bby boy :C

EDIT: also the Orthax eyes and smoke are So Fucking Good absolutely insane of them to do that. very hot. very good. yes.

(also I'm sorry but I... really, really do not like the og art. It's just not my style. I'm not going to critique it, because I'm not a dick, but I can't imagine Vex falling for a Percy who looks like this guy?)

Vex, though, I have less solid ideas about! I see her as being a lot more adaptable in her manner of dress - what needs repairs, what's too worn and needs to be tossed out, etc. vs Percy trying to cling to a singular Look more. I know she's the ~sexy~ one, but showing too much skin just isn't practical when out adventuring, and I'm happy much of her official art reflects that. She stays pretty well covered with some padding and leathers. And when not adventuring I think she has more fun with her day to day and fancy clothes, whereas Percy usually has that coat (He Coat) or something similar keeping his look somewhat constant.

Some things I am sure about: she's not fucking white good god. I personally darken Vex from her TLOVM colors a bit when I draw her. I understand a lot of white Vex art is from before she and Vax started getting darker official art, but I still cringe looking at it. Percy is the pasty whiteboy, Vex is mixed. Otherwise, hmm... I'm very attached to the blue feathers in her hair and some white fur thrown over one shoulder, as well as a host of belts and a thigh quiver + the braid being thrown over her shoulder. She Must have a flowy bit to her look (cape or that half-dress-thing in the post-timeskip art or whathaveyou) for maximum drama. Vex seems pretty willing to incorporate patterns and interesting fabrics into her look (poofy shoulders, stripes, that sheer thing) which I think is fun. I like her with black or hazel eyes, which I flipflop between liberally and depending on the fic rkgjnkrnkghn

The white dragon armor is a little difficult to design admittedly, but neither canon-ish look for it really Hit for me yknow.

Also I hate the TLOVM style of lips for women. It limits their expressiveness SO MUCH compared to the men which is such a robbery. I want more aghast and livid and screaming Vex. I would get it if she, specifically, had these, because she's The Hot One, but Keyleth??? Pike??? Come on.

Again, this is all personal opinion as an artist with too few spoons to draw often + someone who finds both these characters incredibly hot and bisexual goals in their own way. I'm not gonna pick a fight with anyone over their interpretations (except whitewashing Vex. I'll fucking bite you)

[valiantstarlights]

(DND AU) Details about the Endless siblings' (and Hob's) characters: Names, hair/eye/skin color, and physical descriptions.

Disclaimer: All these names (except for Dream and Hob's) are from fantasynamegenerators(dot)com. Trust me, I did my best.

Destiny

(Half-Orc Monk)

Character's Name: Gramalgar Marsh

Hair color: Seaweed (#354A21)

Eye color: Seafoam (#3DED97)

Skin color: Sage (#728C69)

He/him. Tall, muscled, short hair in a mohawk.

A single large tattoo of black waves that starts from his left wrist, wrapping around his left arm, covering his left shoulder, and crashing right in the middle of his chest. Upon closer inspection, the waves are composed of lines of prayer.

Sleeveless roughspun tunic, dark trousers, well-worn boots. A simple sturdy staff.

The others' notes on his character:

"Shrek, but a half-orc with hair and a tattoo." - Delirium

"Punk Grandma Marsh." - Desire and Despair

"Ermahgerd the Half-Orc Monk with a prison tat" - Destruction

"He really researched the shades of green holy shit." - Hob

--

Death

(Gnome Cleric)

Character's Name: Ylssa Kindhelm

Hair color: Black

Eye color: Dark Brown

Skin color: Dark Brown

She/her. Curly hair always in an updo for practicality's sake, but always decorated with pearl hair pins by the dozen.

Piratecore outfits in neutral shades.

Has an enchanted flask that's always filled with cool and sweet lemonade.

The others' notes on her character:

"So...bridal hair, but pirate core. Goddamn what a vibe" - Desire

"The flask is a nice touch, considering her character's sailor background." - Dream

"She's so prettyyyyy 🌼" - Delirium

"Marsh's to do list #1: steal Ylssa's pearl hairpins at the earliest opportunity." - Destiny

--

Dream

(Elf Bard)

Character's Name: Erendriel Emberfall

Hair color: Raven Black

Eye color: Has central heterochromia (pale blue on the outer part of the iris and flickering firelight near the pupils)

Skin color: Pale, almost ashen

He/they. Long, straight hair that reaches his waist, worn in a simple, loose braid.

Prefers to wear well-made comfortable clothing in black, white, or shades of grey.

His main instrument is a lute. It's made from dark wood, has silver-colored strings, and depicts the phases of the moon along its body.

During battle, however, and in very close-quarters combat, he can change instruments and use an ocarina made out of black porcelain instead.

The others' notes on his character:

"blue and blood-orange-eyed bitch, so pretentious" - Desire

"The love of my character's DND life. Absolutely beautiful. 🖤" - Hob

"am i drunk or did I hear Dream say 50 shades of grey? 👀" - Destruction

"I'm gonna steal his ocarina and swap it with a kazoo." - Death

--

Destruction

(Dwarf Barbarian)

Character's Name: Regnik "Reggie" Dreldivarr

Hair color: Copper Red

Eye color: Rock Grey

Skin color: Tan

He/him. Average height as far as dwarves go. Long, slightly lank hair. Has the most magnificent beard in the world. Wears a large beaded bracelet on his left arm, (it currently has 2 rows) and each bead represents an unforgettable moment in his life. He carved the beads himself, of course.

Because he lives in the wild, he takes, trades, or buys clothing he likes or thinks will be useful. Just in case. He's a little bit of a hoarder that way. Sometimes wears mismatched clothes. Like a heavily repaired studded leather armor and an expensive-looking snow-white human noblewoman's fur coat.

The others' notes on his character:

"Vegetable man." - Delirium

"Ask Destruction later if Reg's fashion is inspired by what I had to wear in the 1600s." - Hob

"No. No. Absolutely not. Reginald needs to have a makeover. I will not have badly-dressed party members on my watch." - Desire

"Marsh's to do list #2: steal Reggie's white fur coat at the earliest opportunity." - Destiny

--

Desire

(Tiefling Sorcerer)

Character's Name: Temerity (born Valrai Aranthos)

Hair color: Originally black, but dyed white

Eye color: Solid pale turquoise (#AFEEEE)

Skin color: They have vitiligo, so mint (#9FE1BD) and an even lighter mint (#D4FEF0). Their horns ombre from their skin color to a darker green (#0A3B25).

They/them. A little above average in height for a tiefling. Their horns curve upwards and outwards, then back and down, and then curving upwards again, ending it pointed tips, which are decorated in dangling opal and silver jewelry.

Their clothes are flowing and in cool tones to complement their skin, eyes, and (dyed) hair.

The others' notes on their character:

"Virtue Name: Audacity." - Dream

"They're so coooool~ 🌼 Super minty fresh in color! I'm gonna give them a eucalyptus and white roses flower crown!" - Delirium

*math lady GIF on the geometry of Temerity's horns, but tries his best to draw them anyway* - Destruction

"I'm so intimidated by all these hex color codes." - Hob and Death

--

Despair

(Dragonborn Paladin)

Character's Name: Gerrhanuallith Vyrazys (Childhood name: Defender)

Hair color: N/A, but she has four horns, and they're all solid black.

Eye color: Yellow.

Skin color: Her scales are green. At Desire's insistence, the hex color codes are #2D4C06, #405A19, and #4B6E1E.

She/her. On the taller side of dragonborns. Definitely taller than Marsh. Muscled, stern-looking. Has a jagged scar that goes from her left jaw to just under her right eye.

Upper two horns angle up, then back, then up. Lower two horns angle up and out, back, then up and out again.

Austere and clean clothing, always.

The others' notes on her character:

"Oh wow my twin really chose violence for her name. I'm gonna call her Vee. V for Violence." - Desire

"I'm gonna call her Gerry. Her first name is too much." - Delirium

"Jeh-rah-noo-wah-lith I'm gonna kill whoever makes these random name generators." - Hob

"I can't, my INT score IRL is too low for the name and the horn angles. 😭" - Destruction

--

Delirium

(Halfling Druid)

Character's Name: Jill Barleyblossom

Hair color: Light brown, like barley!

Eye color: Amber? Kinda like Desire's, but darker in shade! Their eyes are so pretty, I always thought so.

Skin color: Kinda fair, but I want to have freckles!

She/her! Jill is...kinda small for a halfling, but she's gonna turn into big animals later so that's okay.

I like what the girl hobbits are wearing in Lord of the Rings, so that's my fashion! I don't wanna go barefoot, though. I want really sturdy footwear, but I want pretty flower designs on them.

I also want to have a shoulder bag! A normal one that can hold a normal amount, so I can gather pretty rocks and have somewhere to put my notebook and color pencils. Do those exist in DND?

The others' notes on her character:

"aww sunshine girl :)" - Death

"tfw Delirium has a better fashion sense than Destruction." - Desire

"Jill finally thank Christ an easy to remember name." - Hob

"Marsh would take one look at Jill and say, 'I can't steal from this child, but I can steal for her.'" - Destiny

--

Hob

(Half-elf Rogue)

Character's Name: Leoran Sylvaris

Hair color: Dark brown hair

Eye color: Dark brown eyes

Skin color: Kinda tan, I guess?

He/him. It's basically me as a half-elf rogue to be honest. 😂 Ah, but I would like to have my hair up in a manbun during fights.

I can occasionally have a beard, especially in the cooler months. Nothing as magnificent as Reggie's, though. I suppose it would look like my beard in 1389. Which...only Death and Dream have seen, sorry. Uh, imagine Thorin's beard in the first The Hobbit movie, I suppose. In the hotter months, I think I'll just stick to the stubble.

Clothes. Dark in color, hidden pockets everywhere for knives, ropes, caltrops? Other rogue stuff. Think maybe Bucky Barnes in The Winter Soldier movie. Yeah, that's a good look.

The others' notes on his character:

"Are you kidding me Hob as Bucky Barnes in The Winter Soldier??? 🔥💋🍆🍑💦" - Desire

"Ninja Hob with a less magnificent beard during the winter. I can respect that." - Destruction

"Hob as a half-elf rogue in a manbun. Dream is gonna flip his shit but I just bet he's writing Darcy-ish notes like 'not handsome enough to tempt me,' because he's an idiot." - Death

"[redacted due to tumblr's low spice tolerance]" - Dream

[its-target-official]

infodump be upon ye

Name: aynsley westbrook

Age: 17~

Height: 4 foot 9 inches

Eye colour: bright green

Hair: short; thick texture, fluffy, white

Skin: pale from working down in tunnels

Scars: Lichenberg scarring on left side of face, chest, collarbone, left arm, and left leg. Scars glow soft white. Various scars from working

Wings: 15 feet, black feathers. Jewellery includes bronze chains with small charms. Charms are mini gears/cogs, clocks, gems, handcuffs (matches with Sebastian’s), filaments, light bulbs. Chains attach by clamps on the base of feathers, wire wraps, and small hooks embedded in wings. (yes it was painful but so are tattoos). Daily use: flying to gigs, errands, job. Rooftop navigation for work (also for fun). Access high places for repairs. Exercise. Relaxation: find rooftop to meditate and feel wind through feathers. Help others: lend a ride, reach high place, rescue. Weaknesses: crowds, clothing. 

Ears: fluffy black deer ears (3.5 inches) silver/bronze earrings

Hollow bones, high metabolism

Wears embroidered dark leather vests over comfortable light white shirt, thick pants with lots of pockets. Belts with pockets and watches and steampunk elements. All clothes made by Sebastian. Knee high boots with thick soles.

Wears braces due to nerve damage from the accident. Bronze metal fit to Aynsley’s legs, leather straps to adjust, gears/cogs to mimic joint movement, pistons, pressure gauges, little vials of liquid that correspond to emotions.

Violin: electric (duh). Steampunk. Yeah.

Lives in a watchtower. Watchtower is open plan, with many windows, high ceilings, and furniture has low backs and rounded edges to avoid harming wings. Workshop has cabinets along walls, big worktables, retractable shelves. Big doorways, lights are on walls and hang from ceilings. Showers not closed in, adjustable shower head. Bed large and soft with pillows, many rugs in the room. Hooks and stands for jewellery. Separate music room with low backed chair, sturdy music stand, stand for violin. Baby grand piano for sebastian.

Job: engineer. Disliked by head engineer (name pending). Works in tunnels of city (name pending). 

Powers: electrical powers. Voltage control: manipulate/produce currents. Electrical devices: can remotely activate/control devices, manipulate devices and machinery. defence/offence: shield/blast of electricity. Sense enhancements: electroreception, detect hidden device, power sources, electricity of humans. Healing: accelerated. Can cauterise wounds. Emotions: closely tied to emotions (see: scars). More powerful during high emotions, but unpredictable. When calm, can do high detail. Wings: can conduct the powers (pre-accident: wings were fully black. Post-accident: white Lichenberg figures). Weakness: Energy draining, emotional control, water poses risk.

Hobbies: violin, inventing, drawing, mechanical work, flying, baking, sleeping, practising powers.

Likes: sebastian, violin, inventing, bronze, clocks, wings, food, sleeping, reading, performing, children, powers, soft things, Filament, fixing things, other members of band, jewellery, night time

Dislikes: thunderstorms, rude people, people staring at scars, people touching them without permission (wings especially), crowds, pools, oboes (thinks the reeds are abominations) [kind of just double reeded instruments in general], people asking them out (is aromantic), people assuming Sebastian is dumb, being wet (black cat-coded tbh) [yes this does make Sebastian the golden retriever in the relationship], people assuming they and Sebastian are in a relationship, loud, being misgendered, small spaces

Has autism, ADHD, anxiety, depression (like me fr fr), chronic pain/fatigue, PTSD

~~~~~~~~

Sebastian! 

*important note: he is named after Sebastian Vettel. Will this affect the story whatsoever? No. Do I care? Also no.*

[wildbornsiren]

Sugar | Rhett Abbott x F!Reader

Sugar

Synopsis: A moment of quiet, and daisies

Drabble: 924 words. AFAB/ female reader.  Companion to  Sweet

Warning: Absolutely none. This is pure fluff. 

Notes:  Comments and reblogs are so appreciated. Likes are loved. Thank you so very much for reading. It means the most.  

Tagging in: @a-reader-and-a-writer  @hederasgarden    @writercole  @evansrogerskitten  @arianna-bradshaw @roses-and-grasses @robertcallsignbobfloyd  @letsfvckingdance @green-socks @skvatnavle @a-reader-and-a-writer     @mayhem24-7forever @callsign-phoenix @yespolkadotkitty​ @princessmisery666​

Big, brilliantly clear blue sky stretched out above you for miles. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, a gentle breeze kept the air from being too warm. The house, however, was entirely too warm, so you had taken refuge outside. You scrounged up a sheet from one of the large closets and filled a small cooler with water and snacks; and taken up a spot under a large tree. Your back rests against the warm trunk, an open bag of white cheddar popcorn open next to you, a book open on your lap. It’s quiet and peaceful, the stress of dealing with your father’s estate evaporating momentarily. You close your eyes listening to the bird calls and soft buzzing of the insects further off in the field. More and more your mind had drifted to staying in this small town that you’d started to think of as home. The low rumble of an engine made you open your eyes. Rhett’s truck went by, stopped and reversed. He gets out of the truck, climbing over the fence he had repaired a few weeks ago.

“Break time?” You ask. Rhett had been coming by for a few hours every day working on repairing the fence that had gone down and patching other places that had fallen into disrepair. The two of you had fallen into a little routine. He’d work, you’d organize, you’d sometimes share a meal, and often you’d end up tangled up in each other. He nods, sitting next to you on the blanket. “What’re you reading?” “I found this collection of poetry stashed in the office.” You hold up the leather-bound book. “I think it was my grandmother’s. It’s all her writing.” He places his hat on his knee, hands running through his hair. “Wouldn’t mind hearing a couple.” He glances at you, and you’re struck once more by that small half smile. “Not one for readin’ it myself, but don’t mind listening to it.” You glance down at the book in your lap, flipping back to one of the pages you had dog eared. You find yourself sitting up properly, clearing your throat. You can feel the weight of his gaze as you start to read, falling into the pattern of the prose easily. The first finished, you flip to another one and start anew. He shifts next to you, stretching out on his back, his head resting in your lap. You adjust the book allowing him to settle against you. His eyes are closed, lashes casting long shadows on his face. There’s a light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheekbones., Pale pink scar tissue on his nose, and a fading bruise on his collar bone. Your fingers comb through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. When you glance down, his breathing is slow and even, lips parted slightly as he sleeps. Holding your breath, you lean down and kiss his forehead. A quiet sound comes from him. He rolls onto his stomach, upper body resting against your lower legs, cheek pressed to your thigh. “Don’t stop,” his voice is low and rough and so sleepy, “I like listening to you.” You read until he’s well and truly asleep, his breathing gentle against your thigh. He’s heavy and warm, and there’s nothing on heaven or earth that would get you to move him. You hadn’t ever thought you’d get to see Rhett like this, completely relaxed and at ease; and the fact that he trusted you that much made your heart skip a little. You set the book aside, still toying with his hair. There’s a small patch of white in the grass next to the edge of the blanket. 

You can reach the daisies without disturbing him, plucking the flowers and twisting the stems into a chain, and then a circle. Gently placing the flower crown on his head, you pick up the book, returning to the romantic prose. You’re not sure how long he’s asleep, but eventually he sits up. “What’s this?” His lifts the flower crown from his hair. He holds it gently, a genuine, soft smile across his face. “Decided that I needed prettying up, darlin?” “I don’t know, you’re awfully pretty without it. I wanted to make you feel special.” He places the daisy chain carefully on his hat, tucking it around the worn leather. “Sittin’ here with you like this is pretty special.” You duck your gaze, looking down at the book. He lifts your chin, a soft kiss landing on your mouth. “Rhett…” He kisses you again, his hand cupping your jaw. “I should get back to it.” He reaches past you plucking a daisy from the grass. He tucks it behind your ear, another soft kiss landing on your cheek. You get to your feet when he does, a gasp slipping past your lips when he pulls you to him. Rhett’s arms wrap around you, holding you tightly to him. His hand smooths up and down your back, before he’s pulling away, his hand catching yours. “Are you coming up for dinner later?” “Yes ma’am.” He kisses the back of your hand. “Lookin’ forward to it.” He lets go, and you instantly miss his touch. “Want me to take you up to the house?” You shake your head, knowing that if you get into that close of quarters with him, nothing will get done. “I’ll be alright.” He pulls you in once more, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll see you in a little bit, darlin’.”

[hansolmates]

shiver | 01 (m)

banner done by the wonderful @dnrequests​

summary; jungkook changed since he moved out of his small town church community and attended college. when he returns for a christmas mass, you suddenly crave a taste of his fun and carefree life. in exchange, jungkook craves a taste of you pairing; bad boy!jungkook x church girl!reader genre/warnings; childhood friends to lovers, brief childhood friends to enemies, fwb!au, catholic guilt, jungkook is a meanie who eventually turns into a soft tsundere, bicuriosity, sexual exploration, virgin!oc, eventual smut—in this installment: touching over the clothes, mc is hornee, *pulls out cards against humanity* “a gentle caress of the inner thigh”, panty kissin, mc is a big ol’ pushover and hopeful for jkk:(( w/c; 1.9k a/n; it’s here! aaaaaa!!! i’ve been really eally realllyyyyyy nervous to post this. even though this is just a drabble series  let me know how you feel about it! enjoy [shiver masterpost]

“Oh, you’re so dead.” 

Jeon Jungkook isn’t thaaaat buff, he's more of a skinny kind of muscular. You don’t understand the hype, why everyone croons over Jungkook’s strength and physique. However, how else could you explain Jungkook being able to climb the currently dilapidated fire escape to the top floor of the chapel. The ladder is rusted beyond repair and is definitely a fire hazard rather than a fire escape. Yet he barely breaks a sweat doing it, and he wipes the minor sheen off his brow with the back of his hand. There’s some soot and whatever nasty residue from the fire escape that gets on his face, a black streak marring his already annoying face. He’s currently wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic “hello.” It makes you sneer, your two consciousness (inappropriate and appropriate) warring against each other to determine whether you still find this man attractive or not. 

Convincing yourself that Jungkook is ugly is the worst quick-fix idea you’ve ever had. 

The words of your Aunties, the family friends in the church, echo in your ears. Jungkook’s bad. They’d say over and over. It would cause you to snort and giggle, unable to imagine what sort of things he’s done to warrant such a cliché label. Yet some of the girls your age, girls that have gone off to college agree with sultry looks and longing eyes that yes, Jungkook’s bad. So bad, it’s good. 

You haven’t a clue what he’s actually done to earn such a hushed title, his parents are lip-tight about his doings, unless it’s his achievements in the architecture graduate program. You hear things, though. Things that make you shamefully green with envy, envious of sin. 

As soon as he finds proper footing in the storage room, he goes to the closet, immediately finding his backup clothes. They’re plain white button-downs, awkward long shirts with no shape or definition to them. They belong to the church, and no one ever uses them because they’re stiff and itchy. Yet Jungkook wears them like it’s tailored, and you have to look away when he quickly knots the bottom half of the shirt, fashioning it into a tasteful double knot in order to cinch his lean waist.

“Pretty sure it was just you that saw me,” Jungkook says dismissively, “so it’s fine.” 

This bristles you the wrong way, and you put down the catering covers you were supposed to return to the storage room. You smooth out your Sunday dress, this shade of Boring Beige looking particularly pale in the morning sun. “How do you know I won’t tell?” you turn your nose up. 

“Because I know,” he doesn’t even look at you, focusing on rolling the sleeves of his shirt. You weaken when you see the black shadowing across his forearm. That’s new, then again you haven’t seen him since last Christmas.   

“Know what?” 

“That you have a crush on me,” Jungkook says into the air like it’s common knowledge, adjusting the leather jacket on top of his outfit so the white-startched collar pops on top, “I mean, it’s hard for anyone not to know. You’ve been into me since youth group, Bunny.”  

You hold your breath, counting to ten as you close the door behind you. A vision of you playing “Duck Duck Goose” as a five year old plays in your head, where you’d pick a bushy, big-eyed Jeon Jungkook each time, hopping over to him to pat his fluffy head so he’d chase you around. 

It’s old news, your puppy love for Jungkook. How could you not like him? He's clever and sweet with his mother and always told the best stories in youth group meetings.  Everyone thought your affections were so sweet, and while that attention weaned over time, your feelings have only increased the more self-aware you’ve become. 

With a mind as open and honest is yours, it’s hard to ignore how well Jungkook has grown. What has also grown is your curiosities since the two of you have moved onto university. Jungkook goes to the university uptown, a far drive which only forces him attend masses during the holidays. You attended the local community college, wrapping up a bachelors in some vague major that you’re not attached to. You’re currently looking around for some graduate schools, but unfortunately you’ve been so wrapped up doing duties for Pastor Nina that you haven’t been able to look around properly. 

Jungkook’s probably living a fun life, with the way he’s grown rough and loose, you resent him. 

When you turn back around, Jungkook’s right in front of you, trapping you between his body and the door.  

“Don’t be embarrassed, Bunny,” you furrow your brows, nearly growing cross-eyed when he leans in. “I think your crush is cute.” 

You’re not sure what he thinks of you. Sure, he considered everyone a friend when you two were in youth group, but that was youth group. Premeditated, parents forcing other children to do the same things with each other for years upon years in the hope they’ll practice together forever and ever. Jungkook did not want that, evident from the way he dipped his duties as soon as he got into university. 

You hate how easy he dips back into it though, calling you Bunny and making you feel like a little girl all over again. Bunny, because you’d hop around to him whenever he was in sight. Bunny, because Jungkook had been fondly compared to the wide-eyed, diamond-toothed creature. It was cute when you were five. Now, it’s just discomfiting. 

“Don’t call me that,” you bite, “and I don’t like you anymore.” 

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, and you flinch when Jungkook’s hand rests on the curve of your waist, fingers slotting themselves between the pleats of your skirt. “That’s why you’re not moving away when I’m about to put my hand under your skirt. Because you don’t like me.” 

You press yourself further into the door, your skin hot and vibrating. So warm, you feel like you could melt through the door and escape from Jungkook’s gaze. Sure, the young ladies in the congregation talk. Maybe you’ve heard a story or two about Jungkook being seedy, a result of being repressed after years and years of stiff routines and expectations thrust upon him. You could care less about Jungkook’s sexual appetite, until this appetite has reached you. 

“Mm, you’re pretty,” Jungkook’s eyes roam your form, the daisy white blouse doing nothing to barricade Jungkook’s sudden interest in you, “you’ve never been touched like this, have you?” 

“I’ve touched myself like this,” you hiss in defense, and it’s more out of anger than in pleasure. You don’t need a man to comfort you, but Jungkook’s eyes sparkle in mirth at the new information. 

“That’s really sexy,” Jungkook slips down, roams his fingers down to your ankles and plays with the silver buckles of your Mary Janes. You shiver when his hands trail up up up to your knees, the swell of your thighs, and catch right under the elastic seam that holds your secrets together, “but I’ll have you know, it’s different when you have someone hold your pleasure in their hands.” 

You’re in the storage room of your church, fifteen minutes before the Christmas mass, with Jeon Jungkook’s head between your legs. Your skirt is long, and Jungkook doesn’t bother to ride it up your waist. 

It feels more forbidden that way, Jungkook hiding under the fabric of your skirt to get to your honeyed center, sneaking his way in with rough hands and soft touches.

“J-Jungkook,” you whimper, pressing your full spine against the wooden door, “we shouldn’t. N-not like this.”

What is wrong with you? Is it sheer curiosity? Do you just want to know what it finally, finally feels like? You should be pushing him away. There’s red lights flashing back and forth in your brain like sirens. Yet, do you really want to turn away the attention you’ve been aching for years? 

You imagined your first time to be relatively special. The bare minimum, a bed, a talk, and a partner you’re mutually committed to. None of those things are met. Now you understand why all the young women in church whisper about sex like this. It’s a spur of the moment, it’s an unbridled pleasure you don’t want to stop, no matter how forbidden and sinful the act is.  

“How else then?” you feel his deep voice straight through your panties, his lips whispering between the pink cotton like he’s sinking liquid heat into your skin. “I can’t sink my fingers into your sweet cunt during the candle lighting. Or when we open presents with the family after. That would be inappropriate.” 

Your replies come out in breaths, puffs of air that conceal the moans you so badly want to let out as Jungkook pokes and rubs at you. He does nothing beyond the cotton fabric, only slides two fingers up and down your slit as he gathers the arousal between his digits. 

“So wet already, that’s so sexy,” he’s kissing your core, and you sigh fretfully at the pleasure that feels so close yet so far away. 

“P-please, Jungkook…” 

“Please what?” Jungkook teases, fingers slipping back and forth between the elastic of your underwear, “please stop? Please touch me? Please fuck me?” 

The church bell answers that, and Jungkook’s nose knocks right into your bud at the sudden intrusion. You yelp at the jarring stimulation, pulling him from under your skirts as the loud noise echoes in the room. Both of you wince at the pain, the moment interjected. 

“You first,” Jungkook casually opens the door for you, as if he didn’t have you ten seconds away from begging him to make you come. 

You don’t even look at him as you dash away, not bothering to take the elevator in favor of running off the heat. Two minutes before the procession. The church is packed to the brim, only the back seats left. Your family probably gave up on waiting for you up in the front. As you sit down in the corner, you’re momentarily distracted by the beauty of a decorated church on Christmas. Even though you’re part of the decorating committee and commanded most of the design, seeing the stained glass lit up with fairy lights and the poinsettia plants blooming burgundy on the altar, you’re impressed. 

“There’s a draft here, you must be cold.” Jungkook talks to you so politely, a perfect picture of a gentleman as he drapes his leather jacket over your lap. He speaks as if it’s a pleasant surprise, a childhood friend he hasn’t seen in nearly a year. 

You can’t tell him to move when people are watching and Jungkook is seconds from interrupting the procession, so you reluctantly scoot over so he can sit next to you. His scent overwhelms you even more now that you’ll have to sit next to him for a whole hour, lavender and vanilla overtaking your pew. 

The jacket is heavy and heady on your lap, and you force yourself to stare straight ahead. Jungkook cannot weaken you like this, not anymore. 

Thirty minutes later, his fingers are hovering at the start of the homily, caressing your thighs under the jacket with his big hands. A draft? Please. You clamp your thighs together, knocking your knees and hoping they’d lock together for the rest of the mass. Jungkook’s a master key, easily parting his way as if your muscles are pure jelly. You turn your head sharply, glaring at him with all the fire in the world. 

“Careful,” Jungkook mouths, eyes flickering to the symbol atop the podium, “he’s watching.” 

His fingers finally brush the damp blush cotton of your panties, and you shudder. 

[witch-witcher-witchless]

AU where everyone has varying degrees of vocational magic. Green thumbs and gardeners, cooking and kitchen witches, sculptors and minor animation, mirror makers and scrying, DnD bards and stitch witches.

After 20 years of friendship—yes, I'm your very best friend, Geralt you're as ridiculous as you are stubborn—Jaskier should be offended that the Witcher didn't know his magical vocation from his true vocation as a bard, but frankly, he's too busy crowing with the delight of a man handed priceless and endless ammunition. _________________________________________

Julian Pankratz is a minor noble, a powerful Stitch Witch, and dissatisfied with both. He runs away to Oxenfurt and becomes Jaskier the Bard. Jaskier the Bard barely earns the capital B, he's an exceptionally talented musician but barely displays the magical strength needed to do, you know, bardic magic. Nevertheless, he succeeds and rarely uses his magic beyond weaving melodies with his voice, working lute strings in a pale imitation of a loom, and spinning stories as he would spin a yarn.

Marginally magical but unquestionably talented, he sets off into the world and meets a man Witcher in Posada.

It takes a month for Geralt to get a wound too awkwardly placed to stitch himself.

"What do you mean, you just bandage it?? Bandage it until you get to a healer?"

"No, bard. I bandage it until it stops bleeding and I move on with another scar."

"No. Absolutely not." and so begins Jaskier's relentless and ruthless care, as unwelcome at first as it may be, "Yes, you're a big strong Witcher. Yes, you are sitting still and letting me do this or so help me gods, Geralt, I'll sing you to celibacy."

Jaskier hasn't properly used his magic in years beyond bits and bobs, rips and tears, attaching buttons loose from flings as hurried as they are ill-advised, and various etceteras and sundries. But apparently stitches are stitches whether on silks or skin and he hums in a futile effort to forget the presence of blood and muscle, and that might be bone and Geralt just chalks up the amount of magic in the air to Jaskier's slightly manic humming; bardic magic is notoriously fickle and is known to wax and wane.

Jaskier caves and uses his vocational magic much more frequently and in earnest after the third time he stitches skin where leather armour failed. He embroiders protection into tunics, knits swiftness and purls evasion, and spins strong thread and repairs leather to be stronger yet. Rarely when Geralt is present, but—honestly Geralt, not once in 20 years? Not once did you wonder enough to ask your dearest friend why your collection of self-sacrificing scars ground nearly to a halt??

"Melitele bless hopeless Witchers! Leatherwork was never my specialty, but when was the last time you had to replace Roach's tack?"

"When I was last in Minnowette. They did good work."

Jaskier can feel the edges of his own revelation and hear the edge of growing hysteria in his voice. "Geralt that town burned down 20 years ago."

Geralt, going frightfully still, remembers.

"...WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD TO REPLACE ROACH??!"

--------------------------------------------------

But, Jaskier thinks, staring into Geralt's equally wide eyes, perhaps. Perhaps, he uh, he may have overlooked something substantial and glaringly obvious too. Roach's mane has had thousands of braids, twists, and flowers woven in. Countless little blessings that still do absolutely not explain—

Geralt...Geralt breathes. "A year before that. She was too old for a Witcher's horse and retired on a farm."

Or where Jaskier is a reluctant Stitch Witch so powerful that he accidentally makes Roach immortal and is incredibly distressed by this.

"I am a Bard! Not a little b bard, a big B Bard. Not a stitch witch! Can you hear how I deliberately used lower-case there?"

----------------

"...Jaskier. How...how old are you?"

"The reflection in this water tells me twenty, my mother would tell me forty, and I am incredibly conflicted about this Geralt how dare you bring this to my attention instead of letting me remain beautiful and oblivious"

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Sundress Season

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.5k

Tags: Fluff, Domestic af, Hurt/Comfort, Nothing major the Reader got some scratches gardening and Frankie is Concerned, p in v sex, wrap it before you tap it, Size Kink, Sort Of, Exhibitionism, If You Squint, A little, Dirty Talk, mostly just tooth-rotting fluff (plus a little loving smut),Triple Frontier, Frankie “Catfish” Morales, Domestic, Gardening, Outdoor Sex, No Beta

Summary: You and Frankie have just moved into a farmhouse fixer upper and are enjoying the first warm day of spring. A lazy afternoon nap turns into something... more.

Read on Ao3

Leaning the shovel against the white picket fence, you stand back to take an appraising look at your handiwork, squinting against the midday sun. You’ve taken advantage of one of the first truly warm days of spring to plant some blackberry bushes along the boundary of your new home. Sweat slides down your spine and you can already feel a dull ache spreading through your calves and along your forearms, but you toss aside your leather work gloves with a grin, proud of your morning’s work. You brush your hair away from your face with the back of an arm, leaving a trace of dirt along your forehead. “Frankie, come look.”

“One sec.” His answer is muffled, even considering it’s coming from inside the old farmhouse the two of you have just moved into, and you realize he must still be working on the kitchen sink.

You enter the house, surprisingly cool and dim after the sunny warmth outside, and walk to the kitchen. Frankie’s legs jut out from beneath the sink, and all you can see of him are his work boots, khaki pants, and a glimpse of his soft stomach where the rusty red t-shirt he’s wearing has ridden up. You lean against a nearby counter, the smooth stone lip pressing into your lower back, and smile down fondly at him. “How’s the sink coming?”

The house is a dream come true for both of you, but it’s also needed a ton of work both inside and out. You’ve already sanded floors, patched up creaking stairs, painted most of the rooms, and ripped out overgrown hedges that had threatened to take over the yard. Once you’d cleared them out, the yard and gardens became an invitingly open canvas, just waiting for you to make your own.

The two of you had spent several late winter evenings curled up in front of the stone hearth, seed catalogs and plant nursery order slips laid out in front of you, arguing pleasantly over how to cram in every plant both of you want. You’re determined to line the yard with fruit trees and shrubs, while Frankie is surprisingly invested in the beds where he plans to cultivate tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and a variety of herbs. At least you both agreed to leave the large, well-established lilac trees bookending the house, and you’re currently waiting to see who will win the bet about what color the sprawling, thorn-covered rose bushes will be. You’re hoping for a buttery yellow to complement the lilacs, while Frankie is holding out hope that they’ll be the same pale pink as the roses he’d brought you for one of your first dates.

This morning, just when the two of you had made plans to tackle some of the new plantings, the kitchen drain had backed up. You’d decided that job would be better handled by Frankie and headed out to start the landscaping yourself. “Almost there, I just need to…” Frankie’s deep in concentration, and you swear you can almost see him sticking the tip of his tongue out as he focuses. There’s a final sound of metal scraping against metal, followed by a victorious “ha! Try it now.”

“You sure? I don’t want to soak you.”

A muted huff echoes from the space below the sink. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Ok,” you shrug. “Just don’t blame me if you get a faceful of water.” You turn the tap on slowly and watch as the water spirals easily down the drain. “Hey, you did it!”

Frankie braces a hand along the top of the cabinet and pulls himself to his feet. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he teases. “Told you I could do it.”

“My hero,” you say lightly, crossing the floor to kiss his smiling cheek. His scruff scrapes lightly against your face, and you find yourself lingering, especially when he captures your lips for a proper kiss. “Now I can wash some of this dirt off- I feel like I brought half the yard in.” After the hours you spent planting various shrubs and a few small fruit trees, your arms are streaked with dry soil.

“Here, let me help you.”

Frankie steps behind you, his broad form leaning against yours as you stand at the newly repaired sink. His thighs press lightly against your own as his arms encircle your waist. He leans his chin on your shoulder and his messy curls brush against your ear while he begins to run soap over your forearms. You laugh, his efforts mostly just splashing dirty water around, but the cool water is a welcome relief. “Frankie! I can do it myself.”

You can feel him smiling against your neck. “I know, I just- oh.” His voice turns suddenly soft, with a note of worry.

“What is it?”

“Baby, you hurt yourself.” He steps alongside you, examining the delicate skin of your inner arm with a concerned frown. “What happened?”

“What?” You look down and see a few thin, angry red lines streaking the length of your forearms. “Oh, it’s nothing. The blackberry branches were thorny, that’s all.” You’d been wearing one of Frankie’s flannels for a little extra protection, but it had grown too hot and you’d stripped down to just your t-shirt. “It’s fine, they’ll heal fast.”

Despite your reassurance, Frankie ducks into the bathroom while you pat your arms dry with a clean dish towel and comes back holding some ointment. “They’ll heal better with this.” He flips open the cap and looks up, seeking permission.

You nod, unwilling to deny him anything, especially with that melting brown gaze trained on you. It’s not necessary, but you have to admit- you love that he takes such good care of you. Frankie takes his time, gently stroking a dab of ointment over each small scratch. His light touch quickly takes the sting out of your small hurts, and when he’s finished you catch his hands, bring them up to your lips for a grateful kiss. You adore his hands- so much bigger than your own, strong and capable but still so deft. He ducks his head and smiles and your heart clenches with love for this quiet, loving man.

------- After changing out of your dirt-streaked jeans and into a clean sundress (which, of course, Frankie also offered to help with), you head back to the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge. The cold glass bottle begins beading almost at once, and you hold it against your slightly sunburnt neck. “I was going to go read in the yard for a bit, care to join me?”

“I’ve got a couple more things to finish up here, you go ahead.” Frankie drops a kiss to your temple as you pass, on your way to get a book and an old quilt to spread out on.

“Ok, see you in a bit.” The old screen door swings shut behind you, bouncing slightly before it catches the latch. A project for another day, you think. The two of you have already done plenty, and for now you just want to enjoy the rest of the sunny afternoon.

You spread your quilt out under a flowering magnolia tree which offers just the right amount of shade and lay down on your back. A light breeze stirs the green grass around you and sets the flowering tree branches swaying, a few pale pink petals raining down. Sunlight dapples your face as you relax, enjoying the surroundings of the garden you and Frankie are making together. The book is good, but you find yourself distracted, listening to nearby birdsong and watching billowing clouds scud across the bright blue sky. With the sun warm on your face, it’s not long before your eyelids are drooping.

-------

When you wake up, shadows are lengthening across the yard and Frankie is sprawled out next to you, having come out and dozed off at some point after you did. You lean into his shoulder, still warm from the heat of the sun, and smile against him. There’s a patch of skin just below his hairline and above his collar, and you lean in to kiss him just there. He tastes faintly of clean sweat and you press your tongue against him, seeking the slight taste of salt.

Frankie stirs and sleepily cracks one eye open. “Can I help you?” Try as he might to sound long-suffering, you suspect he enjoys your touch.

“Nope, I’m good.” You toss your book aside and drape yourself over his back, enjoying the slight movement below you as he shifts to accommodate you. It’s getting a little cooler now as the sun slips towards the horizon, but Frankie’s warm, solid presence grounds you. He tenses a little when you lean your head on his shoulder and you pull back at once. “Is your shoulder still bugging you?” He’d pulled it while you were moving and as hard as you try, you don’t always manage to wrest the heavier chores away from him, so it’s been a slow recovery process.

His answer rumbles quietly from below you. “A little. Working on the sink probably didn’t do it any favors.” You lean up at once, straddling his waist so you can massage his neck and shoulders. “Poor thing, you are tight here.”

He hums in agreement, though you can feel the tension begin to leak out of him as you knead his tense muscles. You work a stubborn knot, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder, and as he sighs you can feel him relax further.

You lean down once more, careful to put your weight on your hands, braced against the ground,  and drag your mouth lazily over his neck. Your seeking licks turning to more intent kisses and when your teeth close over his pulse point, Frankie lets out a low groan and bucks his hips. You feel the movement all through him, especially where you’re seated against his ass.

“You want me to stop?” You ask teasingly, getting the expected shake of his head in response. You grind slightly against him before returning to nose at his neck. By the time you trace the shell of his ear with your tongue and nip gently at the cartilage, Frankie has had enough.

He rolls the two of you over with a smooth motion that ends with you flat on your back, and him smiling above you. “Oh, are we done fooling around?” You look up playfully. “I can show you the blackberry bushes before-”

He stops your mouth with a kiss, nipping at your lower lip before licking his way into your mouth. Delight shivers through you and you deepen the kiss, your tongues tangling languidly. You run your hand through his tangled curls, scraping your nails against his scalp. This pulls a soft noise from low in Frankie’s throat as he leans into your touch. His nose brushes yours and he nudges your cheek, trails kisses down your jaw.

Heat is pooling low in your belly and you spread your legs to invite him closer. Frankie takes the hint, canting his hips to drag the growing bulge in his pants against your core while you push back into him. “We should head inside,” you gasp as he moves lower, sucking at the delicate skin of your neck.

“We can if you want, but who’s gonna see?” His large hands cup your breasts and he dips his head to brush kisses over their swells. You arch your back, desperate for his touch even as you look around cautiously. He has a point; there’s no neighbor on this side of the house, just a patch of woods, and you’re well back from the road.

“Good point.” You reach down to tug at the hem of his shirt. Grinning, he sits up for a moment to help you. As soon as he’s shirtless he gets straight back to the task at hand. Frankie’s fingers make quick work of the buttons running the length of your sundress and he pulls the fabric aside, exposing the creamy lace of your bra. Your stomach flips at the sweet, eager look on his face. You’ve been together so many times, but he always makes you feel special, cherished. Despite being outside, potentially exposed, you feel completely at ease in his arms.  

With a quick glance up to check that you’re ok with it, Frankie unclasps your bra and helps you shrug out of it. The air is slightly cooler now, but his warm, broad palms encompass your breasts before the chill can even register. You sigh as his thumb brushes your nipple, and downright shudder when he wraps his plush lips around the stiffening peak. Your legs are writhing almost of their own accord now as you grow desperate for more. “Frankie,” you groan, tugging at his hair.

You feel his lips curve into a smile and his tongue darts out to flick against you. It glides along your swollen bud and your pussy aches for more so you hitch your leg over his hip. Frankie grabs your thigh to hold you close and rolls his hips sinfully against you, drawing a desperate noise from deep in your throat. “You like that, baby?”

You nod frantically. “You know I do. You know it drives me crazy when you put your mouth on me.”

Frankie chuckles and sucks your nipple into his mouth, pulling much of your breast along with it. The tugging sensation sends a bolt of desire straight to your cunt and you whine. You seize his jaw and glare, your eyes blown with lust. “If you don’t touch me soon Francisco I swear I will go inside without you and finish the job myself.”

You’re all talk and Frankie knows it. “I am touching you, sweetheart,” he says innocently.

You give an irritated huff and seize his hand, directing him where you want it. His composure slips when his fingers brush the crotch of your panties, already soaked with your need. His gaze flicks to yours, a lovestruck look in his eyes as he asks softly, “is this all for me?”

Biting your lip you nod. “Yes. I need you Frankie, please .”

“Shh, I’ve got you baby.” Frankie hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties and drags them over your legs. You kick them off, nearly sobbing in relief as he drags a single finger through your glistening folds.

Frankie closes his eyes reverently. “Shit honey, you weren’t kidding.” His finger comes away coated in your juices and he sucks it slowly before replacing the digit. He adds another finger, the pads slipping just inside your entrance to collect more of your slick before circling your clit. You tip your head back, grasping his shoulders as he gently fingers your slit. Just when you can’t take it, when you’re ready to beg for more, he pushes those fingers into you, stretching you out perfectly. Mewling, you buck your hips, chasing the feeling of him fucking you open.

“Mm, that feels so good. Don’t stop.”

“Never. Think you can take another?”

“Yeah.” Your answer comes as a breathless whine.

“Good girl.” Frankie adds a third finger and you swear it makes you see stars. He curls his fingers to stroke that spot deep inside and you find yourself skating the edge of your release. You’re so close, could so easily tip right over that edge, but it’s not until you hear Frankie murmur “come for me, beautiful” that you actually do. All that gorgeous tension he’s been winding up unspools in a rush of pleasure, your legs shaking and your hips bucking as he works you through it.

You’ve scarcely begun to come down before Frankie’s blazing a trail of kisses down your belly, his hands gently parting your thighs wider to settle between them, keen concentration suffusing his handsome face.

“Wait,” you breathe, catching his jaw with a deft hand.

Frankie draws back at once, concern creasing a furrow between his brows as he gazes up from between your legs. “Everything ok?”

You sit up, already nodding to reassure him as you draw him forward and kiss him deeply. “Everything’s perfect. I just want to come on your cock this time.”

Frankie looks down at you in amazement before pulling you into a crushing embrace. He tilts your chin up to give you a searing kiss, his arm wrapped around your waist. He leans his forehead against yours, his breath tickling your lips as he rasps “You’re perfect, you know that, right?”

You giggle, moved by the awestruck look on his face, and drop your hands to unbuckle his pants. He’s already barefoot, making it easier to push his pants down, followed by his boxers. You glance around again, reassuring yourself that the coast is clear. Clocking what you’re doing, Frankie chuckles. “Don’t worry, baby, we’re good.”

Smiling a little sheepishly, you nod. “I know. Just protecting your honor.”

Frankie begins to laugh softly but the sound is cut off by a hiss as you lick your palm and wrap it around his shaft. “F-fuck.” His eyes roll back in his head as you tighten your grip, working his cock. You brush your thumb over his weeping slit, collecting the pearly bead of precum glistening at the tip. “Now who’s being a t-tease?”

You look up at him innocently through your lashes. “I don’t know what you mean, Frankie.”

“Sure you don’t,” he huffs, his breathing already picking up. “C’mere, baby.” He pulls at your waist, encouraging you up into his lap.

You’re happy to oblige. With a few quick movements, you’re settled above him, his cock lined up with your entrance. Throwing your arms around his neck, you lower yourself slowly, taking him inch by inch. Frankie buries his face in the crook of your neck and meets you halfway, thrusting up to seat himself fully inside you. He always seems even bigger when you’re on top, and he gives you a moment to adjust to being so well-filled.

“You good?”

“You have no idea.”

He smiles at that, clearly pleased. “Then tell me,” he urges, kissing you just below your ear. “Tell me how much you like me stretching you out on this big dick.”

Your eyes flutter closed at this. He knows what dirty talk does to you, knows exactly when it will be the most devastating. “It feels so fucking good, baby,” you assure him. “You’re so thick and you hit so deep. I can’t get enough, want you even deeper. Please, Frankie.”

He sucks hard at your pulse point, his tongue laving your neck as he begins to thrust up into you. “Anything, baby. I will give you anything you ask for. You know that, right?”

Gasping, you nod quickly. “I know, love. I know.”

His fingers tangle in your hair, his strong arms bracing you as he fucks up into you. You match each thrust, grinding yourself on the base of his cock. The two of you find your rhythm and you lean back, allowing him to hit at an even deeper angle. Frankie leans forward, able to reach your breasts now. He sucks a nipple into his mouth, all wet heat and slick tongue moving against you. You whimper and arch your back, trusting him to support you.

He does.

Frankie’s eyes are screwed shut as he pounds into you, determined to take care of you before finding his own release. Your whimpering cries plateau and he can tell you’re not quite there yet. He rests his forehead against yours without missing a beat, opening his eyes to gaze into yours. “What do you need, baby?” He asks it softly, reverently, his large hands cradling your face as if you’re something holy. With him looking at you like this, you almost feel that way.

“Talk to me, Frankie,” you gasp. “Want to hear how much you like this.”

Your want pulls an answering moan from him. “God, you know I fucking love this. You’re so tight, and you take me so well, baby. I could pound this pretty pussy all day.” He snaps his hips, driving himself deeper inside you as if to prove his point.

Your breathing comes faster, your cunt clenching around him as his words drive you closer to your edge. “Fuck, yes, just like that. I’m so close, baby,” you whine.

Frankie cants his hips, hitting that devastating spot deep inside you. His voice is even huskier as he urges you onward. “You have no idea what hearing that does to me, sweet thing,” he pants, sweat dampening his hairline. He runs the back of his hand distractedly over his forehead. He’s not about to let go before you do and he leans in close, his warm breath ghosting against your ear. “ Come for me. I know you want to. I can feel you clenching around me so be my good girl and come for me, sweetheart . ”

And just like that, a wave of sweet pleasure rolls through you. You clutch his shoulders as the two of you ride it together, Frankie moaning against your lips as he finds his own release.

Your head drops to his shoulder, your limbs quivering as little aftershocks zip through them. Frankie holds your limp form easily, dropping lazy kisses over your face and hair while you drift back to the present. Finally, you draw back, a dazed smile tugging at your lips. You blow out a breath along with a tired, please laugh. “That was-”

Frankie chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, pleased to have pleased you. “I know, baby.” His kisses are easy, unhurried, and still make you feel nearly drunk with happiness as the two of you linger lazily in your afterglow.

By now, the sun is truly setting, the horizon taking on a purple hue as the first evening stars begin to appear. Even in Frankie’s arms, you start to shiver as the breeze whispers over your rapidly cooling skin. In a deft move, he tugs at the edge of the old quilt, rolling the two of you into it, creating a cocoon of private warmth. As the sky darkens and more stars appear, the two of you stay wrapped up in each other, making plans for your future in the peaceful space you’re creating together.

[red-riding]

The Inventor, Maedhros X reader: Part 1

The water chilled your hands as you scrubbed away the rust and dark oil that had stained your skin from a long day in your workshop. You worked as an inventor in a small, drab human town in middle earth. Each day was the same, the only thing interesting to you was your inventions. Granted not every invention worked — in fact almost none did — but you were making progress and so close to doing something great in your small run down workshop of yours.

Recently a rumor had been passed around, eight elves had been seen hunting in the nearby forest. You were tempted to sneak and go and see these unfamiliar strangers: I meant what did an elf even look like? You read they were tall, taller than humans, and almost ethereal in their beauty. Could elves really be that different from humans, you pondered.

You cleaned off your workspace, preparing to leave for the day as your mind ruminated on the thought of the elves, and where they came from: what was outside the small town you had spent all your days in.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the bell on your workshop door to alert you of costumers; Who could it be? You almost never got customers, perhaps the farmer broke his wagon again and needed your help with a replacement wheel you reasoned as you looked up from your worktable to be granted with a surprising site.

A towering man — no elf — stood before you, crouching to fit into the low ceiling of your workshop. He had long wavy auburn red hair, almost likened to the color of a fox's coat only his was deeper, with more red to its strands. The man had deep forest green emerald eyes, and pale, freckled skin. His skin was littered with scars, the most notable being across his left eye, causing a sparse stripe in his eyebrow. It was then you noticed he only had one hand, the other was a healed stub. The elf was dressed in hunting gear, leather and dark green cloth, and he was holding a woven sack in his hand.

“Hello, is this shop open to repairs?” The elf asked, his eyes meeting yours. His forest green eyes, held years of wisdom beyond your understanding; he held an area of authority you had only been face to face with in the pages of the books you read.

“Depends what you need repaired sir, However I was just getting ready to leave. Perhaps you could stop by in the morning?” You respond calmly

The elf nodded in understanding “My idiot younger brother broke my other younger brother's compass, and I somehow got tasked with seeing it fixed” the elf explained with a tone of joking annoyance.

“So the elves everyone has heard about hunting in the woods, that's your family?” you asked, unable to stop your curious question.

The elf nodded “Yes, My six younger brothers and father” he explained casually.

“SIX!?” You exclaimed in surprise “Elves have that big of families?”

The ginger chuckled “Not usually, we are one of the largest I have come across. I suppose my parents couldn't keep their hands of each other” he joked with a charming grin.  “Anyways, I will leave you to close up. I will be by tomorrow — what time do you open?”

“Normally around 9 am”

“I will return then” the red headed elf said before leaving before you could ask any more questions. What a kind elf, you pondered as you closed up and walked home. You found yourself giddy at the idea of seeing the tall stranger again tomorrow, and thoughts of what questions you could ask the elf scrambled through your head as you laid to rest for the night.

[rjalker]

[ID: A digital drawing of a person from the waist up, standing in a room with light blue tiled walls, with grey windows that show grey and red-brick buildings in the distance, with a pale blue sky.

The person has sunburned skin visible on shay face, neck, and hand, and is wearing a blue jacket over a pink and green shirt.The jacket is covered in patches and pins and sewed-on pockets. Shay are holding a pale pink suitcase in one arm, and have shay other hand lifted, showing a large mechanism tied to shay wrist with leather straps, with a grey metal peice at the end with splotches of pink and blue on it. The rest of it is colored yellow, green, orange, and blue.

The person is wearing a brown sunhat with a purple ribbon tied around it, with a pin with stripes of yellow, green, orange and blue. The pins and patches on the jacket come in a variety of shapes: circles, squares, rectangles, and an octagon, in the colors of the trans, nonbinary, and genderqueer flags, as well as the yellow, green, orange, and blue flag on the hat, and a flag with stripes of light blue, dark blue, white, purple, and light blue, as well as some patches that are solid orange, pink, purple, and blue.

One large square patch on the pink and green shirt combines the trans pride flag with the light blue, blue, white, and purple flag, with the number of stripes matching up so they are almost even, and sharing the white stripe in the middle.

A light green button over shay heart reads, “My pronoun is shay”, and shay is wearing glasses whose lenses are in a gradient from blue to purple, with blue arms and a purple nose piece.

End ID.]

“I’m an archaeologist :) I’m here to steal your clothes :)”

Wild Future, whose pronoun is simply “shay” (and “shayself”). Shay chose shay name shayself, can you tell? Shay aren’t a time traveller or anything, shay just thinks the name is cool.

the Mojave Wasteland specific gender flags are these:

[ID: A small square pride flag with horiztonal stripes of: cyan, dark blue, white, purple, and cyan, next to another flag with four horizontal stripes of: yellow, green, orange, and turquoise. End ID.]

I haven’t decided what the first one is yet,besides it being some sort of xenogender. I’m using the same colors to make a shay/shayself pronoun flag, but this version with the five stripes is something else.

The second one is a cazadore-related gender :) and yes Wild has probably been stung multiple times because shay has terrible luck. How is shay still alive? The world may never know. (just kidding, friendly people on the road helped because people are generally nice).

Fun fact: Cazadores are based on tarantula hawk wasps, probably specifically  Hemipepsis ustulata.

SPECIAL stats and perks and more info below the cut for fun.

============

SPECIAL stats:

Strength: 8/10 (Circus Strongman)

Perception: 5/10 (Wary Trout)

Endurance: 5/10 (Stain-Resistant)

Charisma: 5/10 (Substitute Teacher)

Intelligence: 8/10 (Know-It-All)

Agility: 2/10 (Accident Prone)

Luck: 1/10 (13 Pitch-Black Cats) (probably explains the sunburn)

Main skills:

Repair (100)

Melee Weapons (100)

Unarmed (100)

“History” (80)

Perks:

Swift Learner

Comprehension

Educated (where though????)

Lead Belly

Strong Back

Unstoppable Force

Jury Rigging

Paralyzing Palm

Explorer

Ranger Takedown

Main weapons:

Powerfist (which I drew wrong but oh well)

Knife

Bumper sword

=====================

Other info about the dream, copy and pasted from the first post I made:

I was hunting Pack Raiders from Fallout 4 specifically so I could steal their colorful clothes.

Wild is an archaologist and/or historian, a master in the repair skill, and a master of hand-to-hand combat, including the use of “hand-to-hand weapons” despite that being an oxymoron. Mainly shay used a powerfist as shay main weapon, but if that broke and shay didn’t have time to fix it, shay would substitute it with a knife or, more rarely, a sword.

Shay also had a sunhat / cowboy hat but the picrew doesn’t have any I like.

Shay doesn’t actually needed glasses, shay just wanted them because they’re pretty. The clothes were also all more brightly colored because have you seen the Pack Raider gang??? I love their style. Too bad I have to kill them all and Fallout 4 doesn’t let you make more of their clothes.

Also just a link to the first post