#trying to stick to not super vibrant but unnatural at least

[sidereus-stars]

Gonna try and convince mother dearest to let me dye my hair tomorrow

What color should I dye it if she says yes? :333

[a-libra-writes]

Since you seemed to like these kinda questions!! From most to least, who do you think would find it beautiful for their s/o to have colored hair? Kinda like Wylla but the color varies

I do like them haha, it’s nice short stuff as opposed to a whole long reaction list. Bc sometimes reactions and preferences ain’t that deep lol, this is a perf example of that. also i love that wylla just randomly dyes her hair like she got it from some traders in the port and her dad and grandpa just roll with it

so! 

Jorah, Davos and Daenerys have been around Essos and have seen the hair coloring in Tyrosh and find it very attractive! I think they’d really like vibrant colors that aren’t remotely natural. Davos would def bring you dyes he came across at ports, Jorah likes to run his fingers through it when yall are cuddling and Daenerys likes to help out with the dying process (I think she wants to try it herself, but worries it’ll seem ‘frivolous’ for a queen to do so).

Theon, Yara, Bronn, Oberyn, Jory, Tyrion and Margaery like it right away because of how you stick out (esp in Westeros) and how you don’t seem to give a fuck what people think about it. It draws their attention and definitely makes them want to talk to you, because c’mon ... In this repressed medieval court society, it takes a lot to do something like dye your hair and stick out that hard, esp if you’re a woman. 

Missandei, Grey Worm, Edmure, Robb and Sansa admire it and your bravery to wear it so well. They aren’t as obsessed as the ones above, though. I feel like Edmure and Grey Worm are especially amused by different color combinations, while Sansa - who hated dying her hair the brief amount of time she had to do it - thinks holy crap that’s some dedication. She just keeps thinking about how long it takes haha. Robb refuses to admit how distracted he got anytime you walked by, but then he’d get used to it once yall are close.

Tormund gets his own category because he’s so fascinated and loves it so much like, imagine having a fiery ombre sort of style or having deep purples and blues or even something like pink and lavender. Idk he thinks it’s great and then you tell him about dyes and how you do it and he’s just super tickled by the whole process. Absolutely convinces you to dye your eyebrows too.

anyone else would be more into like .... simple highlights or just having the tips dyed, like Wylla does. Any more than that + very unnatural colors might be too striking for them LOL

[madhyanas]

I pronounce it as Yin hhahahah but also um 👉🏼👈🏼 are u going to share your poly fic with the class

i feel inordinately validated w getting an anon ask (also sorry this took so long wow i’m a hoe)

alright see anon i have a love for poly reader fics there’s a whole oberyn x reader x ellaria thing i want to talk about too asjdhgfsjhdgf 

@pettyprocrastination and @concussed-to-pieces really beat the shit out of me with their writing. in a really good way like i adore their poly content. also @wickedlyemma is simultaneously the best and the worst because her tua fics are what got me in this hellhole to begin with mwah

but the one i mentioned on the post you’re talkin about is a diego x fem!reader x lila fic for the umbrella academy. man it lives in my mind rent FREE. holy fuck. ok listen right just humour me for a sec.

this is about 1k lmao it really got away from me

not really what you’d call Good Writing but it’s a blurb that’s vaguely coherent please enjoy

(spoilers for s2)

s2 is where the gang finally find out they’re not the only ones w abilities, right? like they don’t know about the whole ‘43′ but they have an inkling. so: an au where lila STAYS, and after all that shit w the commission, the family gets back to the present and the next hyperfixation is to try and find these other super-powered people. (none of that sparrow academy shit alright - ben’s still hangin around - let me have my self-indulgent au where these kids catch a fuckin break)

———

It’s been a few months. The family takes in Lila as one of their own, but it’s stilted. Like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong space, made to mesh and fit in an image it doesn’t belong to. Everyone’s got their own shit to deal with after the time jump and very little time to make the effort to trust her. Five doesn’t even bother, and Luther’s inclined to agree with him. But that’s okay. They’re like her, in that they’re not normal. They’re all so laughably not normal. It’s so funny she cries. 

But she has Diego. Which is all Lila really cares about at the end of the day. They’re working through things. Things she put him through. Things he needs to let go. Things they need to talk about. Little by little, they make it work. No more secrets, not with each other. They love each other too much for all that pain, all over again.

But that’s family politics and emotional healing aight back to the romance. Listen ok maybe Five does his freaky investigation shit, maybe he digs up whatever records he can find of unnatural births on October 1st, 1989. Maybe he finds one of these unnatural kids and tracks em down to a flower store downtown - closer than any of them could’ve imagined, practically in the Hargreeves’ backyard. The owner is kind, pleasant. Boring, in Five’s words. You don’t seem anything out of the ordinary.

But even with a modest little greenhouse out back, you’re still in the middle of the city. With smoke, fumes, pollution. How are the leaves that healthy? How are the flowers that vibrant? How is it, that in your shop, no plant ever really seems to die? The flourishing life your shop fosters is beautiful, but uncanny. 

And yeah, sick of being treated like a knife in the back waiting to happen, maybe Lila volunteers for recon. To get away for a while. Some part of her is desperate for a mark, itching to get back to what she’s good at. Especially since the last one went... awry. 

Since they won’t trust her to go it solo, Diego gets dragged along as a handler supervisor. Perhaps because he’s the only one they think she won’t harm. Idiots. She’d never, not her boy. Not after the Kennedy clusterfuck. So Diego goes along, and to her surprise he’s actually looking forward to it. He knows the urge to stick to a lead like your life depends on it. He’s been that person before. God, he still is.

A honeymoon, she croons in his ear, and he snorts. His hand sliding into hers brings a grin to her lips and a warmth to her cheeks.

Out of all of them, Lila’s the least recognisable. She’s learnt how to blend in, how to appear innocuous. How not to appear at all. So she slides into the florist’s with ease, just another customer. And maybe the little gardener is cute. You smile at Lila like she couldn’t do anything wrong. You see her as a person, rather than a ticking time bomb. Your face falls meekly as Lila tells you she’s buying flowers for her boyfriend. You look so pretty when you’re flustered, scarcely breathing as Lila traces the smear of soil on your cheek, tucks that errant lock behind your ear. Oh, if only you knew.

Debriefing takes longer and longer as the days go on. Lila tells Diego with giddy excitement how you hum while watering the succulents, smile at the blooming buds like you’re proud of them. How you listen to Lila like she’s the only thing that matters and how your laugh sounds like the first break of spring. And Diego might take some convincing, but he can’t help but feel somewhat enamoured with the gardener. The idea of you, at least.

Falling for your mark. It’s so cliché.

Even so, Lila gets to know you. So does Diego, living vicariously through surreptitious surveillance and Lila’s own love-struck recounts. 

Maybe they break protocol a little. Lila takes you out for coffee, learns your order. Learns that the care you attend to your plants with is applied to just about everything in your life. Including her. Maybe Diego begins to join you, discovering that all the hiding and sneaking around was pointless because the name ‘Diego’ doesn’t mean anything sinister to you. ‘Hargreeves’, though, they don’t mention. Not right now. You’re kind, not stupid, and if you do have the abilities they suspect, then any mention of the mythic family will send you running for the hills.

While Lila’s in the bathroom, Diego throws a light jab. Just to test the waters. Maybe you counter with something quick and cutting, raising a brow. And oh, how his heart flutters once he finds out you have thorns. Diego falls quicker than he realises, your sweet half-smile taking hold of his heart just like Lila’s sharp grin did, way back in ‘63. He decides, then and there, that Five doesn’t need to know about this. None of the others do.

Maybe they break protocol a lot, and show up at the flower shop one day, asking you to sit down. No more secrets, they remember. Not between them, and now, not with you. They tell you a story of cruel parents, superpowers and lonely children. Of death and rage and destruction. Of the apocalypse, which never happened yet apparently did, and how you died, a speck amongst billions. Of falling down a rabbit hole to the 60′s, and falling all the way back again. They tell you who they are, who they think you are, and why they showed up in the first place.

Five definitely doesn’t need to know about this.

It’s... a lot. You need time to process, and they understand. They don’t like it, but Diego’s not Sir Reginald and Lila’s not the Handler. So they leave you be, thinking that’s that. Their florist, yet another mistake made by The Umbrella Academy, left in the dust. You feel confused and betrayed and heartbroken for a long while. Radio silence.

Until things get better. 

You show up at their apartment one evening, weeks later, holding a potted un-sprouted bulb, panting at the doorstep like you ran all the way there. They let you in without a word. You set the flowerpot on the table and god, you talk more than they’ve ever heard from you in one sitting. It’s rambling, not all that eloquent. But they understand what you’re saying, eyes softening at your misguided panic.

And then — shyly, as if they could ever deny you anything — you ask if they want to see. (It takes Diego’s elbow in her side to get Lila’s mind out of the gutter.) You dip your fingers into the soil, frowning gently in concentration. There’s a familiar pins-and-needles sensation in your fingertips, flowing through your nerves and into the moist earth. Absently, you worry if it’ll even work. These two have a tendency to throw you off guard.

But lo and behold, the dormant bulb unfurls before their eyes in a matter of seconds, springing forth a fresh green shoot, and a moment later, a starburst of golden petals. 

A daffodil, bobbing lightly on their coffee table.

———

ugh yeah lmao this got long but that’s the fic idea, anon. thanks for askin :)

and NO the super-powered kids aren’t related - in my mind the hargreeves’ were adopted/raised together and are therefore siblings and THAT’S why they shouldn’t date each other - but diego, lila and reader have no familial connection. at all. i’m not here for any pseudo-incest shit in this fic pls and thank u.

aha look at me writing blurbs for tua fics when i have a wholeass! paz fic! published! and u n f i n i s h e d ! alsdhfgalshdfg now i want to do more someone come scream at me about ezra and oberyn and ellaria and paz and boba and din and any other character under the sun

listen y’all i have a lot of IDEAS for various fics and i also have Zero self control - please ask me about them!!!! fuck it man ask me about anything odds are i’ll fuckin write it!!!!!! i am a desperate hoe!!!! i have no self-respect!!!!

[verrottweil]

the grave that holds you

WidowReaper Week Day 5. What’s In A Name?: the past, or how the past possibly influences the present.

ao3 | series | day 1 | day 2 | day 3 | day 4

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“It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account, we shall be more attached to one another.”

― Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

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He props his shoulder against the grimy windowpane, staring at the cityscape outside. Dorado looks beautiful in the evening, when the houses light up along the hillside and the vibrant colors of the outside walls soften in the darkness. He hears Widowmaker shift on the mattress and absentmindedly touches his thumb to his mouth, still slick from eating her out, still tasting her on his tongue.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Reaper looks to the marketplace, with its fountain and its strings of multicolored lights and its empty stalls and caravans; a frown edges a burrow between his brows when he thinks back to the conversation he had with Sombra at the crack of dawn. No, it isn’t the conversation that has something thick and sour stuck in his throat, like curdled milk, not even the expression on Sombra’s face that betrayed her satisfaction at knowing things she’s not supposed to. He swallows reflexively.

Gabe. Ages since someone last called him that, or it feels that way at least. You don’t mind if I call you ‘Gabe’, do you?

There’s a soft skrrrt sound that draws his attention away from the window. Widowmaker sits upright against the headboard of the rickety bed, lighting a cigarette; the zippo’s flame highlights her face and parts of her throat, giving her skin color a greenish gleam.

She’d been there too, during the conversation, sitting stock-still in a corner, cleaning her sniper rifle meticulously, on autopilot. Her shadow split and caught shivering on the walls as the harsh lighting pressed down atop her bowed body. Reaper would never tire watching her, every inch the predator he was, from the concentrated expression on her face before she lined up a shot to the fluid grace of her body in flight, the cord of her grappling hook a natural extension of her arm. But her gaze was a tangible weight on his shoulders when he’d snipped at Sombra to stick to the mission, one eyebrow arched in question. C’est quoi, ce truc?

“Gabriel,” Reaper says aloud, chasing out the silence with his unnatural, gravelly voice. “Gabriel Reyes.”

Widowmaker raises an eyebrow, smoke curling around the corners of her mouth and the button of her nose as she prompts, “Quoi?”

“The name of the person who became me,” he explains, digging the small of his back into the windowsill, blocking the view outside with his broad shoulders. “You deserve to know.”

She props her elbow on the headboard, turns her head to take another puff of the cigarette clenched between two slender fingers. Her sharp profile is mellowed out by the lack of light, eyes heavy-lidded, the tip of the cigarette lit up when she inhales deeply. Blows a thin wisp of smoke towards the ceiling in exhale. He drags the tip of his tongue between the seal of his mouth when she tilts her head and shifts, showing off her breasts, her flat tummy, her pussy and long, long legs.

“Gabriel,” she mocks the English pronunciation, putting some effort in hiding her accent and mimicking the way he said the name, and looks off to the nightstand. “Pft, Americans…”

Her gaze gleams golden in the dark, like a pair of cat-eyes, directed straight at him when she says, “En France, ça se prononce comme Ga-bri-el.” Reaper feels something thrum within his chest when she chops up the name to emphasize how she says the syllables.

“I know,” he says, thudding the back of his head against the window glass. Closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, amends, “He knows.”

Widowmaker moves to the edge of the bed, stands up and walks over to him, her hair like a curtain call around her shoulders, reaching down to the back of her knees, spreading small flakes of ash in her wake from the cigarette. Everything smells like smoke to him.

“Who was he?” She asks, putting the filter of the cigarette between his lips, her fingers pressed against his mouth in a peace sign. “Dites-moi, who was Gabriel Reyes really?” He substitutes the taste of her pussy for tobacco. “I know Overwatch’ history like the back of my hand, mon chèri. I read the files. I saw the holodisks.”

When she takes the cigarette away, he breathes out in wisps of gray and black smoke. Inside him, Gabriel stirs, as if the man’s trying to claw his way out of the treacly murk of Reaper’s chest, but can’t, trapped, fingers sunken into the shadows.

“What you’ve read…” Reaper pauses to watch her finish the cigarette and throw the butt to the ground, the tip bursting into sparks on the floorboards. He holds up his open hand and counts a finger down for every statement he makes. “Army vet, super soldier, passed over in the chain of command, stuck doing the wetworks, dead—” He lowers his hand and sighs. “Partial truths.”

She narrows her eyes when he clenches his hand into an angry fist; the sharp ridges of his knuckles transmuting into wisps of shadow.

“Overwatch found him, Widow. Under the rubble. They found him and they took him and they broke him… into me. They branded him a traitor,” Reaper mutters lowly, watching how the shape of his hand disintegrates into a shroud of shadowy particles. “But I was the one who ran. And I’m the one who’s going to destroy them for what they did to Gabriel Reyes.”

They’re quiet in the relative darkness of the dusty room. Wisps of shadows orbit around the stub of his wrist in circles, constantly on the verge of completely dissipating, thinning out and thickening again.

“You and I…” Widowmaker begins slowly, raising her chin to cross gazes with him again. “Are not so different, n’est-ce pas?” He moves and the light from outside, warm and golden, splays a line over the side of her face. She continues, “We are the tombs of people who don’t want to exist anymore.”

Gabriel stirs in the hollow behind his sternum at the words, and Reaper thinks he sees Amélie Lacroix for the first time, behind the forget-me-not blue of her skin, in the bone structure of her face. There’s truth in her words, but Reaper doesn’t consider himself a grave, no, he’s a funeral pyre and he’s still burning. She turns towards the nightstand, the color of her hair warmer and more natural in the glow of the streetlights outside.

“Smoke a cigarette with me,” Widowmaker demands simply, glancing at him over her slender shoulder.

The cold sharpness of her gaze would suggest she’s entirely in control and any glimpse of Amélie he thought he might’ve seen was just a trick of the mind, but there’s something vulnerable about her posture that betrays another person underneath. Reaper solidifies his hand and reaches for her, touches her cool skin and brushes the long strands of hair away from her shoulder blade. Her breathing’s shaky; her glare harsh; but Reaper knows Gabriel’s trying to connect with Amélie through this one comforting touch, reach for her through the bars of the cage that’s Widowmaker.

“I’m so tired, Gabriel,” she murmurs in a dead woman’s voice, done away with the stoicism Reaper’s accustomed to.

She shakes her head and furrows her brows, pinches the bridge of her nose, and while he’s half-expecting her to whisper je suis desolée, she surprises him by saying, “I’ve come to learn that some people should just stay dead.”

Reaper chuckles at her words – thinking back at Morrison, at Ana, at the man whom he’s a manifestation of – slides his fingertips down her ribs, down her flank, presses his palm to the curve of her hip and takes a step closer, pushes himself flush against her back, props his chin on the bridge of her shoulder. She sags against him, leans her full weight against his broad chest.  

“Are you gonna light a fucking cigarette or not, Widow?” He asks gruffly, brushing his chapped lips against the hinge of her jaw. “We can shotgun it if you want to.”

Widowmaker – and he knows it’s her – scoffs when he folds both of his hands on her abdomen in a half-assed attempt at an embrace, but doesn’t turn away from his dry-cracked mouth, nor from the scratch of his beard.

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