#it’s like a jacket styling of chaps

[waitmyturtles]

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Nothing More Than An Animal

Title: Nothing More Than An Animal

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Henry!Wolverine (Cavillrine) x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2.6K

Summary: After entering a dangerous biker bar alone, you’re almost assaulted. You are saved by a mutant with metal claws who might be more animal than man.

Warnings: alcohol use, swearing, unwanted attention, bar fight, Wolvie being Wolvie, unprotected p-in-v sex, creampie, mention of bodily fluids, claw kink

Beta: @peyton-warren

A/N: The title is taken from this quote from Savage Wolverine #13: “Most people think I'm nothing more than an animal!” Thank you to my amazing beta, Peyton, for giving me this idea in the first place.

Dividers by me

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist

You couldn’t help yourself. You stand across the street from the biker bar, a flickering streetlamp above you casting an off-white haze. The only thing keeping you from entering the establishment is your sense of self-preservation. This place, Torque Tavern, screams danger. But that only draws you in further.

You’re dressed in your usual style: your favorite Joan Jett shirt with the sleeves cut off, a denim jacket, a pair of figure-hugging black jeans, and a pair of Doc Martens boots. While normally you walk around with a sense of power, tonight was different.

A chill in the air makes you wrap your arms around yourself. You step off the curb into a dirty puddle, crossing the street after looking both ways. With your hand on the bar door, you pull it open and step inside.

The smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke hits your nostrils as the door closes behind you. A dozen heads turn to you, and your heart pounds. You look across the dimly lit room and notice one person who hasn’t paid you any attention, sitting on a stool at the L-shaped bar. You walk up and sit on a stool, a couple of seats away from the large man.

While you wait for the bartender to attend to you, you peek at the behemoth that sits near you. Wild, dark hair that comes to a point on each side, bushy sideburns, and a non-connecting beard outline his face. A white tank top stretches across his wide, thick frame. Bulbous, sweaty biceps glisten in the glow of the lights behind the bar. Hairy, veiny forearms lead down to strong hands: one grips around a lowball of amber liquid so tight that his knuckles are white, and the other balances a fat cigar between two fingers.

“Take a picture, bub, it’ll last longer,” the stranger says, letting out a plume of smoke from his chapped lips before turning his tidepool blue eyes on you.

After a few seconds that feel like minutes, you’re finally able to turn around and look away, mumbling an apology. You can still feel his eyes on you for a bit before he turns back to his drink and his solitude.

Your eyes shoot up once the bartender knocks on the bartop in front of you. “What’ll you have?”

“Uh, yeah. Moosehead and a shot of J.P. Wiser’s,” you reply, unsurprised when the bartender raises a brow at you. He then shrugs, cracks open a bottle of lager, and sets it in front of you. Grabbing a shot glass, he pours you a bit of the blended whiskey.

As soon as the light golden liquor is pushed toward you, you lift it and inhale the vanilla aroma. Tossing it back, the taste of licorice and cinnamon cascades over your tongue and down your throat. You exhale the burn and turn your attention to your lager.

You notice the murmurs behind you. A chair is pushed away from a table, and heavy boots are walking up behind you. A strong hand lands on your shoulder, and you freeze. “Hey, doll. Can I buy you a drink?”

You hold up your beer and decline, “I’m fine, honey.”

“Aw, come on. Just one drink. Promise I don’t bite, ‘less you want me to,” the source of the voice laughs, coming around to lean on the bar between you and the cigar-smoking stranger, his bald head glistening in the low light as he strokes his long, scraggly beard. His beer belly is barely contained in a Limp Bizkit shirt. This man is a walking red flag, and you roll your eyes and shake your head.

“Look, pal. Let me enjoy the drink I have, ok? This is my one fucking night off this week, and I’m not in the mood to let you ruin it with any of your shitty pick-up lines or the promise of hanging out with you and the rest of the rejects from Sons of Anarchy, got it?” You surprised yourself by bellowing these words to a stranger, one who could probably benchpress you with ease.

You flinch as his expression turns dark and he raises a hand. “You stuck-up little bitch, I ought to—”

The cigar-smoking stranger interrupts, seizing him by the throat and lifting him effortlessly off the ground as if he were a mere feather. While holding him aloft with one hand, the other hand balls into a fist while sharp blades appear from his knuckles.

He’s a mutant! You’d never seen anyone use their abilities up close, but now a man with incredible strength and metal claws is gallantly defending your honor.

“I think the lady has everything she needs, so why don’t you and your little friends scurry along before I get really angry and carve you up in front of everyone, eh?”

The sound of a pump-action shotgun being cocked has every head whipping to the bartender. “Get out of my bar, freak!”

The mutant simply turns and deposits the asshole on the ground in a crumpled mess. Blowing another puff of smoke into the ceiling, he throws back the rest of his drink before grabbing a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and walking out. Halfway to the door, he turns to you and asks, “You coming or what, bub?”

You couldn’t scramble off your stool quick enough after he challenged you to follow him. Stepping over the man left on the floor, you scurry after your mutant savior. Once back in the night air, you look over as he stuffs the bottle into the storage of his Harley-Davidson. As he swings his leg over the bike and settles into the seat, you can't help but notice the bike sagging under his weight, as if he weighs a ton.

He turns back to his storage, taking out a helmet and holding it out to you. You’ve seen enough movies to know that riding with a stranger is a dumb idea. However, if that mysterious stranger happens to be attractive and cruising on a Harley, who could resist the allure of a thrilling adventure?

Taking the helmet, you pull it down over your head and lift a leg to get onto the bike behind him. As he turns the key, you clench your thighs at the vibration and wrap your arms around his waist.

“You don’t have to hold me so tight,” he informs.

“Oh, this isn’t tight," you remark, suddenly realizing that you don't know what to call this man. You offer your name, and he repeats it before giving his own.

“The name’s Logan.” He drops his cigar butt on the asphalt and stubs it out with his boot before putting up the kickstand and backing out of the parking spot. He revs the engine, and you are off on your way to wherever Logan wants to take you.

The drive is smooth, the city whizzing past you as Logan speeds down the highway. You end up at a garage that houses a few more Harleys in various states of repair. Logan puts the kickstand down and lets you get off the bike first. He watches as you take off the helmet and look around at where he’s taken you.

Exiting the bike, he takes the helmet when you hold it out to him. You don’t miss the way his fingers lingered on yours for a beat. He takes the bottle out of his bike pack and takes a hefty swig, then hands it to you.

You read the label, ‘Forty Creek Confederation Oak’, and put the bottle to your lips. Tipping it, you are delighted to taste the honey flavor. Handing him the bottle, you hold the liquor in your mouth until it starts to burn, and then you swallow and exhale the nutty finish.

He appears to be quite taken aback that you managed to drink without gagging, and his intrigue deepens as you begin to move closer into his personal space. The warmth in your chest from the alcohol has you feeling full and content. The heat coming off of his body as you stand close enough to breathe in his air has you feeling something completely overwhelming: pheromone-induced arousal.

Your libido is making itself known as you watch him watch you. Unable to stop your hands, they find themselves smoothing up his tank-covered torso until you tug at the collar. He gets the hint and sets the bottle down before removing his shirt.

You encounter a soft, furry chest that invites you to sink your fingers into its warmth. Tightening your digits in the hair on his pretty pecs, you revel in the growl he makes. He then levels the playing field, grabbing you by the nape of the neck with one large paw and bringing your face to his.

As you part your lips, a soft whimper slips out, unable to be contained, while he teasingly brushes his tongue against your lower lip. Growling again, he dips further to slot your mouth with his. He devours the moans that come out of you as he grabs a handful of your ass, chuckling into the kiss as you let him take the lead. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you feel drunk on his whiskey-laden kiss.

Breaking the kiss, he pushes down on your shoulders until you are kneeling at his feet. You start to unfasten his tight-fitting jeans, but he swats your hands away.

“Not yet, bub,” he warns. “I wanna try something.”

With that, he has you pass him the bottle. He takes a drink and then holds your cheek against his denim-covered cock. You can sense that he’s packing quite a surprise down there, and you’re eagerly anticipating the moment it’s unleashed.

“Eyes on me,” he commands.

You watch as he takes the bottle and pours about a shot’s worth of liquor over his chest. Watching as the liquid washes over him, you are more than eager to taste it directly from his skin. After you’ve cleaned his chest of all traces, he takes another drink. This time, he holds your face by the jaw and leans down, spitting the whiskey directly into your mouth.

You gulp it down eagerly, on the verge of pleading for another sip, when he scoops you up from the ground and twirls you around, positioning you over the bike you arrived on. He yanks down your jeans, your panties going with them. He lands a slap on each cheek before you hear him unzip his pants and feel his heavy dick teasing your clit.

He kicks your legs open further, pulls your denim jacket off, and lines himself up with your soaked entrance. Sliding in, he hisses at the heat of your tightness. You whine at his girth, stretching you more than any other cock you’ve ever taken. Once he bottoms out, the tip kisses your cervix, and his hairy ball sac rests against your puffy pussy. He pauses to let you get used to his size, but as he continues to take his time, it seems he is just tormenting you.

“Logan, please. Need you to move,” you plead, wiggling your hips to get any kind of friction.

You don’t see the toothy grin that covers his face, but you know by the way he tightens his grip on your hips that he is about to fuck you ten ways from Sunday.

Gradually withdrawing his hips, he eases out until only the tip of his shaft stays nestled within you, and then he thrusts back in with force. Doing it again, and then again, he pauses after each thrust to tease you. But on the third plunge, he doesn’t stop; he just keeps driving into you.

The rhythmic sounds of your sweat-soaked skin colliding form a captivating tune, harmonizing with the slick, squelching rhythm of his thrusts deep inside you. Coupled with Logan's deep, primal growls and your breathy moans, it creates an intoxicating symphony of desire.

You sense one of his hands sliding away from your hip, pushing your top up your back, and then a sharp SNIKT! pierces the air. You almost turn to inquire where the sound came from, but you soon feel something razor-sharp and hot to the touch sliding down your back. Once you realize that he’s touching you with his claws, you’re overcome with arousal, and your walls flutter around him. He fucks you through your orgasm and retracts his claws.

He slows his hips, pulling out and moving you both over to a nearby armchair. Sitting down first, he crooks a finger at you, and you remove your jeans and boots before straddling his hips. As you lower yourself onto him, you feel him fill you once more, the sensation overwhelming as you settle in.

You close your eyes and begin to ride him slower than before. Before you know it, you feel hot steel, or what you assume to be steel, at your neck and open your eyes to see his fist a few inches from your face. The claws, held within a millimeter of your jugular, glide across your skin.

“Hey, bub? You gonna keep pussyfooting around, or are you gonna ride this cock like the good little slut I know you are?” He asks, his pupils dilated until there is barely any blue left.

Your mouth opens and closes, but there is no sound coming out besides whimpers of fear that he might push those claws through your neck. Honestly, it added an extra little something to the experience, feeling that he might cut you at any moment.

The claws disappear back into the skin between his knuckles, and instead, he wraps a hand around your neck, guiding you to ride his length exactly as he wants. Your hands hold his thick wrist as you impale yourself over and over again.

“That’s it. Ride my cock just like that,” he praises, sticking two fingers in your mouth that you gluttonously suck. He locks his gaze on yours while you reach another peak of pleasure, your inner walls tightening around him as you release a wave of warmth that cascades down his length and between his legs.

When you threaten to slow down, he fucks into you, chasing his release. At this point, you are drooling over his fingers and looking like the fucked-out little doll that you are. You can tell that he is close as his hips stutter and his brows furrow as he removes his fingers from your mouth.

“Come inside me, Logan. Want it, need it so bad,” you beg, moving your hips as he drives into you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. He lets out a throaty growl and buries himself to the hilt inside of you. Feeling him twitch inside you, rope after rope of his cum painting your cervix, you reach back and play with his balls.

It’s minutes before his cock softens enough to slip out of you, and you rest your head on his chest as his jizz drips from your thoroughly used hole. To your astonishment, his hand rises to gently stroke your back while you find yourself gripping his chest hair.

Little did you know, this was only round one with the big lug. He’ll let you get some shut-eye for now, but later? He’d like to fuck you on every available surface in his garage. And what he wants, he always gets.

A/N: I intentionally used a line from the X-Men (2000), but then failed at “Chekov’s Gun” sort of. But this story only has two acts. So, fuck Chekov. I hope you all enjoyed my little fuckfest here, and please do let me know what you thought!! Writers are fed by comments!

**Tag List**

@littlefreya @mrs-solo-walker @viking-raider

Let me know if you want to be added (or removed). 😁

[indigo-flowers09]

I absolutely love these designs! and was just wondering what inspired them? I'm curious of what the plot's about, since everyone's species swapped

why not answer this question with another ref sheet(?) :3

I’d like to say, first and foremost, thank you very much for the love 🫶 i love getting asks and requests, these sillies live in my brain and drawing them is their rent

Second, i’m probably gonna keep plot talk on the DL unless i decide not to make a comic! Sorry :,3

Last but not least, inspirations. hooo boy this is a doozy

Firstly i wanna say i was inspired to make a comic specifically because of older ut comic dubs (Christmas party, handplates, Aftertale, etc) along with Scott Pilgrim and @akanemnon’s Twin Runes comic! (check them out i love twin runes a lot!!!)

The idea for the au is really just “What if the humans were monsters and the monsters were humans?” or, also “what if the (former) monsters were on the surface and the (former) humans were underground?” Classic Overtale plot!

Going in order, starting with AXIS, he’s actually one of the newest designs! i made him in my german class last week („•v•„U ) I wanted Axis to have a design change but remain a robot, maybe being more humanoid due to being made by a human! Changed his pipes and light bulb into what resembles hair and his wheel into roller blades!

Next up, Ceroba! i’ll be honest, i really don’t like Cerobas canon design that much. Love the colors but the short skirt and boots are not it, especially if she’s intended to be a more traditional japanese character. Like she’s not a magical girl, she’s in her 30’s?? Anywho, i made her prominently orange instead of pink (again, magical girl) along with lightening natural hair due to age and stress!

Clover. Clover Clover Clover!!! what do i even say about this precious little pup?! :3

I guess i could start with them being a Kitsune, of course, being switched with the Ketsukanes. Seeing as Ceroba is a mother and is often portrayed as taking a motherly role to clover, i figured a kitsune would fit them nicely! Along with being a cute, fun to draw, and curious troublemaker! I always like to remind myself that Clover’s just a kid.

Next up, Star! or, in this au, Stanley Sterling, the performative sheriff of a humble little town! i decided to switch up his poncho a little, for the sake of changing his design, gave him chaps (i like to call em pantaloons hoohoo!) and teal tassels for days! He’d prolly know more about cowboys than canon Starlo because, yknow, he lives on the surface!

Ah Martlet, or now, Marlette! but most just call her Marley. She has ~4 different outfits planned, a cozy, aviator style one for “Snowdin”, a sleeveless shirt with her flannel round her waist and a bandana for “the Dunes” and that flannel over her shoulders for “New Home”! along with a tee and pj’s for the epilogue. Her outfit is easy to manipulate so it only stays the same so often. Also, talon boots! ;]

And Dalv! Poor fella stayed a monster for the plot 😿 but i changed his design so he’s got a jacket similar to the one he has in Snowdin in uty but a whole lot smaller lol, along with a Batty pendant, a red vest and shoes and carved down horns! poor fella :(

Feel free to ask questions about these guys i am more than pleased to talk about them

[neechees]

Hi! You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, that's totally fine! But you talking about Orville Peck's appropriation of indigenous culture with his fashion choices made me realize that I had never considered that there might be some aspects of "cowboy clothes" that white ppl shouldn't wear and that was super wrong of me. Again, you totally don't have to answer this, but I was just wondering what ways a white person could wear "cowboy clothes" in a manner that wasn't disrespectful? Or perhaps, should we not wear them at all? I can't afford T yet, but when I can finally get it I was planning on getting a cowboy outfit to embrace my trans mascness, but if that would be wrong of me I can scrap that plan no problem!

Ehhh again this is actually SUPER HARD to answer because almost everything about cowboy fashion & the cowboy "aesthetics" are lifted directly from Native American fashion and culture, either because a lot of cowboys back in the day were Native American themselves (including Afro-Natives & Indigenous Mexican vaqueros) or they were White & just kinda. stole the look from the Native cowboys due to a number of factors.

If you google "cowboy jewelry" the first thing that comes up is silverwork & belts & turquoise jewelry, which is taken from Navajo metalwork. Fringed leather clothing? Again, many Native tribes did that (& in some tribes the fringes could mean something, its not just for looks), most popularily with vests, jackets, and pants. A lot if the leather jackets were a result of Native women just sewing their clothes the same but in a European styled cut. Compare this "cowboy" look below to a Lakota war shirt: both have hair embellishments dangling from the arms.

Studded belts? Inspired by Cheyenne mirror belts, which often also have metal studs in them & you'll still see Native pow wow dancers have this in their regalia. Floral vests? A lot of the inspiration comes from Plains floral beadwork. Geometric patterns and blankets? Came from Southwest or Mexican Native American blankets & designs, ask any Navajo weaver & they'll tell you the same. Feathers in cowboy hats? Who else is famous for wearing feathers on their heads--? Native Americans. The look is still popular with older Native men.

Hell, if you visit this site that sells Western/cowboy fashion, you'll see a SHITTON of appropriation going on, taking Native imagery & designs, including one taken from Native American ledger art, all on White models.

The appropriation of Native culture and fashion in the cowboy/western sphere is ongoing, and the influence that Native fashion & culture has in Western/cowboy fashion as it is is absolutely MASSIVE. I once said in another post that the cowboy/western aesthetic essentially belongs to Native Americans, Latines (especially Mexicans), and Black people. And the history of White cowboys has been one largely of colonialism, racism, and displacement of Indigenous peoples, and the masculinity associated with White cowboys especially is also steeped into racism & American patriotism (think John Wayne. There's a reason he's an American icon who played cowboys & killing Indians in films.). I think the only thing that isn't influenced from either appropriation or colonization is like, jeans. Even the style of cowboy boots themselves and potentially chaps were influenced from vaqueros.

So if you're White I'm not sure that'd exactly be a good route to take because trying to seperate Indigenous elements from this fashion/look (nevermind the problematic history of White cowboys) is almost impossible. Obviously I can't force you to do anything, but honestly if I were you, I'd try a different direction, because otherwise I think you'll find trying to do this will be very hard.

[marvelobsessed134]

Living dead girl

This is part of my spooky summer series! You can find the masterlist on the pinned post on my profile!

For the record, the reader is like a yassified zombie with a few blemishes lol. Think Ghoulia Yelps.

Parings: Paul x Zombie!Reader

Warnings: smut, fingering (f receiving), non verbal consent/communication, reader can’t talk, reader is dirty like actually she has dirt on her and shit

Paul wandered throughout the woods for no reason at all. He just wanted to be away from the boys for a while. Living with them all the time and being almost confined to the boardwalk of Santa Carla can get old. Suddenly he heard a noise.

The blonde’s head turned to see a human like figure by a tree. He decided to get a closer look. You were nothing like he’d ever seen before.

Greenish skin, wounds all over, green hair. You looked undead. “Uh, hi. Sorry for disturbing you. I’m Paul.” He said.

You examined the man, he seemed harmless so you limped your way towards him. Paul noticed you were like a zombie. Except zombies aren’t this beautiful and human looking…right?

Looking at him, you felt something you haven’t felt in a long time since you died…arousal. He had long blonde hair, beautiful eyes, and a gorgeous physique.

Suddenly your hand reached out and caressed his leather jacket. Paul watched your movements carefully, in case he had to defend himself. But he could tell you were probably not going to cause any harm.

“What’s your name?” He asked. You tried to speak but remembered that your vocal cords are basically dead and only a grunty sound came out.

“You can’t talk?” He asked and you shook your head.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” He asked and you nodded.

“You’re very beautiful.”

You wish you could blush, but you can’t since there’s literally like no blood in you.

“Are you a zombie?” Paul asked and you nodded once again before threading his fingers through your hair. Obviously it was quite dirty just like the rest of your body but he didn’t care. He found it quite erotic.

Suddenly you gripped his shoulders to hoist yourself up as you pressed your lips to his. Paul was shocked for a moment before kissing you back, feeling the chapped texture of your lips. But again, he didn’t care. He found you so erotic. Sexy. Exotic.

His hands wandered your body and tore away your already ripped up dress he laid you down on the ground and fondled your breasts, tweaking your hard nipples. You moaned, feeling so overwhelmed by this feeling you haven’t had in so long. Years. Ever since 1969 when you got bitten by a zombie and passed away on your way to Woodstock. But now, you feel a little more human again.

The blondes’ hands trailed down your body to your pussy that was soaked with slick. He rubbed your clit with his index finger making you jerk up, then he entered your hole, thrusting his finger in and out while his thumb creeped up to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles.

You were a moaning mess as he did this, digging your nails inside the moist dirt ground. “Holy fuck this pussy is so good.” The vampire groaned as he continued to stimulate you till you clenched around his fingers with a loud cry as you came.

He didn’t waste anytime licking your cum off his fingers.

“Hey, I have a place with my friends. I can help you get cleaned up and stuff…you won’t have to be alone anymore.” Paul suggested. Your eyes widened. The offer was very kind but you were afraid that it might be some kind of trap. You decided to take the risk and you nodded your head yes.

Paul stood up and scooped you up in his arms bridal style and carried you off to the boys’ cave.

[decaying-words]

The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires. 

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin. 

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course. 

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares. 

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings. 

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point. 

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose. 

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem. 

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue. 

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate. 

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life. 

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent. 

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace. 

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

[hypocriticaltypwriter]

White Wedding AU question: I know David's outfit is based of Billy Idol himself, but how did you come up with the designs for the other boys? Can we possibly get a more detailed look at them?

(PS I love the comedy and tragedy masks for Dwayne and Paul) 💜

Hi Lav!!! I'm so happy you wanna ask about the AU I can finally ramble about it~!!!

While I don't exactly have any sketches of the boys in full detail [Yet... 👀] I do have reference photos!

You are correct that David's appearance is heavily based off of Billy Idols initial look in the White Wedding music video [Maybe a bit of the band Ghost 👀], nothing much different I'd say. I'm such a sucker for the fact that David's whole look was slightly based off the punk style Idol had in the first place- and I'm a RELIGIOUS believer in the headcanon that he's one of David's favorite singers. 😩🙏

For Pauly's overall look and style, I was really inspired by Mötley Crüe and KISS. The whole style and look of the guys is based heavily on a ton of reds and black- and good God tassels and spikes. He also has bandages all over his arms and feet [given he's always running off sneaking around the grounds of the Chapel covered in thorny rose vines, glass, rocks n rubble BAREFOOT] watching their Pretty and making sure she isn't causing any trouble he'd had to go and report to David.

Similiar to Paul, Dwayne’s style is a little stylized from KISS, but the initial vibes and look I want from his is a Phantom Of The Opera feel. Also! I'll admit his outfit is quite similar to David's, maybe with a few changes and the leopard fur [ref to his jacket 😏] but it's kinda suppose to show how he's sort of a second to David if they were ever in ranks- he's the opposite side of the same coin of sorts when it comes to him and David and taking action with plans.

Speaking of the same coin, the masks are suppose to reveal the same with with Pauly and Dwayne! [While rarely worn unless for like- effect in scaring or threatening someone] The masks show how they seem to work- Paul's mischevious, a trickster, joyful, and Dwayne is more tragic, lonely, and heart broken.

Marko’s look is very much the more... Flashy and expressive than the other boys- but that's just how he is! He likes showing off his colors like an avian. He's got himself a Cowboy/Casanova [CARRIE UNDERWOOOOD 😩] Look- which is mostly just inspired by his natural look with chaps and worn out cowboy boots. 🫠 It's also supposed to give off his artistic feel with all the canvases and sharps of stain glass and treasures he finds dangling from the walls and ceilings of where he resides in the Chapel.

[omniluci-estumbra]

Xaden Riorson from Fourth Wing fan art 🖤

Lots of fashion thoughts for this series so I did a “normal” and a “dragon flying” version of his outfit (flying version includes goggles which I rarely see depicted in other fan art of this series and “flight leathers” which I have decided to interpret as cowboy style chaps…but for dragons instead of horses 🐉 cause whenever I read fantasy that includes riding dragons I can never imagine it would be super comfortable without something extra)

Then I like the idea of the flight jacket being like a leather bomber jacket - seems more warm for high altitude flights

So I guess to me they’re like pilot cowboys who ride dragons lolol 🤠✈️🐲

And finally I headcanon that the actual reason Xaden doesn’t like wearing the patches outside of required ones is because they’re colorful and mess with his darkness aesthetic lol

[gooch-cancer]

Steven Meeks x (GN!) Piano Player! Reader

In which: You are a church pianist for the Welton church whose gentle melodies caught the attention of Steven Meeks

A/N: I have no plan for this so we're rolling with it. If you've read this far, I love you so much. I hope the new style of paragraph breaks will make this easier to read. Also I really hope this story appeals to a large demographic especially my fellow y/n haters. Oh also I'm sorry if in this fic there are inaccuracies in christianity i'm jewish so the majority of the references, scenes, songs, etc. are strictly from google and christian sites. Prev chap here!:

Chapter 4:

Charlie widened his eyes in shock at what Meeks blurted out, the cave silent as you could see in real time the boys considering what he said. Neil nodded, "I mean...to me that sounds like a great idea Meeks,"

Steven brightened up slightly he smiled at Neil, "Really?"

He shrugged, "Yeah I think it's great idea,"

Charlie waved his hands while shaking his head, "No no no you don't wanna scare them off. There was a lot of passion in that poem and while it's good, you just don't know them like that,"

Knox leaned forward to look at Charlie while adding, "I did that with Chris and it worked!"

Charlie scoffed, "Chris has a boyfriend and you went to her school and embarrassed her, you're lucky she even let you crawl out alive,"

Knox's jaw dropped in offense, "What the hell is that supposed to-"

Pitts interrupted, "Guys! This is about Meeks not Knox's questionable way of flirting..."

Steven shot Pitts a small smile, Cameron just shook his head, "I think the whole thing is very risky...how're you even gonna be able to give it to them?"

Steven's smile grew as he responded, "I'll give it to them after chapel on Sunday!" he looked rather proud of himself at that.

Cameron scoffed, "I mean yeah but after Wednesday you don't think you're on thin ice with Mr.Nolan?"

Meeks laughed, "I think they're worth it," Cameron shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Charlie looked over at Meeks in surprise, "You're getting ballsy...I like it! Let's do it," Meeks turned back to Charlie, excitement etched on his face, "You really think so?"

Charlie nodded and Neil butted in, "Yeah I think it'll be good for you,"

Meeks looked at his friends in the cave, their eyes on him as interest and happiness for their friend was apparent in their faces. He felt their support, their love. If it weren't for them, he don't know where he'd been. He felt the nervousness in the pit of his stomach disappear as he began to fantasize about his interaction with you when giving you the poem.

Suddenly he had another idea, "Should I give them something with it?"

Knox shook his head, "You don't want to come off as desperate,"

Neil scoffed, "It's not desperate, it's romantic. Pianists are typically hopeless romantics," Knox chuckled, "How many pianists you know Neil?"

Neil frowned for a second in thought, "Uhhh one," Knox turned back to Meeks jutting a thumb toward him, "See don't take advice from this theater kid,"

Neil laughed, "I'll have you know, Puck is a very respected role," Knox snorted and rolled his eyes,

"Yeah, yeah," he smiled, "But anyway, you're meeting them in secret anyway, it'd be too obvious if you walked in with a bouquet in hand,"

Meeks nodded, "Yeah I can see where you're coming from,"

It was then the conversation for this topic died, Charlie distracting them with something absolutely idiotic that made them laugh. The meeting went just like that, the food gone, the poets all had their turns, and they were ready to turn in for the night. As they walked through the forest, his jacket being slightly itchy from the crumbs, he began to wonder about you. What were you doing right now? Probably sleeping, or maybe cozy on the grand piano in your house. Practicing a piece for tomorrow or school. He wondered what school you went to. Maybe it was the public school, maybe you knew Chris. He sighed deeply, a white puff of air coming out of his mouth as he breathed out.

The next morning, there it was. The day of the big show. The poem folded in his pants pocket as the boys sat around the table eating their eggs and toast. Knox leaned forward turning his head in Steven's direction, "How you feeling Meeks?" he questioned smiling with his mouth filled with toast. Steven sighed shakily, "I feel like I'm about to keel over,"

Charlie laughed at that, "It'll be fine! I think they're into you too anyway," Steven looked at Charlie, his eyes wide with hope, "You think so?"

Charlie nodded and took a bite of his food, "I know so," he said matter-of-factly. Steven smiled and looked at the clock. Only five more minutes. Five more minutes until he got to see your beautiful face again. He began to eat faster, eying Mr.Nolan to see when he'd stand up. Two more minutes now, and Mr.Nolan's not a man known to be late. As Steven was finishing out his toast Mr.Nolan stood and gestured for the cafeteria to be silent. They were almost immediately. Mr.Nolan cleared his throat, a habit that he was known to do before speaking, "Gentlemen, now is the time to make your way toward the chapel," The cafeteria was abuzz, boys throwing away their leftovers, making their way out of the building. Steven felt a lump in his throat, his anxiety making him nauseous.

This was going to work, he told himself, they might not fall for me but at least I'll finally get my feelings out there. He walked up the steps and into the building, sitting on the end of the pew in the front row with the rest of his friends. He had his hands in his pocket, gripping the poem with a life force that seemed impossible for a boy of his size and stature. Mr.Nolan finally walked in, with you beside him. Steven stared at you, his heart pounding in his chest. It was like every single time he saw you, you just got more and more ethereal. As always you sat behind the piano and looked at Mr.Nolan for your cue, the old man coughed for a second, "Gentlemen, turn your books to page 556 'Be Thou My Vision'," You began to play and Steven felt as if he'd been lifted off of the pew.

Without even trying you'd charmed him and he was absolutely smitten with you. His confidence grew and he started singing louder and louder, the song eventually fizzled out but he still had a confident smile on his face. He repeated the mantra in his mind that you'll like the poem, you seem like an artsy person, you'll love it. He studied you while Mr.Nolan spoke, only averting his eyes when you looked back at him. You looked at Steven for a second with a raised eyebrow before turning back to your piano. Steven waited anxiously for the sermon to be over. He did his best to control his breathing and calm down. Pitts, who was sitting beside him, noticed his friends anxious behavior and patted him on the shoulder.

Steven turned his head and gave a grateful smile to Pitts before turning back to you. You intertwined your fingers pushing them away from you until the joints cracked with a satisfying pop. Soon enough Mr.Nolan finished off the sermon with another song, your beautiful playing accompanied his tenor voice. As the boys piled out of the chapel, Steven stayed behind as he did every time.

You rushed toward him, "Steven I'm very sorry but I can't stay to chat,"

Steven looked at you in shock, his mind rushed for a quick response, "W-wait,"

You walked rather quickly down the aisle before turning back, "I'm sorry-"

Steven ran after you, "No! Please!" he dug his hands in his pockets, trying to search for the paper.

"No I can't-" You stopped when you saw the paper in his hand, "What is that?"

Steven looked at you, his eyes pleading, "You don't have to read it in front of me, just please, take it,"

You slowly reached your hand out to the paper, as if it would burn you. Your eyes never left his as you studied the desperation on his face. You pocketed it and said in a whisper, "I promise you that we can talk on Wednesday,"

Steven opened his mouth to respond but you ran out of the chapel, disappearing into the serene landscape.

[theoldoor]

hsr oc ref stuff

its a god damn challenge trying to design this dude cuz HE CANONICALLY LACK FASHION SENSE like he dresses ugly as hell and im trying to achieve that without him looking too ugly. + he has to keep all the clothes that was gifted to him cuz thats how fenrir is. FUCK I FORGOT PHILOSTRATE (his desert terminal)

but erhmmm… no doodles cuz… i was gettin devious (nsfw content) so i can’t rlly ramble cuz i got nothing to ramble about except for this fenrir ref here ARGH

Fenrir has an AWFUL sense of fashion, despite him being able to sew pretty clothes and design quite well. his abilities to pair them together for his own outfit SUCKASS. like he can style others, but not himself, his outfits for himself are canonically UGLY like not badlooking. UGLY. and it’s funny cuz he got a canonically attractive face and body but his haircut + outfits just messed it up like bro wtf are you trying to do here fenrir

yeah he got his tits out in the open LMFAO

here i want to focus on his character development more, yk, more signs of aventurine on his outfit and also symbols of billiards cuz he’s a billiards guy.

His sleeve is like, the heart symbol (by suit, heart is just below spade - like now he’s aventurine’s right hand man) and got that number 8 on it. cuz 8 ball. his colors are white and red too, like a card with accents of gold cuz he likes shiny things lol. But everything from the waist below (like that big belt) is recycled from Talia so that’s why it got that empty gun holster. Also the “pants” with the fringes are chaps lol. his shoe are splitted, like those hooves cuz he was antelope inspired and so he gotta have that too.

However, on his chest is a diamond symbol. and diamond is like second to last, standing behind heart - just that he’s emotionally weaker. i just made this on the spot i didn’t have this thought while i was drawing him LMFAO.

his little accessories are just band patches. However, he has to ripped some of them off as university of veritas prime doesn’t fw that so he kept pins and ‘appropriate’ patches. which is what you see on that jacket. The little thing hanging from his name tag is actually sigonia’s knot of cyclicality he still kept when aventurine gave him during talia. They were made with different materials, thus why it’s not tossed to the flames.

The star pin is a gift from Hermia while the yellow gold coin is Nailscrap’s coin that he still kept, a gift given to him my Aelyn - his deceased best friend who aided him greatly in talia.

Fenrir’s back is heavily based on this magpie, which in his old ref showed that better. I like the energy from the old ref more but the new ref has more details… The blanket is something i struggled with the new one. I feel like the old one still showed the back better…..r…. but i wanted the eye symbolism to be more clear on the new one. Maybe I should keep the old’s blanket design lol. too late tho, i already drew it.

AND YEAH I FIXED HIS HAIR TOO

tahts it chat

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today, on 8th February, 1976 - Queen Story!

New York, NY, USA, Beacon Theater

'A Night At The Opera Tour'

🔸Freddie Mercury was taking tea on the 47th floor of his New York hotel. In his suite. The Royal suite, of course. It was the morning after yet another triumph for Queen - that brilliant and highly original British rock band built around the outrageous ideas and stage presence of the exotic Mr.

Mercury. They had played their fourth concert in as many nights at the battered but fashionable Beacon Theatre, and wvith an album and a single in the American charts, they were riding high.

Warm tea was permitted to slide down Mr. Mercury's regal throat as he prodded gingerly at some nasty looking bruises on the side of his neck.

He explained, My very promising pop career nearly came to an untimely end last night. Two young girls outside the theatre decided to claim my scarf as a souvenir. They quite forgot that it was wrapped around my neck at the time, and they very nearly strangled me. I'm sure Her Majesty doesn't have to put up with this sort of thing. But then, she doesn't have anything in the charts at the moment does she?"

He is a wicked man, Mr. Mercury.

He is also everything that a rock idol is supposed to be, and New York has been quick to recognise this. Like Mick Jagger, Freddie has off-beat good looks. Jagger has those pneumatic lips, and Freddie has the most out- spoken set of teeth ever to have found their way on to a pop fan's wall. He also enjoys the lifestyle of a true superstar - he lives out our fantasies for us far more effectively than we could ever manage to do for our- selves. Even if we had his kind of money.

His dress sense is sensational. He seldom looks less than spectacular, and he is not the sort of chap who believes in going unnoticed. Satin is his favourite fabric, with silk coming a close second. And he loves those loose, floppy, Japanese-style jackets.

But as he is quick to point out, There is a quiet side to me too, you know.

My home life is very civilised, and I hardly ever dress up to watch the tele- vision. Unless I am watching a Royal occasion of course. Then, my dear, it's on with the tiara and the emine ..

the LOT!

But Freddie felt there were better things to do in the city of New York than sit around sipping tea and discussing sartorial matters. He in- vited photographer Terry 0ʻNeill and me to join him on a shopping expedition, and it seemed a reason- able idea. Freddie was his casual self in short fur coat, white satin slacks, white clogs and silver snake bracelet.

The problems we encountered were little ones. Like young girls sobbing softly outside the door of a shoe shop while Freddie sought some- thing for the regal feet inside. And then there was the confusion of the young lady in Bloomingdale's depart- ment store who began to give Freddie a free manicure, only to discover that the nails on his left hand were already painted with black lacquer.

Freddie said, I love America. But l cant imagine ever coming here to live.

Our music is successful over here because it is so distinctively English.

We must keep it that way. I have just bought a new house in London, and an enormous car that looks like a boat on wheels. I could never leave all that.

And I have far too much fun ever to worry about a silly little thing like tax.

I know l'm terribly extravagant.

I always have been. My life these days is one perpetual spending spree. So I suppose l am the sort of person who needs to find ways of reducing tax.

But it's all such a bore. Why don't you buy a pair of these beautiful glitter shoes? They 're outrageous. And they 're cheap. And they re much more interesting than tax, don't you think?

I did think so. But I decided against buying the lurid footwear. You have to be a star to wear shoes like that.

Somebody rather like Freddie Mercury, in fact.

[kitkatopinions]

Nitpick November Day Five! Let's talk about the Happy Huntress uniforms.

So, I don't remember exactly where I heard it, but I'm pretty confident it's true; The Happy Huntresses introduced in V7 were meant to parallel but be contrasts to the Ace Ops also introduced in V7. I could make an entire post about the ways that I think that failed that are a little more important than their uniforms like Robyn being a politician and them stealing from government works projects rather than like them stealing from Jacques Schnee and how I would've done the Robin Hood allusion differently etcetera etcetera, but those aren't nitpicks.

But specifically with the uniforms, I'm gonna nitpick the hell out of that. Because one of the ways that the Happy Huntresses could've so easily been used to contrast the Ace Ops is their clothes. We as the audience are meant to see the Ace Ops as stiff, order followers who act within the confines of Atlas and Ironwood, and we're meant to view the Happy Huntresses instead as the cool, rebellious non-conforming good badge carrying law enforcement officers that only follow their own rules (which again is an entirely different problem that's much bigger than a nitpick.) But if we're going to see the Ace Ops as stiff and confined and the Happy Huntresses instead represent freedom and expression... Why are their outfits so matchy? The Happy Huntresses should dress however they want, wield cool creative weapons, express themselves through their clothes and emblems if they even have emblems! Even though the Ace Ops all keep to an Atlas color scheme, their outfits are otherwise just as personalized if not more personalized than the Happy Huntress outfits are. Apparently Ironwood is like "No, it doesn't matter if Marrow is wearing a long sleeved coat, Harriet, of course you should wear a tank-top shirt and white shorts with dark blue chaps if you want to," but the Happy Huntresses were like "If our jackets aren't almost the exact same except in different dulled down colors, we won't look like a team." I'll also point out that making the Ace Ops a group of five (something that goes against the norm of teams as we've seen in RWBY) and only making four important HH members (though there is one more member named Crimson that's offscreen according to the Wiki,) is also slightly weird to me. Like, shouldn't Robyn's team be the one not adhering to strict arbitrary unnecessary rules like how many people are usually put on a team, while the Ace Ops are the ones who are adhering to those guidelines? I read on the wiki once that the Ace Ops being comprised of five people was 'a clue' that Ironwood wasn't good because he wasn't adhering to the four-person team thing, and I'm just like...

It's a nitpick, but really, why do the Happy Huntresses have any sort of uniform? If I was trying to play the Ace Ops as stiff and controlled and the Happy Huntresses as contrasting that, I'd start by giving the Ace Ops all one unchanging across the board uniform and making the Happy Huntresses an explosion of different styles and cool color schemes with no set aesthetic or uniforms at all. It seems obvious! Why couldn't one of them be more subdued and grayscale and one of them is like colorful punk and one of them is more cutesy vintage and one of them dresses in like... Idk, seventies inspired glam, or vampire looking goth stuff, or grunge or biker or anything interesting and not conforming?

This might just be me personally too, but I have an easier time getting attached to and caring about side characters when they look like they have a lot of personality. Like don't get me wrong, May specifically has a great personality that shines through even without some kind of iconic look. But compare this

To this

There's a reason people loved Neo from her very first appearance before we even knew anything about her, and it's because we could get so much character from just this shot

Not to mention

So much character can be gleaned by style (and attitude.) I do not understand the choice to make characters that are meant to be significant and thematic like the Happy Huntresses and then putting them all in dulled down samey uniforms with all the same weapon.

[fuckmeyer]

How do you imagine the Cullens and Bella dressing like in your book?

similar style but slight adjustments.

Bella probably goes through the biggest change. she starts off In the Afterlight wearing jeans, band tees, chunky sweaters, & very eclectic pieces (bowling shirt ABSOLUTELY exists). in Come Nightfall she changes - she 1) won't wear anything she stole from Edward (i.e. sweaters and flannels), 2) does so much activity outdoors she's wearing exclusively athletic wear, and 3) is forced to hide her scent later on so objectively dresses WORSE with stained, mismatched thrift-store clothes. doesn't own a khaki skirt. in By Starlight, now that Edward's home, she's back to athletic wear. Edward likes this very, very much.

Edward has the same style with more color. NO sleeveless white button-up because what the FUCK. when he's hunting, he's a jeans and flannel shirt kinda guy - he'll often wear clothes he hates when hunting. (ofc, now that Bella wears his flannel shirts, he's rethinking his tastes.) otherwise, day-to-day, he's a loose slacks, undershirt, & suspenders kinda guy (think 1950s or 20s). nice button-ups and dark fitted sweaters in deep, dark colors like navy, burgundy, phthalo green. extremely lame in a cute way. light spoilers for future chaps, but this man is literally always trying to hide his body.

i picture the Cullens dressing mostly in timeless outfits and styles.

Esme adores dresses and skirts à la Audrey Hepburn. classic, chic, evergreen. she would wear neutrals the most day-to-day but adores flowing prints and polka dots when she feels in the mood :) definitely wears ratty skirts or jeans when gardening.

Rosalie's casual/business casual style has some Princess Di influences with some modern trends mixed in (thanks to Alice). keeps some greasy old jeans and overalls for her mechanic work.

Carlisle really misses wearing embroidered brocaded waistcoats & frilly shirts. thinks modern men's fashion is boring. slacks and button-ups for this man. CARDIGANS ALL DAY. misses wearing ascots, but likes scarves. god, he hates modern men's fashion.

Jasper actually loved his 90s grunge/punk era and never really left it. army boots/doc martins (with the coded laces OFC), ripped jeans, plaid shirts, band tees, beanies, leather jackets with handsewn patches.

Emmett is jeans and tees all day. James Dean kinda guy with the boots, slacks/jeans, nice white tee, bomber jacket.

Alice is a freak. she's following every trend. she says it's to keep the Cullens in the modern world (true - to their dismay, she WILL go through their closets and add/subtract items). but really, it's her way to stay connected to the present day. she has ofc rare commissioned pieces from different designers, beautiful pieces from eras long gone that she can't bear to part with (because ofc everything comes back in style), weird pieces from niche trends... but she absolutely DOES dress like she's straight from a 2000s-era issue of Seventeen. for better or worse.

[cobragardens]

The Missed(?) Connection

Here's a story about how fucking stupid life is.

When I worked in Manchester city centre I would commute in every day on the train from one of the market towns. This would have been c. 2014-2015, before I started having panic attacks about going to work but after I'd been written up for being 5-10 minutes late most mornings.*

Every morning I would walk up Deansgate from Deansgate Station to the office, stopping at a Sainsburys Local to buy breakfast. This particular morning I was late as usual, so the great migration had already browsed the foliage of yogurt bars and uninspiring sandwiches and thundered onwards; besides the store clerk there was only one other person in the shop with me.

Do you believe people can fall in love at first sight?

I did not believe any such thing, so it was QUITE THE SURPRISE to me when I did it.

Here is what I remember about her:

*She was wearing one of those Nepalese yak-wool jackets with the bright rainbow-dyed yarn they sell at the Christmas market every year. Most such garments end up smelling strongly of b.o. and weed stank, grimy and unravelling, but hers was bright and well kept, and she wore it over a short black skirt and tights and managed to achieve a kind of insouciant charm with it so marked that it didn't occur to me for years after that she might have been wearing the jacket for pride reasons.

*She was trans and white and straight-sized.

*Her hair was a well-chosen blonde that would look plausible on her when freshly colored, which at that moment it was not; her hairstyle was a layered cut no longer than her shoulders and in need of a trim.

*The fashion of the time called for contouring and false lashes, but instead she was wearing simple-looking makeup that suited her: black mascara and a lip color somewhere between red and berry. I remember the red of the lip color did not match the cheerful Sno-Cone red of the rainbow jacket but was perfect for her complexion.

*Her black ankle boots had mid heels--the thick sturdy kind of heel good for walking a mile or two in the city if your back doesn't hate you yet. She would have been a bit taller than I am even in stocking feet; the heeled boots took the length of her legs past enviable into devastating.

*She wore a few sterling silver rings, but not so many it looked like dress-up, which is the mistake I always make with them. I coveted at least one of the rings, but I no longer recall their motifs. Her hands were fine-boned, the nails unpainted, knuckles a bit raw and chapped pink, in need of hand cream; I found them enchantingly beautiful.

*I stood behind her while she paid for her breakfast. I recall thinking the style of her pocketbook was cool. I don't remember now what it looked like.

*Her face wore that mildly unhappy cast people's faces have when they're going to work in the mornings and haven't quite finished the process of stuffing away enough of their real life's problems to appear together and professional. Just ever so slightly fragile.

I had no contact with anyone queer in the country. To my knowledge I'd met three trans people in my whole life. I'd dated a grand total of one woman. All my other previous relationships had been with men.

And none of that mattered, because I was in love. Just like that.

I don't know how I knew, but I knew, and the certainty was simple and clear and easy: I knew I wanted to ask her to dinner, and I knew I wanted to know her on whatever terms she was comfortable being known. I knew I wanted to give her footrubs and brush her hair and ask her about her day and memorize which of her coworkers were giving her grief.

And I didn't ask her out. Because I was late for work. Late enough that it didn't matter if I stopped to get breakfast at the Sainsburys Local, but also late enough that if I stopped to talk to someone I'd be written up again.

I am sure you will agree that this sucks on multiple levels. For one thing it sucks that I was not a person worthy of her, a person not in danger of being fired, a person capable of getting to work on time more than 1 day in 4, a person who could afford to be late long enough to chat her up.

For another thing it's a bit Pink Floyd's The Wall that I was so beaten down by life I was financially and psychologically compelled to crush part of my soul, and who knows, maybe a shot at real love and a beautiful future, in order to remain employed.

It haunts me that there are things that I don't even know I don't know about myself, and that I experienced something that can't be explained, and of course most of all that I will never know whether that feeling of serendipity was accurate.

But the thing that really gets up my nose about this event, the thing that makes me think that any god that exists must be an evil motherfucker, is this:

The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to try for something precious and true and my inability to meet that opportunity were the same moment, brought about by the same set of circumstances. If I hadn't been so late to work I couldn't stop to talk to her, I wouldn't have been in the shop at the same time she was. I would never have seen her.

*Improbably, I was unaware at the time that I had anxiety.

[2manykinks]

The List of Kinks

(Updated 4/15/23)

This Tumblr may be more or less defunct, but I realize I never actually introduced my entire list of kinks yet -- and I still have plans to give each one a post before I consider this Tumblr officially 100% "mission accomplished" -- but now you can pin posts. Seems like a good thing to pin.

So here are all the ones I've already introduced, plus a few more for good measure. I'll update this post as I get around to revealing my full catalog, finally. Orange are topics I don't think I've ever made an actual post specifically calling out, yet.

#1 - Bare Feet

#2 - Bare Soles

#3 - Light Soles on a Tanned Stud

#4 - Wetsuits

#5 - Smoothskin Wetsuits

#6 - Surfers

#7 - Bodyboarders

#8 - Dive Studs

#9 - Barefoot Celebrities

#10 - Guys Barefoot in Blue Jeans

#11 - Guys Barefoot in Rubber

#12 - Businessmen Barefoot / Wearing the Wrong Shoes

#13 - Martial Artists / Martial Arts Uniforms

#14 - Men Wearing Hakama

#15 - Judoka / BJJ Men

#16 - Aikidoka / Iaidoka

#17 - Men With Weapons / Holsters or Sheaths

#18 - Cowboys

#19 - Superheroes and Villains

#20 - Spies and Secret Agents

#21 - Military Men

#22 - Mounties and their Red Serge Uniforms

#23 - Redheads / Gingers

#24 - Dive Masks

#25 - Sucking Snorkels / Regulators

#26 - Rubber Gloves

#27 - Leather/Racing/Sports Gloves

#28 - Neoprene/Webbed/Dive Gloves

#29 - Boxing Gloves / MMA-style gloves

#30 - Men Wearing Tabi / Split-Toed Shoes

#31 - Men Wearing Flippers/Fins

#32 - Other footwear not listed (luge shoes, US Marine boots, Neoprene booties)

#33 - Men Wearing Sandals / Flip-Flops

#34 - Men wearing Tall Leather / Rubber Boots

#35 - Open-Heel Flippers

#36 - Gasmasks

#37 - [Redacted; removed from kink list.]

#38 - Neoprene

#39 - Rubber / Latex

#40 - Spandex / Lycra

#41 - Other Materials (Puffer Jackets / Silk / Nasty Pig or Slick It Up gear/ PVC or Vinyl)

#42 - Leather

#43 - Using your feet to dish out punishment

#44 - Non-nudity (but close) / #deshabille

#45 - Dominant Men

#46 - Men Saluting

#47 - Riding (Equestrian) Boots / Pants / Outfits

#48 - Unconscious / Sleepy / KO'd Men

#49 - The Forbidden Fetish ... (strictly fantasy)

#50 - Defeated / Helpless Men

#51 - Bound Men / Bondage

#52 - Wrestlers / Wrestling Singlets

#53 - Men in Pain

#54 - Ball busting / Groin Kicks

#55 - Humiliation

#56 - Assume the Position: Bicep Flex / Double Bicep Flex

#57 - Assume the Position: Kowtowed / Sprawled / Ass Up

#58 - Assume the Position: the "Ken Pose" / L-Sit

#59 - Other Hot Foot Positions: Sole Steeple, Crossed Ankles

#60 - Assume the Position: On Balls of Feet

#61 - Assume the Position: Chokes / Chokeholds

#62 - Breath Control / Glove or Hand Over Mouth (GOM/HOM)

#63 - Armbars / Armlocks

#64 - Headscissors / Triangles

#65 - Leg locks / Ankle Locks / Foot Pain

#66 - Dazed / Dizzied Men

#67 - Jobbers

#70 - Skinsuits / Luge Gear / Cycling Suits / Gymnast Gear

#73 - Swimming Gear (silicone swim caps or swimwear) / Swimmers

#74 - Chaps (any material)

#75 - Rubber Uniforms (any)

#76 - White Gloves (again, any but especially boxing or military or rubber)

#77 - Military Uniforms (other than camouflage gear)

#78 - Cammies

#81 - Capes / Superhero Capes

#83 - Yellow Rubber/Latex/Neoprene/Gear

#84 - White Rubber/Leather/Lycra/Neoprene

#85 - Men in Red Rubber / Neoprene / Leather / Red Gloves

#86 - Men in Baby Blue / Aqua Blue / Royal Blue / Electric Blue (anything)

#87 - Bears / Hairy Studs / Otters

#88 - Bears in Tight Rubber / Neoprene

#90 - Wet Men

#92 - Berets

#95 - Knights and Paladins / Armor / Ren Faire clothing

#98 - Photos Taken For Me / Sent To Me (involving items on this list)

#99 - Photos I've Taken of Kinks #1 - #97

#100 - Hypnosis / Mind Control / Drones

[original-character-championship]

Bracket E Round 1

Poll 3

Eclipse (@pirateflavor) vs. Eleutherios  (@trans-estinien)

261. Eclipse (@pirateflavor)

He/him

Eclipse’s intentions aren’t that clear. Having fought his way out of the underworld, this tall masked demon seems willfully disconnected from what most of the surface world has to offer. What are his motives? Does he even care about winning? It’s more worrisome what might happen if he doesn’t. After all, he’s always got a loaded revolver on his side, and a few centuries worth of experience.

A 9-foot tall demonic entity. Wears a round dual-colored helmet with a toothy grin. The left side is red and has an eye hole that morphs shape to match his expressions. The right side is white with an ‘x’ in place of the eye and black teeth. Has a white iris. Has yet to be seen unmasked.

Wears a creme-colored jacket with black leather shoulder pads, flared collar, wrist cuffs, and a chest-length zipper with two snap buttons. Left elbow has a red insignia of a ‘x’ in a connected circle. Wears red/black camo chaps over black slacks, fastened by a red belt with a rectangular belt buckle engraved with two ‘x’s. Has a holster on his left hip that carries a Wild West-style magnum revolver. Wears red slip-on cowboy boots that are flat-toe and steel-capped.

Has dark grey skin. Four fingers per hand and three toes per foot, all digits tipped with matching-color claws. Has a long devil tail that ends in an point. Is left-handed. Always smells like ash.

I used him in a fan mv I made for one of my favorite overseas artist’s songs. Dunno if that’s helpful at all but just thought I’d share :p

262. Eleutherios  (@trans-estinien)

He/Him

HE IS MY SPECIALEST LITTLE GUY AND IF HE DOESN'T WIN I'M BLOWING THIS WHOLE ROOM TO SMITHEREENS. just kidding. Unless...? Ok but in all seriousness he is probably the character I have put the most time and effort into and I am so so so normal about him and his two husbands.... Unsundered azem au sweep?