#fern words

[rottingfern]

There is one very very particular picture of Noah, and I will say this til the cows come home. But something about it gives off feral “I’ll give you a head start but when I catch you I’m going to slaughter you” vibes. And he’s smart enough to keep you alive for days, draw out your death in a way that gives him the utmost satisfaction. All while you’re crying and begging to be let go, telling him about your family, how you have a cat waiting for you at home. Trying to make him see you as a person and he just does not care in the slightest.

Run. He doesn't need to even say it, honestly, because your feet are already running before he even slips his fingers from your waist. You've run incalculably far before you even realize you're allowed to slip the blindfold he'd tied round your head. You're not sure it matters or helps, or if it were a good choice at all when you're faced with the endless, selfsame forest surrounding you. There's a whistle that sounds and it has you whipping your head, but all you've done is lose yourself from the direction you're meant to run from. Silly girl, he taunts, voice bouncing off the leaves and trees and sounding everywhere you thought you'd escape to, So stupid, so full of hope and longing. The thorns are sharp, the roots trip you, and you struggle and stumble and fall until the vines simply wrap round your ankles and yank you to the mossy ground. You asked for a chase, he teases, planting a knee at your head, you asked, and you got it.

His grin lights a fire at his eyes, lips peeling as though reaching for his ears. He's so tender, running a silversharp claw bout your cheek. Didn't I give you what you want?

You wish to scream, to speak, to make any noise at all. His knee is heavy on your chest.

You wanted this. You got it. Why are you scared, baby?

[fernsnailz]

an extremely out of character shadow the hedgehog comic i made in an airport

[turtledotjpeg]

girls who go 🧍

[emilybeemartin]

Illustrations from chapter 1, sort of a grab bag, stylistically, because I did a lot of them in the process of writing, instead of as one big batch.

[bytesie]

The turian emergency channels have secondary encryption. It is present, but corrupted in the message. It is not possible the Illusive Man would believe the distress call is real.

[fernlessbastard]

GUYS CHAPTER 2 OF IT'S US THAT MADE THIS MESS IS OUT, GO GO GO (oh but it's nsfw just fyi - i mean the whole work is but ch1 wasn't really so just heads up that this one is)

I gotta make a nice watercolour based on this, but I haven't had the time just yet so it'll come later

[rottingfern]

strap the wing to me (death trap clad happily) || a Bad Omens fanfic

Pairing: fae!Noah x gender neutral reader (yes the smut is gn too)

Summary: He’s beautiful, so, so gorgeous, unless otherwise he’s completely grotesque, a scent of something eldritch you’d rather not acknowledge. When he kisses you, he tastes of burnt wax and antimony, straps candlewick wings to your aching back, and you don the death trap happily.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: unbeta'd trash. overly flowery written pretty much entirely in prose. smutty smut smut. oral sex. just a tiny whiff of dubious consent by way of fae trickery

A/N: I drank a lot of wine and listened to Hozier on repeat the other night and then saw a very mind-meltingly beautiful pic of Noah on the dash and had a really weird dream and this is the result. Enjoy the ramblings xoxo Fern

Brainrot Club: @familiarscarsxelectrichearts @throughwoodsanddirt @cowpokeomens

Masterlist here.

Title taken from Sunlight by Hozier; banner made by @throughwoodsanddirt; dividers by @saradika

“You lost?” he asks, and that is what ruins you. You’ve heard the old stories of wicked fae-men and how to avoid them - beware strange beings in the wood, don’t stray from the path - but in all the stories, none author had bothered to mention they’d peek around a tree with wide, irresistibly innocent curiosity and ask you, You lost?

There’s a flash of a glint in his eye, a bare twitch in his lip predating what might’ve been a smirk, but you can’t help but smile at the childlike confidence in his voice, and then he smiles back and –

That too is your ruin. There perhaps hasn’t been a sweeter smile - not in your years, not in the years of all of time, you reckon - to grace a human being, and it steals your breath sure as he’d picked it from your pocket. He takes it as an offering, slinking around the trunk with the air of something much smaller, more slight than he; gravity must be a friend, lover, even, with the grace she offers to his motion.

His eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as you take his tattooed hand - an imperious command, or perhaps a childish invitation - granting you the proof of satisfaction you hadn’t known you’d been waiting for, a breath of relief expelling from its locked chamber you’d ignored until now. 

You stare, because how can you not? He is beautiful, yes, but his visage flickers from soft to vulpine with a flicker of shadow and moonlight, something inhuman, dangerous, alien turning well-bred beauty, like the kind some are just born with, masculinity encapsulated by that rare softness. 

He’s beautiful, so, so gorgeous, unless otherwise he’s completely grotesque, a scent of something eldritch you’d rather not acknowledge. Within a breath, he moves from shy, soft smiles to something aloof, something dangerously mischievous, something terrifying when the moon shines just so and you’re reminded of that glint in his eye. You only need blink for that chipped granite of his cheekbone and hardened brow to give way to that downy smile once more, like it had never gone.

You walk over roots, vines and ivies and he is barefoot, feet uncalloused and unscarred.

The trek back to the path is as treacherous as he warned, for which he never lets your hand go - vines threatening to trip you up with each step, roots growing where there were none minutes ago. He regales you with faerie-tales - his childhood, he calls it - and you follow his younger self through burrows and glades and loss and loss and loss and to the rivers and all the girls (and boys) that live in them, the monsters that he’d fought and the girls (and boys) he’d had there after, and to the mountains and still you follow and –

And he pauses, and you’re overcome with the bodily realization that you’re exhausted. You’re not sure how long you’ve walked, but your legs burn. Your feet are torn, shoes and socks evidently long gone somewhere along the way. Your head swims, and he barely turns before you collapse into him. 

You don’t register the hawthorn he’s pressed you up against, solid as stone, until the bark digs through your shirt to chip and stab at your skin, oozing wet warmth down your back that’s conflated blood and sap in your mind. A tsk from his mouth - the sound forms so prettily on his perfectly formed Cupid’s bow - produces a golden fruit in his hand, taken from a bush or his pocket, or somewhere else entirely. You’re too dizzy to follow the movement of his hand. It’s so splendidly shiny, citrine flesh pulled so taught it aches for just the single prick to burst the saccharine juice within. 

Before he even presses it to your lips, the scent makes your molars ache to grind it to a pulp. He teases it, hovering it before your mouth, reveling in your fight against the strong thigh he presses to your core to reach it. 

His fingers brush your lips when he finally acquiesces, and he blushes with a bashful smile like it’d been a mistake, and between his smile and the alchemically intoxicating scent of the fruit, you forget all about the warnings of eating Fae offerings and - 

It bursts like an eyeball with just the barest graze of your teeth, blessed wet rushing to coat your throat liquid as the taste has done to you; it is the sweetest, sharpest flavor you’ve tasted, salty too - though perhaps that’s the tears streaming down your face. Your core throbs a drumbeat. You’re nothing more than meat and nerves and blood in a sac of skin, pulsing as the seeds and pulp slither down your throat. 

Your head dips - involuntarily - to suck the sap from each digit. You want to wrap your legs around him, to grind shamelessly until you too are nothing but sap. 

When he kisses you, he tastes of burnt wax and antimony, straps candlewick wings to your aching back, and you don the death trap happily. 

He draws you down to the bed of moss with kisses and gentle strokes, soft and spongy and earthen and cool and moist beneath your naked skin. His great coat envelops you both, secreting beneath it the dance of his nails (not nails, but claws, unpainted black and whispering a deadly promise) along the planes of your burning, overstuffed skin. He swallows down your whimpers and gasps, curiosity painting his face lent by innocence to understanding his touch is the cause; too light a touch, you think, you need more. 

The callus of his fingers speaks of handiwork as they brush you, painting you red hot and wanting. He watches his brushes as they stroke lower with open fascination, like you’re the one alien and not he. 

You arch into him, begging for your flesh to be flayed from bone, for him to sink those razors he calls teeth down to the marrow. There they are at your chest, dangerously grazing the delicate pebble of your nipple, plump damp lips suckling it as though it is the fruit itself. There is his hand at your thigh, hot palm pressing your leg up his waist, clever, spindly fingers teasing the apex, wandering but never finding home. 

He laughs when you reach for him, for the heat beneath his trousers weighing heavy in the cradle of your hips. “Later,” he tells you, swallowing down your indignant whine before it can burst forth. Now, you want to beg, but then his hand reaches the destination you desire most, shackling you to the singular sensation in short, strong strokes, and you think, okay, later.

Your skin burns, stretched taught and oversensitive as he probes you, knuckles bulbs as they puncture the precipice, only the cool damp of the moss beneath you granting reprieve. You paw at it helplessly, unmoored, gripping up great chunks of it in Sisyphean effort to ground yourself against the fullness.  

He chuckles. “Never said you couldn’t touch,” he mutters against your belly, words muffled by your skin as the vibrations run straight through your core. Something ragged wrenches from you as you dive your hands in his hair, pulling at soft and silky and ink-dark even in the twilight canopy of the wood; a slippery purchase at best as he journeys downward, leaving lush, slick trails in the wake of his mouth that nearly steam against the cool of the breeze. 

He laughs, exultant, and curls those clever fingers inside you hard, bifurcating within you, plying and playing, and teasing and then, then, finally, his head dives between your legs. A hot breath first, a nudge of that pointed nose, then his wicked tongue, licking and lapping and curling, and then those sweet lips wrapping and sucking around you, tongue pressing until you’re reduced to faint breath, until you can only cling with the white static tuned to the red-earthen-hot tune of want. 

You come, spread apart like a dam on the moss. He leeches to you, stroking and sucking and curling and pressing until there’s nothing left in you but shallow heaves and twitching limbs. 

The smirk spreading his mouth when you finally settle in the cradle of his arms is so absurdly silly, so endearing and human, so real, you can’t help but laugh, curling drunkenly into it, each breath a stabbing pain you receive gladly. He gathers you, watching as you laugh, seeming pleased with himself as a cat with cream. 

Together, when you’re once again able, you gather what can be salvaged of your clothes. It’s not much, so he cloaks you in his coat, the unstarched fabric simultaneously stiff and soft against your bare skin, sliding silkily with each step. He guides you along by his lithe arm, veins dancing up the tattooed lengths like sinew upon bark, hand now sticky from being buried within you. 

The fallen leaves ease your way, damp earth gathering between your toes, sluicing off the pain with the cool of it. 

He leads you where? There is no door, no hawthorn trees nor spiderwebs, no shimmering air to pass through yet for a moment you are distracted, and then you are in the woods no longer. The walls are earthen, ancient vines thick as elk climbing like supporting pillars, illimitably, impossibly, reaching for nothing but night sky. The stars, though far above, seem sharper, tangible, and close as you might reach should you choose as you stare into the boundless void between; a darkness luring so sweetly you’d tumble into it for a single unsteady step. 

For the first time since he found you, you do not struggle to look away from him. Walls give way to great earthen colonnades, thousand-story balustrades housing hanging gardens of lady slippers and cowslips and columbines glimmering in the light of torches tall as men. Above it all is still the fathomless, terrifying sky, and everywhere there are people, throngs of faerie folk in every direction as far as you can see. Most pay you no mind but those that do, do so with blessedly parlous curiosity, curling lips clueing teeth that’d bite. 

The sheer number of colors and shapes and bodies has your memory grow fading, evanescent. Some have hooves or scales or feathers, beaks or antlers, and others - just a face the wrong side of sharp, limbs lengthened just past that boundary of eldritch. A few stand out: a man, long-haired and goateed who’d pass human were he not nearly twice the size of a regular man, with sclera deep as bitter licorice; another, flat-faced with the lightest eyes you’d ever seen, veins and sinew and muscle coiling and rippling beneath transparent skin; a creature you struggle to wrap your mind around, a great wolf’s maw forced where the young man’s mouth would be, slitted pupils twitching as he watches you pass, hackles raised. 

Your skin erupts in gooseflesh, and Noah bends his head to nip at it. 

There are three girls standing with heads bowed together, faces painted in warm knavery, identical in all but where they split the embodiment of moon, sun, and void. One’s hands look capable of melting your skin off, and another’s claws drip an ichor you’d let run poison deep below your sluicing skin as you’re blinded by the radiant glow of the third. 

You imagine them spreading you apart, tasting you, tasting them. You’re acutely aware of the heady sourness of your arousal, a scent so human amid bark and earth and animal scent, among burning floral oils.

They are beautiful. They are all beautiful, and you’re struck with a pang of precipitous, desperate hunger. You want all of them. Blisteringly. 

“All of them?” he chuckles, nuzzling the side of your face, insectile fingers gripping your jaw firm with practiced precision. “Greedy.”

Your veins already are hot, pulsing iron, overstimulated and frazzled, but now they spill crimson across your cheekbones, hairline tightening at the tone of his accusation. But he only coos, bringing you in with tangling arms round your waist. 

“Spare me,” he sighs against your temple. “Greed is good. You’ll have it all and more later. But first, let us sate that hunger.” Yes, let us, you think. You never could refuse his command. You hope he will feed you more of those delightful fruits.

[blenselche]

Why do you ship finn/fern? I want to know what you see in it. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, I think rare ships and why people like them are interesting.

how can i not when the show literally

ok but forreal, this is long so I'm throwing it under a cut, my fern brainworm really got away from me here...

Finn and Fern's story at its most bare bones is: someone incredibly damaged by abandonment is torn in half and those halves abandon each other. Fern does it literally, Finn more so emotionally. Only when it's too late does one half try to rectify the situation, showing unending patience and unconditional love and being met with vitriol and avoidance. And then... acceptance, and with that acceptance is the ultimate abandonment: death. Tragic, hurts just right. Add onto that-- their relationship references The Green Knight and the Narcissus Myth. The Narcissus myth comes through loudly in CAWM especially. My fav of Ovid's Metamorphoses and all Greek mythology, so that's def a factor. My dad said I cried when he read it to me for the first time lmao.

I don't ship them during/in canon. In canon all I can see is something nebulous and one sided, and we don't need to read into subtext for that, we can just appreciate the show as it's written: Finn helps create this person that 100% gets him after being the odd one out his whole life, Fern's existence even soothes his abandonment issues with a curse that binds them together forever, but he clings too close and doesn't give Fern space, reminding him of how he falls short. Ultimately this want to be "even closer" (very smooth, Finn) is what drives them apart. It's good where it is, it's a great starting point for shipping.

Where I ship them is past canon, blowing subtext up into large print font to pull Fern out of plot device hell into his own character, piggy backing off what we know about the grass demon.

The grass demon/blade was not made to serve the powers of good, but it actively changes/curbs its behavior for the approval of its hero wielder. It helps Finn with anything that deeply emotionally moves him (holding on to Martin, building the tower) keeps him out of unneeded conflict (refusing to attack the vamp king) helps impress his romantic interest (flute spell) it even reverses his arm nullification twice. The grass demon keeps him safe but it goes above and beyond its purpose for Finn's happiness. It reluctantly joins the fight against Bandit Princess because that sword is still Finn, and when its blade pierces/breaks the quillion it even cocoons the Finn Sword's essence safely away. Though, no matter how much good it might do it is still a demon. It has no morals, and doesn't understand them, all it cares about is Finn's safety and well being. When one of Finn's loved ones hurts him it doesn't hesitate to protect him, but (of course) Finn retaliates-- and so it creates a Finn of its own, one that won't hurt it for trying to keep him safe and happy. (OOPS! that backfired.) I love the grass demon, I love what we can glean about it because of its actions through the show and what that could mean for Fern and Fern's feelings surrounding Finn. This is the foundations of the ship to me.

I like to ship them when Fern remembers all of this/what he is (a demon that basically consumed half of Finn's soul), has accepted himself and has integrated his two ego states. We don't need to do any legwork on Finn's end. Dude's already weird enough about Fern canonically, but I do like to build his guilt up until he's a mess on the floor, crying over his past mistake of assuming Fern needed saving in the first place (the thing that leads Finn to ignorantly prompting/assisting in his suicide), haunted by the words of Fern's time echo from the The Beginning of The End comic, never truly being able to trust if he's actually helping someone again.

I like to play in that space of au/hc: a demon and the man he's bound to/he shares a soul with who loves him unconditionally, reunited somehow (a wish, diverging from canon, Penelope and Fern's next incarnation finding one another, etc) and coming to terms with the baggage of all the shit they inflicted on one another. Then maybe Fern can finally hear Finn out without the cloud of festering insecurity when he tells him again how he'd still like to be "even closer".

At its simplest I like finn/fern because I love Fern, and finally accepting and seeing Finn as a completely different person (enough to engage in a relationship, whether sexual/romantic/queer platonic/something that no label fits because of what they are, whatever) speaks to an ultimate form of self actualization, and Fern really deserves to feel that level of "himself" imo.

Hope that was adequately interesting.

[earthjournalbyawildrose]

intērnāl stïllnēss .:. @earthjournalbyawildrose

website + source

[heretodefyfate]

Meeting Fern in post-game be like

"how the fuck is that just a scratch???"

[hopepetal]

Boatem knights AU part eight! Pog!

Masterlist

@applestruda and @stiffyck! Things are ramping up!!

A long day, followed by an even longer night, passed. 

After being patched up and fed, Grian’s condition had greatly improved. Scar was just grateful they caught whatever sickness he had early on, and that Marc had been… generous enough to give them supplies. Despite his fever going down and his lucidity returning, Grian was still weak and paler than usual. 

Their hands were tied behind their backs again, but Grian’s wings had been left free, so one was currently wrapped around Scar. The other wing stayed close to Grian, the bandages wrapping around it keeping it from moving fully. The two knights sat in silence for a while, listening to the sound of the wheels against the road and the horse whinnying. 

Scar broke the silence. “I’m sorry.” He gazed down at the floorboards of the wagon, sighing heavily. “For getting you into this mess, y’know?”

“Scar…” Grian trailed off, not knowing what to say. He merely shook his head, looking away. What could he say to someone who fully believed they were at fault for… all this?

Another moment of silence passed, before Scar coughed quietly. “How’s your injury doing?” He quickly changed the topic, plastering a smile on his face.

With a slightly amused, mostly exasperated sigh, Grian smiled back. “Better. So…” He began, pressing his shoulder against Scar’s, “how did you even get them to help me? From what I heard, they only wanted you.”

Scar shrugged, his grin turning sheepish. “I maaaay have told them that we were soulbound.”

“...Scar-!” Grian’s squawk of horror made the other man giggle. “You can’t just do that! I mean, it’s so obvious that-”

“Shhh. They’ll never know! Trust me, G-man. It’ll be alright.” Scar bumped his shoulder against Grian’s just as the wagon stopped once more. “Oh, joy.”  He turned to look at Grian, his expression unreadable. “Well, whatever qualms you have with the whole soulbound business, you'll have to put aside. Think you can lie well?”

Grian nodded, his expression darkening. “I'll have to.”

The familiar sound of footsteps drew nearer. Scar leaned back with a sigh, feeling Grian's wing withdraw to fold behind him. At least they had kept the hooded cloaks from last time, so they wouldn't have to struggle to get into them again were they necessary. It was also good for Grian to have some form of covering for his torso other than bandages, which Scar absolutely planned on teasing him later for. Once they got out of this sticky situation, of course.

The wagon cover was once again pulled back, Marc whistling a cheerful tune while smiling down at them. “Good morning, lovebirds,” he cooed in a tone that made Scar feel positively nauseous. Great, he was a creep on top of being an absolute pain in the- “Get out.” Marc stepped back, allowing Scar to carefully hop out of the wagon before Grian. 

Scar noticed how Grian stumbled when he hit the ground, his legs trembling as he straightened. Clearly the avian hadn’t fully recovered just yet, which was understandable but made their (as of right now, hypothetical) plan to escape a tad bit more difficult. He made sure to stay beside Grian as Marc ushered them down an overgrown forest path, his shoulder brushing against Grian’s.

After what felt like an hour in the relative quiet of the woods, Marc pushed them through a thick growth of underbrush and trees into a clearing. There, two people stood, armored and with masks covering the bottom half of their faces. At the sight of Marc and the two knights, one drew their sword while the other stepped forward.

“We only wanted the vex.” The voice of the one who stepped forward was higher pitched, but smooth and light. Kind of like Pearl’s, except not at all like Pearl’s. “There was no need to bring us a little birdie as well.”

Marc shrugged, putting a hand on Scar and Grian’s shoulders before shoving them forward. “They’re soulbound. I’m sure you know how that is, Opal.”

Opal’s eyes briefly flicked over to their partner before they looked away. “...yeah. Fine, then. Change of plans, we’ll take ‘em both. You good with that, Fern?”

With a sigh, Fern sheathed her sword. “Yeah. Would’ve been nice to have a bit of a warning, though. Guess we can’t expect anything better from a little-”

Marc groaned loudly, interrupting Fern. “Yeah, yeah, you’re still sore over that one time. Whatever. Take them and go, I’m done with this stupid job.” Turning, he began to walk away. “Good luck, you two!” he called back, “you’ll need it.”

And with that, Marc was gone.

“I hope he trips and breaks his nose,” Grian muttered, earning a soft chuckle from Scar. “Absolutely despicable. We are not lovebirds. You’re not even a bird!”

Scar had to laugh at that, nodding. “True, true. I am indeed not a bird. Very astute observation, my good man.”

Grian knocked his shoulder against Scar’s, smirking. “Oh, shut up.”

A heaving sigh drew their attention back to Fern and Opal, the sound having come from the former of the two. “He was right, this job sucks. Come on you two.” She pulled her sword again, swinging it leisurely as she walked around to be behind them. “Let’s go. Chop chop.” She snorted. “Not really, though.”

“Not unless you piss us off,” Opal added under her breath. 

Scar forced a smile, clenching his hands into fists and feeling how his nails began to sharpen into vex claws. They pricked into his skin until they drew blood, reminding Scar of the damage he could do. Of why he and Grian were in this situation in the first place. “That won’t happen, don’t you worry!” he said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible.

“Right, then!” Fern poked Grian in the back with her sword, causing him to squawk and jump forward. “Onwards!”

And as they started moving through the forest once more, Grian looked over at Scar and realized that his eyes had started to dimly glow.

The sound of the horses trotting through the forest was far too loud, in Mumbo’s opinion. Although it wasn’t exactly a stealth mission, he had been far too jumpy during the entire trip to stop worrying about things now. Already his mind was pouring over the various design tweaks he could make to the horseshoes to make them more silent, to the bridle and the reins, to-

They were nearly at the spot Pearl had marked down on the map now. Mambo would know, he had been carefully- obsessively, almost- following along with their journey on the map nearly the whole way there. His focus on the map had nearly caused an accident on multiple occasions. But it hadn’t, so Mumbo had kept his gaze glued to the map.

He faintly realized Impulse was calling his name, turning over to look at the other knight as he dismounted his horse. “Mumbo. I think I saw something up ahead, so I’m just going to check it out, alright?”

Mambo hummed in acknowledgment, tracing a finger up the map following the path they had been taking. He was hardly even paying attention until he heard a loud bark, Impulse shriek, and the sound of someone (likely Impulse) being knocked over by a very large… 

…Tilly?

Mambo scrambled down from his horse, shoving the map inside his bag as he grabbed the reins of both his horse and Impulse’s and led them closer to where the man lay on the ground, spluttering as he got his face licked by the very familiar animal. Laughter erupted from the trees, and Pearl stepped into view, pushing her hood down so that her face was visible. “Oh, you should’ve seen the look on your face!” she cackled, and Mumbo had to start laughing as well.

Impulse grumbled, shoving Tilly (gently, of course) off of him and rolling over so he could push himself back onto his feet. “Can’t you control her?” he muttered, wiping his face. “I am covered in dog slobber now.”

Pearl smiled, nodding. “Yep. And she is not a dog! She is a wild, ferocious wolf!” Whistling sharply, she called Tilly to her side, kneeling and scratching behind her ears. “Who’s a good wittle wolf? Who’s my ferocious wittle wolfykins? You are! Yes, you are!”

Mumbo just kept laughing. Impulse glared at him for a moment before turning back to Pearl. “She is a lapdog, for goodness sakes. Oh my- y’know what? Nevermind.” Taking a moment to let everyone calm down, Mumbo having to catch his breath after laughing so hard, Impulse continued. “So. Pearl. Give us the rundown. What’s going on?”

Pearl sobered up quickly, expression darkening. She stood, though one hand remained on Tilly’s head, lightly stroking her ears. “Right, then. Let’s get to it.” She took a deep breath. “I found one of the mercenaries that jumped Grian and Scar. The archer, I think. I… asked a few questions. Just a few! And got some answers.” Noticing Mumbo and Impulse’s concerned looks, she frowned. “I let them go after! Against my better judgment, mind you,” she added on lowly. “After that, I was able to track Grian and Scar to a village- I think you passed it on the way here?”

Impulse nodded. “Yeah. Something was off about that place. Mumbo and I made sure to skirt around it. Can never be too careful, y’know?”

Pearl hummed in agreement. “Good. Well, after I saw them at the village, it was really only a matter of guessing where they’d go and picking a spot somewhat close to that location. Then I sent the note, and the rest is history!” She paused. “Hopefully good history. For us, I mean. It would kind of suck if we failed. Which! We will not.”

Mumbo blinked, his face the picture of disbelief. “So this was all just… a guessing game? And it worked?” He didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed. With Pearl, it was always a 50/50 chance of either emotion.

Pearl grinned. “You know it! It worked surprisingly well, actually. Grian and Scar should be near us. They were handed off to two others, armored and everything. Hence why I didn’t take them on right then and there. I probably would have won against them, but Grian and Scar would be defenseless and I honestly doubt they’d be honorable.” She shrugged. “Apparently they lied about being soulbound to stick together. Which was probably Scar’s idea, he’s clever like that.”

“Of course they did,” Mumbo and Impulse spoke at the exact same time, exchanging glances with a smile as they did so.

Pearl thought for a moment, her hand on Tilly’s head drifting down to scratch under her chin. “Grian was also injured, and it looked like he was sick, but I guess they got some supplies when they stopped by the village because he’s definitely a lot better today. And Scar…” she trailed off, hesitating. “...something’s wrong. He’s not doing so hot himself. His hair, the ends of it at least, are just constantly white. I noticed he was trembling… probably a result of suppressing his vex magic. Gosh- I can’t imagine the pain he’s in.” Her voice wavered. She knew well the horrors that came from suppressing one’s magic.

“Well then.” Impulse’s gaze hardened as a hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. “We’ll just have to get them both out as soon as possible.”

“Agreed.” Pearl pulled out a map, kneeling down in the grass and spreading it out. Mumbo crouched next to her, examining the marked spots carefully before pulling out his own map and marking the same places. “I mapped out the route they’re taking and planned an ambush spot.” She tapped the spot on the map twice before rolling it back up and stuffing it back into her small bag. “We’ll attack tonight.”

And for a moment, her eyes seem to shine with a purple hue. “Let's show those bastards that they messed with the wrong knights.”

[clefablepb]

doodle from school

no context for this, i just drew fern and then my brain said "add henry and charles" and this happened

[pinksilvace]

writing fanfiction is very serious business

[rottingfern]

all the wine is all for me || a Bad Omens fanfic

Summary: Noah’s just admiring his gains. Perhaps he’s a little more proud of his progress than the average guy. There’s definitely not a secret third reason for why he’s spending so much time in front of the mirror…

Pairing: Noah x himself lol

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: unbeta'd trash. masturbation. narcissism in the greek mythology way not the psychology way

A/N: I drank a lot of wine (what else is new) and also @throughwoodsanddirt showed me that one panel from the comics that made me cackle so hard because damn Noah just really thinks he's hot as fuck huh and then I cackled until I wrote this fic

Brainrot Club: @familiarscarsxelectrichearts @throughwoodsanddirt @cowpokeomens

Masterlist here.

Title taken from All the Wine by The National; banner made by me (using Caravaggio's Narcissus); dividers by @saradika

Noah’s reflection is smiling at him. 

That, of course, is explainable by the fact that he himself is smiling; grinning, in fact, because he just looks so damn good. His gains this month were frankly goddamn impressive. Already he can see the widening of his chest to form an inverted triangle of his torso, the definition building in his bicep when he flexes.

What worries him, though, is the naughty glint in his reflection’s eye, the too-sharp canines, the raise of a single eyebrow that he definitely is not capable of reproducing. Never has been. 

He knows this look. Once, he had a fling with this girl who was an absolute freak, gets him half-hard even just remembering half the things she got up to between the sheets. And the fucking cherry on top: she loved making movies. Editing those for her unfailingly devolved into multiple-hours long dates between him and his hand. The face he’s making - his reflection is making - is the one that painted his face in the movies when she, pointing her phone to get his reaction, would ask him for the nastiest shit he’d thought only a fantasy in porn. 

So it makes no sense that he’s looking at his reflection like this, because it’s not like he’s into himself. 

His hand beelines south down the expanse of his strong (so goddamn strong, he’ll have definition in his six-pack any day now) stomach. That’s definitely not something he’s doing of his own volition. He’s not that self-absorbed. 

Well, that’s a lie. He’s not gay (unless you count the exploratory hand stuff him and Nick did as teens), but if he could, he’d totally fuck himself. 

It takes a bit of effort to shuck the grey sweats he’d worn down his hips with one hand, distracted as he is with the shapes his other arm makes as it continues to flex in the mirror. These used to be pretty loose, just crossing the line of oversized on him. Now, they’re filled by thick thighs and marble-cut hip flexors. With a single finger, he traces the vee framing trimmed pubic hair. These used to show just a hint of the magic underneath. Now, his hardness bulges a vulgar display. 

Dropping the band even just an inch springs the tip of his cock, leaking and ready to play. It’s the only part of his body he’s never been self-conscious of, because God or whoever else decided he at least deserved a win in that department when they decided to make him a skinny bitch with weak lungs. Gives the girls who settle for him a nice reward. 

Except, he never gets this hard for all the pretty girls he bags. This - the red, burning tip, the feeling like if he touches it he’ll cum in just a few strokes, the pain of wanting to draw the pleasure out as long as he can - is reserved only for the times he’s fucking his hand. 

There’s a quiet battle of wills that follows between giving up inspecting his gains and giving into his own touch. He cups his balls through his sweats, head kicking back tugged by an invisible hand at the squeeze. Noah’s sure the column of his throat looks positively delicious like this, has seen enough photos of himself in this devout escape onstage, and thinks he’s no better than all the commenters saying they’d like to lick it. He’d do it instantly, and he knows it’d feel good.

In the end, the sweats come down his thighs. He’s never denied himself pleasure so heavily mounted, not when paraded before him so, not when the boundaries are inexistent. He won’t let himself be fucking tease.

The drag of the calluses on his fingers against the tenderhot flesh of his cock sends gooseflesh up his arms. 

His toes numb for a moment as he finally takes himself in hand at the base, breath hitching wetly as he watches his hand wrap against himself. He’s heavy in his hand even to himself, so thick and veiny and so hard. A drop of precum splashes his thigh before he even has a chance to run his hand up the length. He collects it with his pinky when he reaches the tip, not daring let it go to waste. 

Thunder thighs has always been a confusing insult to him. Thighs are the strength in legs, the support to a body, the place you put your hand to hint your desire to a lover. Thighs are his handles when buried in a lover - the cradle to what every person wants most from another. Years of touring and running out of underwear have made him accustomed to going commando, but since his thighs filled out - though he now can afford to just buy a five-pack Hanes on a whim - he prefers it. There’s never a better cradle for a commando cock than a thick set of thighs. 

The overeager spit bubbles as it mingles with the precum on his palm, glistening in the mid-afternoon sun. The way they rapidly deflate feels like a countdown, one he’s determined to beat, and so finally, finally, he takes himself in hand earnestly. 

He can’t help the strangled hiss that escapes.

Noah’s usually pretty quiet in bed. Doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with voicing his pleasure, with sharing the secret of how easy to please he is with a partner. But, fuck, does he love talking himself through it. “C’mon, baby,” he chants to his hand as it increases speed. “So fucking good,” he groans through gritted teeth. 

His voice is so fucking smooth. So fucking deep when he speaks through his chest. Just the perfect amount of grit that, if he shuts his eyes, he can feel reverberate through his nape and scalp and bang against the back of his nose as the sound waves travel to his cochlea. 

He won’t shut his eyes now. Never - not when he’s looking like that with his brow furrowed, gaze hard and nearly icy, nostrils flared and jaw clenched tight. 

He clenches it tighter, raises his chin just so to create the illusion of that perfect jawline. 

“Noah,” he moans, “god, Noah, fuck.” It echoes in his ear, and it is his voice, but he swears he didn’t feel his lips move as he watches them round around each syllable in his reflection. 

His name sounds so good rolling off his own tongue. 

Release hits Noah not like a full-speed bullet train, but the way it feels when you pulled your first tooth: slow, painful, and with each tug more builds up until it just pops out. Only after does he register the relief, the shoot of tension up his spine to burst behind his eyes and temples, the numbness in his fingers as he struggles to jerk himself through. 

Just those few final caresses. His cum blinds him with exploding stars and broken breaths. It paints the mirror in sloppy strokes of seminal goo, but he supposes that’s what Windex is for. 

Before he registers the signal from brain to limb he kneels, the rough of his wall-to-wall carpet digging into his knees as he releases his eager tongue. The spend is saltybitter when it coats the bed of his taste buds, slimy as it runs down the ramp of his throat. Noah makes sure to collect every single drop. 

He doesn’t feel shame when his eyes meet his own in the wet, distorted reflection once he’s done savoring himself. “You did so well, baby,” he says. “Such a good baby.”

His reflection nods eagerly, eyelids fluttering blissfully, head dropping as Noah’s neck stays stiff and still, eyes wide open. 

God damn, he is a sight to be seen.

[kiwikipedia]

have you ever seen someone haunting the narrative in such a breathtaking way that they left such an insanely positive mark on pretty much everyone? WOULD YOU LIKE TOO?