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[lintarose]

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[zukosdualdao]

a wound to close, the whole thing open

zutara month, day 2: journal/diary.

summary: when katara searches the attic of ember island, she comes across a journal, hidden away on an old bookshelf.

warnings: implied/referenced child abuse wrt ozai's treatment of zuko. what's referenced here is emotional abuse and i would say at show-canon levels.

other notes: title is from gracie abrams' "camden". also, this fic is very much 'picture taken moments before mild disaster', because i imagine after the end, katara still finds ozai's baby picture, thinking it's zuko, and her thought process is 'well that was sad but look at cute baby zuko!' oops!

Katara knows she’s wrong to snoop, but it’s just so hard to resist now they’re somewhere a young Zuko once lived for stolen weeks of golden summers at a time. For so long, she’d never wondered about him much at all—she’d had, after all, no reason to want to know the boy who chased them around the world in his pursuit of capturing Aang—but things are different now.

First, there had been the catacombs of Ba Sing Se, and she’d caught another glimpse of that boy, another side of him. Wearing Earth Kingdom robes two sizes too big for him, with grief and sympathy that matched hers shining in his eyes, saying strange things about destiny and curses and seeming so lost.

Katara had spent long weeks after the fact wondering whether any of it was true as she struggled to capture sleep on that stolen Fire Navy ship. 

Of course, that was far from the only anxiety on her mind. Wondering when Aang would wake up, if he would at all… Sokka’s growing plans for the invasion, and what it could mean for all of them… being with her father for the first time in years, how half of her wanted to light up at the comfort of it but the other couldn’t dare because he went away and what if it happened again?

And Zuko…

She would turn to her other side, her chin resting on a flat hand, and wonder about him. He’d seemed so sincere, but Katara had wondered often how that could be the case when just moments later, he was catapulting rage and fire in her direction. 

But then he’d come to them and begged for a chance to prove himself. 

And even before she wanted to, far before she felt ready for it, she’d started to come to know things about him. How he would get up at dawn every morning—rising with the sun, she’d thought bitterly—to practice his own firebending forms before his lessons with Aang. How he’d sometimes frown when making the first batch of tea for them around a campfire and then make a second and always seemed to light up when their meals had a little extra spice to them.

How he would sometimes squirm just a little and hesitate a beat and sometimes even bristle before smiling shyly when the others teased him, as though it took a moment to steady his footing and catch up to the fact that it was only teasing.

She had started to know him, to really know him, before she’d wanted to, before she’d forgiven him, before she decided it was safe to let the distance between them shrink.

But now they’re friends. And with the comet looming in the coming days, with things a little tense and strange between everyone since that disaster of the play, and with the vestiges of Zuko’s childhood right here, it’s hard not to be curious.

And, as she reasons to herself while setting the cooking pot of solid silver atop the bookshelf, at least she has deniability. 

The shelves are lined with old books, with gold thread traced through their spines, and old scrolls with white parchment coloring yellow, with shiny maps, and…

Katara’s brow scrunches as she catches sight of what seems to be an old journal, bound by leatherskins, poking out from behind one of the old tomes, clearly meant to be hidden away.

She reaches for it. It’s such a small, delicate thing, really, but it feels heavy in her hands.

When she flips to the first pages, she recognizes the symbols for Zuko’s name, written out in a long, intense, careful scrawl. She’s never seen his handwriting before, but it matches what she might’ve guessed it would look like, teetering between bold and delicate.

Katara flips past the first pages, which seem to mostly consist of Zuko practicing his letters, and comes across what seems to be a draft of a letter he’d written to Iroh, certain lines crossed out or words respelled after an ink-permanent error. He asks after when Iroh will return from the war—and she shudders to think that the kindly old man who'd helped them on more than one occasion had once been much different, the terrible Dragon of the West, laying siege to Ba Sing Se.

But in another line, Zuko writes to his uncle about a festival and paper dragons. Her heart swells to think he was once so young and even playful.

Atop the right corner of the page, there is a tiny, shaded-in sketch of a blooming fire lily. Katara smiles.

She flips through more pages, most of which are much the same as the first several, but then pauses. On this one, there are dark patches—the kind that she can tell came from water drying on the parchment, and it’s now wrinkled. Once, she might have been able to salvage the page with her bending, but the water has long-since dried up and left only deterioration in its wake.

It’s…

The page is tear-stained. He’d cried when writing this.

Gulping, Katara squints her eyes to read his small script, so much shakier than the previous pages had been. She can’t read most of it, for the smears and the wrinkling of the page, and she’s not sure she even wants to, anyway, because what she does manage to scan through makes her feel a little sick, her stomach clenching.

—don’t know what I can do, he had written, and it’s all too easy to imagine a much younger version of her friend with tears in his eyes, sobs wracking his shoulders, a lonely figure in a dark attic. — to better, to not so weak. 

There's a series of words Katara can’t make out, but she does catch Father and love.

And then, one shining beacon of hope:

But Mom says—

The writing stops there. She will never know what his mother used to say.

She flips through the rest of the journal, but the pages are hauntingly blank. There are no more entries after that. 

Katara places the journal back where it was tucked and has the vague sense that she’s back where she started.

A strange guilt gnaws at her. Somehow, she thinks she understands Zuko both better and worse than she did before.

[ghostoftonantzin]

The WIP Graveyard Game

@phasmama was kind enough to tag me back on her post

The rules: post snippets from at least on WIP you have abandoned! Mine are going under the cut, because I'm going to post the full five, mostly from 2020-2021 times.

I'm going to tag another 5 people, because I can >:) : @achaosmuppet @theshriekingsisterhood @madelgard (yes I know you moved into the star wars fandom, but still) @starkurt, @indashadows

WIP Title: Laura Branigan Lyric (that's what the word doc is called)

Concept: 1980s AU, focused on Laszlo and Nadja as high powered business people with a sideplot of Nandermo paralleling Guillermo's season 2 arc.

Abandoned because: tbh this one was mostly just one I liked to turn around in my head. It never got past the outlining phase.

Snippet:

His friends frequently describe the joy of conquest to him. Finding a beautiful woman, a model or a music video vixen or both, taking her to the hottest restaurants, introducing her to their friends, showing her the kind of life they lead, on the cutting edge.

It reminds Laszlo of the foxes the hounds chased on hunts on his childhood manor. He imagines the woman as a fox set upon by hounds, torn apart under their small teeth.

But this, this… is like being caught, helpless, in the jaws of a lioness.

(this was the only part that made it past outlining)

WIP Title: tie a ribbon back around it

Concept: Jenna/Shanice, Jenna comes to visit Shanice after she's turned

Abandoned because: it just kind of stayed near the bottom of my WIP list until it fell off, pretty much. Plus I could never get the Jenna POV feeling quite right.

Snippet:

Jenna’s phone said 9:16 p.m., so she figured Shanice would be back from her chemistry night lab pretty soon. She shouldn’t be late, unless she got murdered on that one stretch of the walk from the chemistry building to her new dorm with no lights or police call boxes. Jenna knew it was a good place to get murdered, because Nadja had told her so when Jenna had shown it to her.

One downside to being a vampire was the whole no-reflection thing, which made it hard to check her lipstick in the glass. The lipstick was new, a plum wine red color that the saleslady at Sephora said looked good with her skin tone. Not that she didn’t like the red Nadja had lent her on their first night out! But this was one of those liquid lipsticks that was supposed to stay on through anything.

WIP Title: you've got me living only for the night

Concept: a follow-up to come in from the edge (and let the good times roll), my second-ever fic, the one with Karen (from Collaboration, remember her?) and two of the ladies from Simon's gang. Karen is now living with the Freak Sisters and performing at

Abandoned because: partly because it got struck down so thoroughly by future canon installments, and partly because I fell out of love with the idea.

Snippet:

She sits down in the living room to wait for Mr. Fifties. The Freak Sisters had flown ahead, something about a meeting at the club before the show. They obviously hadn’t needed Karen to know more about it, so she hadn’t asked. She’d felt bad about making Mr. Fifties drive, but Despoina had put another bobby pin in Akeldama’s red wig and patiently explained how he was usually looking for an excuse to bring out his stick shift convertible anyway.

They’ve got her bloodstained bra and underwear framed on the wall, like a sports jersey. It’s a little embarrassing, Karen thinks. She can tell how cheap the lace is now; most of hers costs at least twice that now. She models every pair for them, which is more of a thing for her than for them, but they still clap and leer and pull her in close every time.

The Leatherskins have all always been polite about her, but Mr. Fifties has always been a perfect gentleman. He offers her his arm at the door, though she’s wearing slip on sneakers and not heels. Her heels are usually too high for her to really walk in. The Freak Sisters really like that, especially Despoina.

WIP Title: Vampire King

Concept: a follow-up to such strenuous living, i just don't understand, aka the one where Guillermo is a volunteer at a vampire sanctuary. This was intended to be the follow-up covering the release of the documentary being filmed in the original fic.

The documentary being Vampire King, about the controversies behind Simon the Devious's Sassy Cat Vampire Ranch and Guillermo de la Cruz's campaign to have it shut down.

Abandoned because: other ideas took precedence and I didn't want to learn to code the fake tweets. It also never got past the brainstorming stage.

WIP Title: Die, Cry, Hate

Concept: post-season-2 on the run fic, this time where the vamps go and stay with an old friend of Nandor's, Madame Beausoleil, a creepy French ex-aristocrat vampire with live-laugh-love type taste in decor (hence the title) and a questionable tendency towards hypnotizing her familiars. She decides to repay Nandor's past help by hypnotizing Guillermo to seduce him.

Abandoned because: this was brainstormed in the post-s2 hiatus, and canon continuing past that diminished my interest in the idea. Also never got past the outlining stage.

Snippet (in outline form):

-M.B. is laying boxes out on her coffin, kind of ignoring him

            -coffin looks slightly out of place in the room; large white, carved into deep, intricate panels with elaborate motifs and inlaid heavily with gold and accented with pale pinks and blues

-Guillermo asks her about her relationship to Nandor

            -she’s known him a long time, helped her out a lot in Paris, owes him a lot of favors

-turns to him “You will submit to my dark power.”

-fuck.

-“You will be Nandor’s for the daytime, for him to do with as he pleases.”

-“alright, strip”

-Guillermo starts taking his clothes off, stake falls out of his sleeve, sees MB. watching it fall to the floor, but can’t move to do anything about it

-she’s absolutely going to kill him

-She picks up a stake “I didn’t know Nandor was into gardening. I’d always taken that as more of Laszlo’s hobby”

-naked, looking at her, she gestures towards the boxes

-he goes to look at them, opens the boxes

            -lingerie: red and silk-like, black and strappy, white and lacy, pink and sheer

            -she tells him to pick out the pair he think Nandor would like

-“I had to guess your cup size.” She said, glancing at his chest with a furrowed brow.

-feels like he’s walking on the floor above a great machine, feeling its motion beneath him without comprehending it

            -brain working without him

-picks white and lacy (“always knew Nandor was a big fan of the wedding night look”), slides on underwear, garter, stockings

[indian-leather-tannery]

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[theveiledtempestvii]

Heil, sun damaged sweaty milkmaid

[slimfitjacket]

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[brosleathervn]

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[nouveaunovelist]

The Leatherskin Vault

Ibuki’s 3rd book, The Leatherskin Vault, was inspired when he wanted to upgrade his savings account and was informed that doing so came with a slew of new banking fees. The antagonists are a group of herbivore bankers who engage in the leather trade by accepting the hides of their customers as an alternative to paying off debts; they avoid legal troubles by framing their killings on carnivores. One of the bankers who gets killed in the final act is a misogynistic Okapi.

[gaypornvideoswebsite]

obtaining intel about the water levels at the nude gay beach from a leatherskinned old man with a jewel buttplug lodged in his ass who speaks in bluecollar poetry you could never be me

[babbushka]

Hi there May I request “did I stutter do as your told” with pale ty

1.4k (NSFW: dirty talk, riding, cockwarming) 

It’s real late out there in the big bad world one night, when Pale finally comes home. He practically kicks the door down in his haste to get inside, the bitter cold of winter bringin’ along a blizzard that he didn’t have gloves for.

He rubs his hands together and shucks his leather jacket off, steps outta his boots. Leatherskin didn’t mix too great with the snow, he’s pissed off to find, but he doesn’t care about nothin’ else in that moment, because standing in front of him naked, is you.

“Hey honey.” You smirk, hands on your hips, tits out on display almost in defiance.

Immediately, Pale is drawn to them, wants nothin’ more than his palms under the weight of your tits, and so with only a little protest about the chill of his hands, you let him cup and squeeze your breasts to his heart’s content, getting a happy – or at least as close to happy as you can get out of Pale – sigh.

“I’m real fuckin’ tired baby, christ I feel like I’m nothin’ but a sack o’bones standin’ here in this expensive fuckin’ suit. Help me out of it?” He eyes you, bites at his lip, not wanting to waste any time.

Sure he should probably go shower and eat somethin’ -- how the fuck was it already 3am? – but all he wants is you, your naked body so inviting, warm and comforting in every possible way. You let out a small hum of a laugh and lead him by the hand through the foyer and into the living room, Pale shedding his suit jacket and silk shirt along the way.

You’ve set up a little love nest on the couch, the soft blankets from the bedroom and some candles from the closet that you thought had a sorta romantic atmosphere. One of his cassette tapes is playin’ real low on the big stereo system he’s got hooked up in the wall-unit, and the fireplace is gently flickerin’, making the whole room real cozy.

“Why don’t you sit down, let me take care of you?” You suggest, trying to be coy. “Light up one of your cigarettes and let me show you a good time.”

“Ohh you’re wet huh? Is that it? Were you playin’ with that pretty pussy for me? Keepin’ her company since I couldn’t do it my damn self? Well I’m back now baby, let me get a looksee at her, c’mon show me.” Pale grins, too many teeth, sharklike, and it only makes you roll your eyes.

“Go sit down.” You swat at his hands, wantin’ to be romantic, wantin’ to treat him right the way he always makes sure to do for you.

“But – ” Pale whines, and you roll your eyes, finding him both exasperating and endearing.

“Did I fuckin’ stutter handsome?” You raise a brow, pointing to the couch with a bit of an attitude, “Do as your told.”

“I love when you think you’re in charge.” Pale grins again, and you swat at him for the remark, but ultimately he goes.

“Do you want to come in me or not?” You threaten teasingly, and that at least is enough motivation for him to unbuckle his trousers and raise his hands defensively.  

“I’m sittin’, ain’t I?” He huffs, and you decide you don’t want to deny yourselves any longer.

Straddling his broad hips, you sling a leg over his thighs and sink yourself down right on his cock. No preamble, no hesitation, just one long slow slide, letting gravity do it’s job. Pale groans deep in his chest from the way you envelop him in your heat at once, but you don’t give him any time to adjust, instead already moving and thrusting up and down on his cock, your hands digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Pale groans, his own palms sliding up and down your back, hugging you close.

“Good?” You moan breathily into his ear, your thighs getting a workout from the way they’re supporting you as you bounce on his dick, trying to concentrate on that moreso than the pleasure that shoots through you, because if you focus on the pleasure, you’ll come right away and you want to draw it out at least a little bit.

“Always baby, always real fuckin’ good. You got a magic cunt, you know that? I ever tell you that before? I oughta tell you every night, every goddamn night, christ how’re you so tight? Too tight for the slut that you are, getting your pussy stuffed full every night.” Even with his cock buried in your cunt, he still runs his mouth, your Pale.

“And every morning, and on lunch, and – ah!!” You yelp out a moan when one of his hands drops to your clit and pinches at it, making your body shudder, your hips circling and thrusting up and down, back and forth, head lolling back.

“Slut, my pretty slut, I should bring you around with me, fuck you in front of everyone.” Pale takes the opportunity to attack your neck with his lips and teeth, sucking and kissing at the column of your throat.

“You already do that, honey.” You laugh, crushing his body to yours, holding his face against your neck as you bounce faster, harder, the head of his cock dragging against your gspot at the same moment his thumb rubs zig-zags onto your clit, making you shout, “Fuck – oh yes! Yes fuck, that’s it, right there!”

“I could get used to this, comin’ home to you like this.” Pale grins, bites at the edge of your jaw, bites down hard and licks across it.

“Pale, oh Pale, your cock’s so big.” You ignore him, because really the only thing you can focus on is his cock, the way it’s filling you up to the brim, the way you can feel it up up up in your throat.

“I know baby, you’re goin’ great, your cunt’s so perfect, feels go fucking good. You like getting split open by my big cock? When you fucked yourself on your fingers and came all over my good sheets did you think of me and my dick? Wishin’ it were my dick instead?” Pale grunts, starting to thrust his hips up to meet yours, getting sweaty and splotchy all over his chest from the effort.

“Yes!!” You throw your head back and let him take over, let him hold your hips steady as he fucks up into you, no doubt waking up all your neighbord with the volume of your sounds of pleasure, “Yes, oh Pale, I’m gonna come, please let me come?”

“Go ahead pretty girl.” Pale kisses your cheek, and your hands grip his shoulders hard as your orgasm hits you in a crashing wave of pleasure, making your body shudder and your hips roll, grinding against him, trapping his cock inside of you as you feel him coming not long after.

Together, you breathe against one another’s mouths. Pale does light up a cigarette then, smokes it down a few seconds to feel some more calm spread through him. You rest your head on his shoulder, your thighs burning, one foot cramped from the angle and exertion. You didn’t like doing all the work all the time, much preferred to be a pillow princess for him to pamper, but it was nice, you thought, to return the favor once in a while.

“What do you want for dinner?” Pale brushes a hand across your sweaty back, patting your ass gently.

“Order something in, I want to eat just like this.” You sigh happily, eyes closing. You’d waited up for him all night, and now that you’ve spent the last of your energy, you don’t have any left to think about cooking or cleaning up dishes.

“On my cock?” Pale raises a brow, thinkin’ he’s misunderstandin’ you for a minute.

“Yeah, I don’t want to get up, let me sit right here on your cock, keep it hard and warm and wet for you.” You confirm, and Pale although he always tends to think this, Pale thinks he’s hit the fuckin’ jackpot with you.

“Jesus you’re really worked up ain’t you?” He pats your ass again, feelin’ his cock twitch inside your come-covered cunt, “I’m gonna order us a shitton of food for dinner, you’re gonna need the fuckin’ energy for the night I’m gonna give you, goddamn.”

You can only laugh in response to that, glad that whatever had been buggin’ him when he first came home was in the past, and that he was much happier bein’ with you in the present.

[indian-leather-tannery]

3 Things To Know Before Buying A Leather Briefcase

Indian Leather Manufacturer

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[kellachfromthewoods]

Scale

"Listen, Titi."

Azertille's father had never grown out of using that childish nickname. Then again, she never grew out of calling him father. No matter what happened, they would be this to each other.

"I know our way of life is not sustainable. We get along fine with the Shroud, much to the Gridanians' dismay, but because of them we cannot live in the open. That makes it extremely difficult to, well, find love and perpetuate the line."

Was he going to give her the talk? She'd seen enough wild boars go at it to know how procreation worked. He really didn't need to do that.

"All I could give you was my knowledge, and you are now as fierce a hunter, as perceptive a gatherer and as virtuous a noble as I could teach."

"Father, are you...?" Azertille was too scared to say the words.

"No! Watch your mouth, Titi or you'll feel the flat of my axe on your behind." She breath a sigh of relief. "Still, the truth of it is, you are probably the last of our line - Who could you convince to live with our way of living, when even we believe we are in exile of our true home and calling?"

Azertille had to admit, her father had a point. One of the core tenets of their family remained that "noblesse oblige" still applied to them, even if their land claims were with flooded caverns that hadn't seen a living soul in centuries. They were the nobles of the woods, and had to conduct themselves as such at all times. Imagine the fool who would willingly seek the hardships of a pauper with the obligations of a noble.

These were their tenets.

Her father produced a leatherskin cover that was wrapped around something, though she couldn't make it out.

"Go on, take it."

Azertille opened the present and immediately gasped. This was a geniune Adamantoise Scale.

"While hunting for food in the South Shroud, I came upon this and thought that it would be a sufficient test for you. While I know our way of life is over, I do not want you to suffer from your travels. If you succeed in obtaining enough scales to make an Adamantoise scale armor, I will know you're ready to take on the mantle of our family and be the change I unfortunately could not herald." Her father said, both hands on Azertille's shoulders.

"Father, I... Change is your domain. You have the axe of Althyk on your back!"

"You're right, Titi. When Althyk chose me, I believed I could bring the change our family needed, perhaps even restoring our caverns so we could finally abandon this life... I was a fool. While before, they simply became unlivable, we can no longer even reach our ancestral lands. Instead, I planted the seed of change as much as I could. Meaning... you."

Azertille blinked - Did... did her father make a jest about fornication?

"I know Azeyma's desmesne is truth. I'm counting on you to forge a new truth for our lineage. One that isn't mired in the past."

Azertille held the Adamantoise scale in her hand, it looked so... small compared to the massive beast. Still, these beasts were protected by Camp Tranquil, and she never would dream of poaching them. This was not a test of her hunting skills.

This was a test of her patience. All these scales... one by one. Until it is done.

[trashcanalienist]

Feverish I'm feverish and fevered I am so caged strangled choked choking, writhing, futile, wormling, wormleth, esser-kahs & more then all I am so fevered hot and shivering, bright, tearful, and I can't stop crying in desperate grieving comfort for my own flesh and - oh this world so vicious, for others and for my poor miseried self so never alive always dusty wanting to return to dusk, soft leatherskin that reaches out on sharp bone to gently welcome me back home - - yet I bleed

[brosleathervn]

Cứ dán da là Auto Đẹp 😁 #brosleather #leatherskin (tại Bros Leather) https://www.instagram.com/p/B4ETHtJgd55/?igshid=1n8woeykl9bec

[deadnburied13]

Here are some more photos from Sicily. From Palermo, the capital of Sicily. The Capuchin Crypt of Palermo (Le Catacombe dei Cappuccini) is an extensive crypt complex under the Capuchin Monastery in Palermo and with its natural mummies is one of the most famous burial sites in the world. Not long ago I saw a report on television about the mummy of Rosalia Lombardo, who always opens her eyes slightly and looks as if she is sleeping. So I read a lot about it and I looked at it too.

The 2 year old Rosalia died in 1920 from the Spanish flu and is therefore one of the youngest mummies in the crypt. Her father, a general, was so deeply saddened by her death. And since he was a man of some influence, he commissioned the famous embalmer Alfredo Salafia to preserve his daughter, at least externally. With Rosalia, the chemist created his masterpiece, which has become famous as "mostbeautiful mummy in the world".

2000 dead in varying degrees of decay rest in the crypt of the Capuchin monastery in Palermo. The ochre-coloured building appears inconspicuous at first sight. But he's got it in him. "Ingresso Catacombe" stands above the entrance, behind it sits a single living person who is still collecting the entrance fee. Then only dead people will come.

The really disturbing thing is that the dead are in different stages of decay. On some collars there is only a bareskull with bared teeth, a briefly raised nose and black eye sockets. Over other heads, wrinkled brown leatherskin stretches out, framed by a fewtufts of black hair. Due to special climatic conditions - constant draught and walls of tuff stone that absorb moisture - the dead rot less than they dry out. The Capuchins discovered this effect in 1599. From this year comes the oldest mummy of the Brother Silvestro da Gubbio. Even then the monks began to display their dead on the wall - as a reminder to the living: "What we are, you will be, what you are, we have been." But aftersome time, even rich Palermo people found it attractive to be able to visit their loved ones beyond the end.

In the 19th century. The cult of the dead was banned in the 19th century, but after that - this is Italy - it went on for a few decades.

#deadNburied💋