#Thanks for sending this this it was nice to write!

[andy-15-07]

Could you do Joaquin Torres x f!reader

You went to gala in White House as secret agent. You walks around that lots of people and acquaintances came. Your dress is so nice in one off shoulder black dress. You walk over as you bump to someone, you’re gonna apologies. He hold your waist to be careful to fall. You two look each other in thirty second. You stand as he may introduced himself so do you. You two seem to have great chemistry. Having great time but Joaquin wanna have a slow dance with you. He just wants to see you again. You literally having good time with him. Sam came to Joaquin that he met someone so wonderful

(Hope you will write it, thanks and have a good day)

The Spy and the Pilot

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1948 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

You step from the motorcade onto the polished marble of the North Portico, heart thundering beneath the sleek lines of your one-shoulder black gown. It’s your first assignment of the evening: infiltrate the White House gala, gather intel on a shadowy arms dealer rumored to be attending, and,if necessity dictates,neutralize any threats. All under the cover of a glittering soiree, where diamond tiaras and tuxedos swirl like constellations of power and privilege.

Yet, as a consummate agent, you’ve donned your cover flawlessly. The inky satin of your dress clings to you like a second skin; discreet heels add inches to your height without compromising your foothold. A delicate bracelet hides a slimline comm device; the clutch at your side conceals microgram explosives. As you sweep past a pair of Secret Service agents, they nod curtly,unaware they’re letting in not just a guest, but an operative.

Inside, the East Room is awash in soft amber light. Crystal chandeliers dangle overhead, each prism scattering rainbows across polished mahogany and white-marble columns. Guests murmur in clusters, flute glasses catching the glow. You lift one to your lips, allowing yourself a sip of champagne, scanning for the target. Your eyes flick from senator to tech magnate, from foreign dignitary to socialite, all while your heels click decisively, elegant but purposeful.

Yet before you can triangulate your mark, a ripple of movement catches your eye. A man in a tailored charcoal suit sidesteps toward the bar, his dark hair falling in unruly waves over a thoughtful brow. A pair of deep-set brown eyes flick up to meet yours. Your breath catches,shoot, not now.

You pivot on a heel to give way to a cluster of debutantes in ivory gowns. But in that split second, you misjudge the clearance, and your elbow collides with someone’s shoulder. Glasses tinkle. A collective gasp and you spin to apologize, ready with a smile as practiced as any spy craft.

“Excuse me,I’m so sorry,” you murmur, voice calm.

“Careful,” a warm voice says, low and amused. You look up to find the man in charcoal bending to steady you by the waist, his hand firm against your hip. The heat of his palm radiates through the satin of your dress. Time pauses.

His eyes are curious, amused, perhaps concerned. You realize too late that your legs had nearly given out; without his steadying hand, you would’ve stumbled into the crowd.

“I…thank you.” You let your hand linger on his wrist for a heartbeat before releasing it. “I should watch where I’m going.”

He straightens, sliding his hand off as though aware of propriety. “Only if you intend to keep that dress flawless tonight,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

All at once you recognize him: Joaquin Torres, decorated Air Force pilot-turned-Avenger liaison. You’ve heard about him,his unwavering resolve, his fierce loyalty, his quick wit. But you’ve never met him in person. Let alone had him catch you mid-stumble.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve a rescue from Señor Torres,” you say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to keep your tone light.

“Just doing my civic duty,” he replies, tipping an imaginary hat. “But once you join the heroes’ club, you can call me Joaquin.”

Your pulse flutters. “Call you…Joaquin. I may still owe you an apology. May I buy you a drink in compensation?”

A slow smile curves his lips. “I’d like that.”

He offers his arm and you link yours through his. The crowd parts as you move toward the bar together. Conversation flows as smoothly as the champagne:

“So what brings you to the White House gala, Señorita,?”

“(Y/N),” you supply, glancing at your name badge. “(Y/N) [Last Name]. I work in the Department of International Relations.”

“And what sort of mischief does the Department of International Relations get into at a gala?” he teases.

“Only the most diplomatic,” you quip. “And you? I hear you’re working security detail with SHIELD tonight.”

He shrugs modestly. “Calling it detail seems grand. I’m just here to keep an eye on anyone who might blow up the place.”

You both chuckle, the easy camaraderie loosening your professional reserve. He orders a round of champagne, and you raise your glass in toast.

“To new acquaintances,” he says. “And to not falling flat on your face in front of the nation’s leaders.”

You clink glasses, the bubbles tickling your throat. The air between you hums.

Over the next hour, you duck into alcoves to share whispered confidences. You learn he’s been in country on reconnaissance missions; you spin tales of diplomatic negotiations in far-off capitals. Laughter springs freely when he recounts riding camels in the desert; you smile at his teasing when you confess you once tripped over your own suitcase on assignment in Tokyo.

At one point, he glances at the ballroom floor, where a slow, swelling melody has begun. A dance number. The orchestra’s violins beckon.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, stepping closer, eyes alight.

Your breath catches. “I,yes.”

He slips an arm around your waist; you rest your hand on his shoulder. He guides you to the dance floor. The lights dim slightly, turning the room into a swirl of silver and gold. Other couples drift around you like glowing boats on a dark sea.

As the first notes drift from the orchestra pit, Joaquin draws you close enough that you can feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. The world contracts until it’s just the two of you, swaying gently.

“You’re a surprisingly good dancer,” he murmurs.

“I had a great teacher,” you reply, the warmth of his arm around you making your conversation intimate. “You?”

“First time I’ve asked someone to dance at a White House gala,” he confesses, voice low.

You look up at him. The candlelight on his cheekbones. The earnest tilt of his head. “I’m honored to be your first,” you say softly.

He smiles, that brilliant, boyish grin. “Then I must be very lucky.”

They say slow dances are meant for whispered fantasies and passing touches, and in that moment, you understand. The soft brushing of his hand against yours. The careful way he guides you. The gentle rhythm of your breath. Always, he keeps one protective arm around you, as if to ensure nothing shatters this fragile bubble.

When the song ends, you both linger, toes still pointed in the center of the floor. Applause breaks out. Joaquin bows with mock flourish.

“I think we just stole the show,” he jokes.

“I’d watch your back more carefully,” you warn with a grin. “You never know which agent is truly on duty.”

He lifts a brow, then winks. “I’d hope I could count on you to cover mine.”

Your chest warms. “I might just surprise you.”

The evening flows on: you slip away to dart down a service corridor, checking the hidden doorway where your contact awaits. She hands you a dossier on a certain attendee rumored to be exchanging illicit weapons blueprints. You tuck it into your clutch, promising a later rendezvous. Then, duty calls again,a suspicious cell phone signal, an overheard threat. On your way back, you round a corner and nearly collide with someone.

It’s Joaquin.

“Everything all right?” he asks instantly, eyebrows knitting.

“Fine,” you say, blinking as you stash the dossier. “Just…caught up in a moment.”

He frowns. “If you need backup,”

“I’ve got it,” you insist. “But thank you.”

He nods, concern lingering in his eyes. “I’ll be around. Just…call if you need me.”

Something in that promise makes your heart flutter again.

Later, as the gala winds down, the president’s speech crescendos. Crystal glasses and orchids litter banquet tables. Guests mill for final farewells.

In a quieter chamber, near the grand staircase, Joaquin awaits you. His posture is casual, one foot on a low step, hands tucked in his pockets. He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.

“You came,” you say, half-relieved, half-thrilled.

“I never miss the chance,” he says, offering a hand. “May I steal one more dance before it’s truly over?”

You smile and take it. Leading you down to a reprise of the earlier waltz theme, he murmurs, “I’ve been looking forward to this all night.”

Your head tilts on his chest. “I thought I might never see you again.”

“Not a chance,” he replies, twirling you beneath the grand chandelier. “I want to see you again.”

Your pulse spikes. “Then shall we set a date?”

“Dinner tomorrow?” He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “I know a little bistro that serves the best pasta.”

You laugh softly. “It’s a date.”

He brushes a stray curl from your forehead. “(Y/N), I,”

“Joaquin,” you prompt, voice tender.

He nods. “Joaquin. (Y/N). I’m glad we met tonight.”

“So am I.” You lift onto tiptoe, your lips brushing his. The moment is electric. Then he deepens it, drawing you close. The taste of champagne on his lips mingles with cologne and unspoken possibility.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless.

The next evening, under a canopy of twinkling lights in Joaquin’s little favorite trattoria, you sit across from each other, plates of steaming pasta between you. No espionage tonight,just laughter, stories, shared secrets. You learn he grew up in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and that he inherited his love of cuisine from his abuela. You confess your fondness for early-morning runs, the thrill of codes and ciphers.

Over tiramisu, he reaches for your hand. “I want more nights like this,” he says, sincerity warming his gaze. “Not just at work, not just at missions.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’d like that too.”

He grins, leaning in. “Good.”

In the weeks that follow, your worlds intertwine. Late-night stakeouts morph into moonlit strolls. Briefings with SHIELD civilian liaisons become dinner reservations at new restaurants. In the field, you fight side by side; off-duty, you coax each other’s smiles.

Once, during a critical extraction, he covers your retreat with precise suppressor shots. Once more, you hack security cameras to secure his escape. And each time, the trust deepens.

Between missions, stolen moments,whispers in darkened safehouses, shared coffees on rooftop terraces. He teaches you salsa steps beneath strings of patio lights. You reveal to him the intricate lock-picking set hidden in your heel.

Slowly, you shed your professional armor, revealing the person beneath the agent’s mask. He tells you about nights spent staring at the Puerto Rican stars. You confess childhood dreams of becoming a diplomat.

One evening, as you rest your head on his shoulder in the cockpit of a Quinjet, he murmurs, “I love you.”

You lift your head to him, surprised but certain. “I love you too.”

His face breaks into that radiant smile you first saw at the gala. “Good,” he whispers, kissing your forehead.

You trace his cheek. “Very good.”

Months later, you stand again on the White House lawn,not as spy and pilot, but as something more. The cherry blossoms bloom, and Joaquin stands before you, hand outstretched. In it, he holds a small black box.

“With everything we’ve been through,” he says softly, “I couldn’t imagine doing this life,adventures, missions, and all,without you by my side. Will you marry me?”

Tears spring to your eyes,joy, relief, love. You nod, voice trembling. “Yes.”

He slips the ring onto your finger, then lifts you into a tight embrace. Guests,friends, colleagues, and even a few stunned dignitaries,applaud. And in that moment, you know that your greatest mission yet is just beginning.

And it all started with a stumble in a black dress, a steadying hand…and a dance that changed your world.

[danidrabbles]

Ohhhhhh, how I loved seeing these two again 🥹

The start is so fitting for them, him chasing her through a garden. I love how much fun they're having, how the laughter is echoing through the air, how she can picture his scowl as he chases her. And of course he catches up with her.

Logan scoffs, grip tightening, “Could find you anywhere, sweetheart.” > 🥺

“Can’t hide from me.” And you know what he means. That it’s useless to try, not with his senses. Not with the honey-sweet stickiness between your thighs, his own personal bouquet > 😳

The imagery you use is so nice, the plants and trees and flowers (more on that later), but also stuff like this,

All the while his own hands wander. Nearly as methodical as the chase - brushing over learned places that send a shiver down your spine.

I also love how much they need, all the Hunger licks at you both, "s'what you needed, isn't it?", "Please," "I need it. Need you." but still taking their sweeeet sweet time working him inside 🤭

Logan's "Wanna feel you squeeze it, honey-" but then coming before she is, is sooooooo... good. Pff. 😵‍💫. Wow.

And how her abilities come out, and how he uses his 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 Like, this whole bit????

The prick of rose thorns against your wrist. The petal unfurling on the peonies beneath you, as his hips slow. Camellia and gardenia worn like a second skin.

Out of season, but not for you.

It’s lucky, that he has his claws. The punch of metal through flesh, reflecting the sharp grin as he carefully cuts you free.

Please, god, that's so.... strangely romantic 🥹

AND THE EEEEND. His "Don't. I like 'em." when she tries to pluck the flowers off herself 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Thank you for writing more for these two, and thank you for sharing 🥰

— through the garden

logan howlett x mutant!f!reader

rated e - 2.4k

tags: mutant!f!reader, (newly) established relationship, domestic predator/prey, a chase through the grounds, two cuties in love, flowers as a physical & metaphorical symbol for love, outdoor sex, PiV, creampie

a/n: part of heat waves. a little summer blorbo series ☀️ I imagined the reader in this to be the same as from eden - back when they first met 💖

“Think you’re cute? Tryin’ to run.”

The hot exhale of breath makes you shiver, even as you smile, “Didn’t think you’d catch up so easily. Thought I lost you in the garden.”

Logan scoffs, grip tightening, “Could find you anywhere, sweetheart.”

His voice pitching lower then, something just for you.

“Can’t hide from me.”

Logan finds you in the garden.

You hoped he would. Needing the open sky above him after so many hours spent inside training - almost as much as he needs you.

Finally leaning into that pull that has been woven between you since the beginning.

Taking root, blossoming in your ribcage until you felt full to bursting. Biting back soft sentiments, knowing it was too soon to voice something your heart had known for so long.

A silhouette that starts dark against the stone walls of the mansion. The familiar white tee and worn blue jeans streaked with a sunset of pink and orange as he moves closer.

That steady pace that you had picked up on, kneeling in the dirt. Weeds yanked from the root, exchanged for fresh bulbs. Eyes flicking towards the sounds of his steps. Slowly rising, and you wait - the heavy weight of your responsibilities shed out here.

Leaving just you and your thudding heart behind.

Your gaze meet his, that pretty shade of brown and green. Close enough now that he can catch the flash of your teeth with your grin and then -

You’re running.

There’s a surprised huff behind you - you can picture his frown, that drawn-together pull of dark eyebrows. A heartbeat passing, before the thud of his boots follow.

You knew he would. Unable to help, after he saw you. Some animal part inside him let free - enticing him into the chase.

Only your knowledge of the grounds and lightness of foot keeps you a step ahead. A laugh echos in the hedge garden - the press of your feet against worn stone, weaving down the paths. Ducking around berms, flowers that spill over in shade of pink and pale cream.

Following a trail you know as well as the back of your hand. Leading you deeper, and deeper into the grounds.

Anticipation spikes, with each heavy step behind you. The thudding spike of excitement and fear blending with the hope that he will catch up.

Heat already pooling low, with that tell-tale twinge of need. Damping the fabric between your thighs, as you flit through the thick line of trees.

Goosebumps prickle across your skin, sweat beading at the nape of your neck.

Just managing to make it through to other side. The long, dirt path before you, framed with the thin, pointed junipers you’d had tended yourself.

Only the roof of the mansion visible behind you through the tall grove as you peel off to the left, and race towards the lake.

The steps behind you coming faster on open ground, as your heart inches up your throat. Unhindered by the weight he carries now, making up for the time spent winding through trees.

Finally catching you, at the old tree by the edge of the water. Arms encircling your waist, ensnaring you as you gasp with surprise and pleasure.

A nose buried in your neck, as Logan crushes your back against his chest. Ignoring the way you wiggle in his grasp, the words almost growled out.

“Think you’re cute? Tryin’ to run.”

The hot exhale of breath makes you shiver, even as you smile, “Didn’t think you’d catch up so easily. Thought I lost you in the garden.”

Logan scoffs, grip tightening, “Could find you anywhere, sweetheart.”

His voice pitching lower then, something just for you.

“Can’t hide from me.”

And you know what he means. That it’s useless to try, not with his senses.

Not with the honey-sweet stickiness between your thighs, his own personal bouquet. A reveal one he loosened during one of your early nights together.

On another evening, you might be embarrassed. Reminded again how he must have known how you felt long before you told him. Cataloging the thundering of your heart. The look in your eyes, the perfume that bloomed across your skin.

Holding himself back for weeks, waiting for you to come to him. To finally take the offers he’d been dangling, wrapped up in slick innuendo - for what they really were.

The butterflies in your stomach burst from their branches. A thrill igniting, pulsing low. Awakening that dormant part inside you, one that wouldn’t mind a chase like this again.

And he senses it - that change inside you, as you squirm to face him. The way your eyes darken when they finally meet his own blown-wide ones, that hitch in your breath.

“And what are you going to do?” You manage, “Now that you caught me?”

His own gaze turning greedy. The flash of teeth in a knowing smile, before his mouth presses to yours.

Letting you feel what the chase - what you - did to him. His tongue dips against the seam of your lips as your hand flattens over his racing heart. How he tugs you flush until it’s impossible to miss the thick bulge in his jeans, straining against the zipper.

The words growled out, with the rut of his hips.

“Gonna take what’s mine.”

Your moan is swallowed, as you’re lowered with him. Tucked against the tree where so many afternoons had been spent beneath the sprawling branches.

Turning pages and lesson plans jotted down between stolen kisses.

Thighs split to make room for him, as the setting sun is blotted out by the breath of his shoulders. Arching over you - unable to stop touching, now that he has you.

It’s almost like you glow beneath him. The pleased curl of your lips, eyes half-lidded. Soaking in the sun all afternoon, warming you down to your bones.

Turning your limbs leaden, as he molds you to fit him. Elbows braced on broad shoulders as your arms twine around. A broad hand spanning across the small of your back, as you let him steal another kiss.

And then another.

You part for him. Moaning into the lick of his tongue. Fingers twisting into thick, dark hair - mussing its careful styling.

All the while his own hands wander. Nearly as methodical as the chase - brushing over learned places that send a shiver down your spine.

Jaw and neck, the pad of his thumb running over your sternum. A knuckle teasing the curve of your breast, as your teeth press against his lip.

Lower, lower.

He cups you, then - a palm curving against your cunt. Hips shifting, as he groans in your ear. Fingers toying at the hem of your shirt, inching it up until his other palm can slip beneath.

Kneading at your breast, feeling the tight bud of your nipple beneath the thin bra.

“We should-“ The start of a protest is half-hearted.

Your game had taken you away from the garden grounds. Unlikely to be disturbed this late in the evening.

And already you’re pressing into his touch - rolling your body until the heel of the hand below grinds against your clit.

“Don’t make me wait.”

Another moan slips free at his words - half command and half plea. Your own fingers sliding from his biceps, the fabric tugged taught over them. Up to lace behind his neck, and draw his mouth down to yours again.

Hunger licks at you both - in the part of your lips, how eager he is to deepen it. Your legs close around his hips as he leans into you, the hand leaving your core so his thigh can press between yours.

His hum echoing yours as the seam of your shorts pull taut, hinting at friction as he gives you something to grind against.

Relief and the need for more twisting together, as he flexes into the roll of your hips. Another nudge and then another, until your own plea slips free.

“Please, Logan.”

There’s another hum, amusement at your impatience - only breaking the kiss long enough to hike your thighs up. The hand leaving your tits to hook around your shorts and underwear. Yanking them down as your knees press against his chest, as his other hand works at the thick, silver belt buckle at his waist.

A sigh against your lips, as he tugs himself free. Pressing you back into the cradle of strong roots as he ruts against your thigh. Hot and heavy, smearing his need against your skin until you manage to reach down.

Fingers encircling the thick shaft of his cock, tipping it until the head nudges against your slit.

Logan is already bucking forward. Knowing you can take it - could smell how ready you were the moment he brought you to the ground.

“Fuck.” It’s ground out, as your heat wraps around him. The slick slide as he sinks in one inch, and then another, “S’what you needed, isn’t it? What you were waiting for.”

“Yes.” You pant, back arching, “Yes, I need it. Need you.”

Eyes fluttering as your ankles end up braced against a shoulder. The bite of his nails against your calf as he seats himself inside you, another betrayal at how deep his need runs as well.

Enough that leaning into it. Near bending you in half in an attempt to get closer. Needing to feel every inch notched deep inside you, pressed flush until the coarse hairs at the base of his cock tease at your clit. The slick drip of your cunt sticky against the heavy sack that rests against your ass.

Stripped down to your bones, you’re just like him.

Needing this as much as he does, still basking in the open air and the sinking sun above, even if you do have to bite back your sounds.

“More.” You manage instead, when he takes too long.

A rough sound in response, almost a growl, before it’s almost becoming too much. Another sharp, single thrust has you fully split open, before he begins short snaps of his hips to keep you full.

Bliss radiates inside you - your fingers quick to drift down, across your belly. Teasing at your clit, as his hands tighten around your legs. Using the leverage to lean back - to watch - as he’s dragged half-way out. The slick sound as he thrusts back in.

How your fingers twitch and stutter. Pressing harder. Lips parting in a pant as he sets a steady rhythm, thighs smacking against the curve of your ass.

Letting your fingers fist in his shirt. Wrinkling the fabric as your hips try to move to meet his. Gasping breath each time he stokes against a spot that brings out the midnight stars early.

Winding you higher, higher. A babble of “yes” and “please”, and “oh my god, don’t stop-“, tumbling from you over and over.

The seeds planted with the first steps of your chase starting to push to the surface, as your fingers trace down to feel him. A low grunt as they tease along his shaft, only to pull more of your slick arousal back up to the throbbing between your thighs.

His gaze snaps back to yours when the words peter out - catching the way you’ve gone stiff, breath held. Eyes half-lidded as your muscles flex beneath his palm, how your fingers move faster as you tighten around his cock.

“Logan-“

“I know.” It’s gritted out.

“Know you’re right fuckin’ there with me. Wanna feel you squeeze it, honey-“

The words cut off, with his groan. The long strokes turning shallow again as he grinds himself deep. His hands dropping to the gnarled roots below, the crack of bark as he chases his own end. Another sharp rut, before he’s spilling inside you.

Your answer is a loose tumble of sounds as you follow, with the throb of his cock. Fingers rubbing soaked flesh as the feel of the warmth spreading inside you sends you over the edge.

A cry cracks through the evening light, as the pleasure bursts from you. The small peppering of buds across the roots of the tree unfurling - petals twisting open as you pulse around him. Stretching out in all directions, blooming over your skin and twisting up the trunk of the tree.

The prick of rose thorns against your wrist. The petal unfurling on the peonies beneath you, as his hips slow. Camellia and gardenia worn like a second skin.

Out of season, but not for you.

It’s lucky, that he has his claws. The punch of metal through flesh, reflecting the sharp grin as he carefully cuts you free.

You’d be one with the earth, without it. Broken down into your base needs, blanketed the emotions buried so deep inside you.

Funny that the man who caused them, would be the one to free you as well.

Silken petals twirl between blunt fingers. A flash of red before the bud is tucked behind your ear. A rose blooming against your temple.

Logan’s expression must match yours, as his arm stretches out. Leaning into this garden you’ve created, cushioned with the physical manifestation of your heart - now worn so clearly on your sleeve.

“Yours, huh?” It slips from you. A call back to earlier - those growled out words as you wriggled in his arms.

“Yeah.” It’s husked out, “That gonna be a problem?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you grin.

“Never.”

There’s a low huff, his own laugh, as his eyes tip up to the sky.

It used to bother you. The blooms. How obvious they made you feel. Nothing hidden, in the sprout of petal across your skin.

But right now-

You don’t think you’d have it any other way.

It takes longer to move. To find your leaden legs again. Tugged to your feet, heat warming your cheeks at you fix your clothes back in place.

Still not ready for the gossip. The teasing, despite everything and the affection laced within the words.

The grounds are dark now, as your hand fits in his. Taking the slower route back home, down the path and through the forest. The mansion looming back into view, as you’re drawn back into your life, once more.

“Logan, wait.”

You almost forget.

The blissful smile faltering as your bare feet dig into the ground. Plucking at the petals that still linger in your hair, trying to rid yourself of the evidence.

Still shy, at the way he affects you. How he makes you lose control - your shared tree will surely remain adorned, until tomorrow.

Hands close around your wrists. The brush of a thumb against your pulse, where your heartbeat thrums. Halting you, drawing them back down as he takes you in.

“Don’t.” Logan husks.

“I like ‘em.”

thank you so much for reading!! 💐 it seriously means the world 💖

[laserbobcat]

as someone who's 33 and writing Narilamb and reading your comics, and also kinda interested in different kinds of art myself, it is so so nice seeing someone around my age who's into this fandom and making art. I feel so stupid sometimes that it's hard to even pick up a pencil or stylus - and I'm new new new to art like that so I need that practice time. seeing people like you making what you love and not giving a good goddamn is really inspiring. I'm sure you get lots of love for your comics but idk I just wanted to say thank you 💗 your cat and Leshy make so many people smile for so many different reasons :)

AW I do get a lot of kind feedback, but it's rare that I don't have the time/energy to answer. I really appreciate messages. I do read and see all of it, and every little tag matters. It's why I try my best to leave at least a little tag when I reblog art, and I'm not shy about sending messages to creators when I have, again, time/energy. People are shy, but we are all dorks, you realize it pretty quick when you start interacting more with the artists you follow. Warning surprise super LONG life dump bellow. I was like "Inspiring, are you sure? I'm also wreck, let me tell you just so there's no misunderstandings" and bam, novel.

About being 35 and making whatever I want: I do in fact feel self conscious about a lot of things, it's just that people on the internet don't really matter. That sounds harsh, but it's true. It's like people you meet on the street, or at bars, or at work: mostly polite positive interactions, some nice memories, a few of them will form solid bonds with you, the vast majority of them will be lost as soon as they're not in the same vicinity as you anymore. And it's normal, and it's ok. Humans aren't made to nurture too many relationships, even the social ones. So I personally enjoy fandoms in a detached sort of way that might feel like I don't give a damn. I think it's healthy tbh. But it's easy to appear calm and detached when you don't really have skin in the game. I really care about this blog it's my fun place, but it's completely detached from my actual life. I'm being an anonymous dork among dorks, it's nice. Some people are dumb sometimes and I don't care. What are they gonna do, sue me, lol. BUT LIKE. I almost deleted that blog once because and IRL person I know found it? I panicked SO HARD. Y'all nerds can look at my silly comics with cute cats kissing: not people in my real life. I'd rather be found drawing hardcore tentacle porn or sniffing paint. I'm not like, brave or anything, I'm hiding online XD

And honestly life is haaaaaaaard right now. For everyone lately. but for me personally: fanart is a nice hyperfocus to forget that life is a bitch. A distraction. I've always been "too sensitive" never could hold a job for too long, because people are awful in low level entry jobs, I never got one that I really like. I've been studying art and digital art, it's been hard, and it didn't lead me anywhere professionally for various reasons. I paid a private school and I am just finishing paying a big loan, just for the (average) skills I got being used to draw a cartoon bush with legs, kissing a cat, on a dusty website. It's so incredibly easy to feel like a failure. And being an artist SUCKS in this world. I'm not an artist by choice, god I would love to be smart enough to have done different studies, and have some kind of job that actually pays. But no, just did a professional profile, and all my affinities lead to creative work, I'm doomed to be good at things that are hell to make money off of when you don't have twice or thrice the energy a regular job needs. I just can't stop. Even when I take breaks, I always come back to creating things. A life's curse, truly.

I feel depressed now, so let's filter this shit through my "15 years of therapy" voice translator: -I'm not too sensitive, people telling me this in my life have all been notorious assholes. If we had more raw hearted people, daily life would be softer, and we wouldn't have wars. Us kind softies are vastly underappreciated. -I haven't been paying a school for nothing, I met my best friends there, learned a lot of skills and methodology that serve me today, and will serve me later in ways I can't just pinpoint yet without hindsight. I also have a lot of experience and help I can share with younger people and beginners. I'm a great art teacher. -I'm happy that I can't help being creative. So much people trail off into things they don't like, and realize later that they're utterly miserable. It's harsh, but not having the strength to pursue something you don't like is kind of a blessing. You avoid so much shit on your life path. it's not a life worth living. I've seen people with good paying careers give them up to get fully into a passion. -It's okay to draw a bush kissing a cat, who fucking cares what you do on your free time, the cops? It's ok to enjoy cute and silly things even when everything gets serious- especially when everything get serious. So much of us get our inner child crushed it's terribly sad. -The silliness is serious actually. You can get a powerful life lesson from deep books about philosophy and self-care and shit, but they're not rare everywhere else. The silliest movie, comic or fanfic can have a line or a character that will resonate enough with you to change your life. Like a tiny little piece that was missing in your personnal puzzle. I felt deeply moved by some comics online, so my own comics online 100% have the same value. What are "serious" media but hobbyists getting their art to a bigger professional scale. We're all telling stories around campfires and there's nothing stupid, shameful or weak about that. Egyptian gods were dramatic furries ffs.

I'm eternally stuck between "Yeah follow your heart and do art" and "It will lead you to hell though" because I feel like both are true. But do you really have a choice? What are the other options? I personally don't, so I just pick up the pen for a hobby, and started applying to ceramic courses for a career change. We'll see where it goes.

Well that was a lot, but I have some serious anxiety issues that make me over-explain stuff, and I'm talkative, and I'm on my period. Enjoy.

[lostinlovingrevery]

hey there! I've been a fan of your writings for a little while now and i was wondering if you could write a Logan fic with a reader who is in the hospital to get checked for multiple sclerosis? (could also be something else, but that's what i am in the hospital for rn)

And the reader is scared shitless of needles (like me) but pretty much every procedure involves needles, like the lumbar puncture which is required for the diagnosis. And you get poked in the back four times, but the doctor fails to get the cerebrospinal fluid out and it leaves you shaken up and crying. Exactly that happened to me yesterday and I just wanted some Logan comfort💔

no pressure though! I'm so sorry if this is too specific

Right Here

Logan Howlett X GN! Reader

Every step of the way

A/N: AH thank you so much!!! I have two family members with MS, so I understand how scary this must be. I'm so sorry for what you went through and you're honestly a huge trooper for it and I hope that you gave yourself some grace and took care of yourself after!!! I wish you all the best during this time and I hope this brings you some comfort!! Sending you lots of hugs (Esp logan ones <3) also, dont worry about being too specific, we all need to feel that comfort from our pookie 💕

Warnings: Hospitals, needles, medical tests, anxiety, a bit of angst, fluff and comfort, Logan <3

"Wouldn't it kill them to make these places a little more welcoming?"

Logan looked up from staring at the floor, and turned to look at you. He stood by your side while you hands were folded between your legs, anxiously swinging them over the edge of the bed. Your comment breaking the silence in the room.

He looked around. You had a point, he didn't like hospitals either. Always felt cold, soulless, with technology and medical machinery just lingering about. They reminded him of his own bad memories, but apart from that, hospitals are just unpleasant.

The room you were in felt just as cold. White walls, black and white patterned floors. An oxygen pump, heart monitor, and various other buttons and medical doohickeys are scattered across the wall and around the room; along with cabinets likely filled with more medical supplies, and a single sink.

A single poster of a sad-looking kitten hanging from a branch, with the text

"Hang in there!"

Placed on the wall across from you. You stared at it in disdain.

Logan looked back at you, glancing at the loose-fitting hospital gown you were given to change into when they brought you both into the room. One sleeve falling off your shoulder, he leaned over, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder before gently lifting the gown back in place, and his arm went around you, hand pressing into the cushioned hospital bed you were sitting on.

"How would you decorate it then?" He asked gently, leaning into you. A question to help you get your mind off the upcoming procedure.

"Well for one I would get rid of that poster- that doesn't make me feel motivated at all. It just makes me sad, look at that kitten! Someone should be helping it. Not letting it dangle in the air barely holding on..."

He smiled, leaning in to press another kiss to your temple. "I'm sure someone did right after the picture was taken, sweetheart." He comforts, his hand soothing up and down your exposed back.

"I'd get rid of the tile floor too. It's ugly and a little creepy. Wood panels floors would be better. Paint the rooms different colors. Add some nice pictures or something. Like trees. Maybe like... a vintage couch in that corner..."

"You should go into interior design."

You looked at him and he had a playful smile on his face. You rolled your eyes, making him chuckle in response. Your hands fiddled nervously.

"What's taking them so long..." You muttered. Your nerves felt on fire and you couldn't stand waiting longer. You've already had to endure blood draws (miserable) MRI's (uncomfortable) poked and prodded (weird) and being told every worst-case scenario possible .

Logan had been with you the entire time, making sure you didn't go through anything alone. He listened to the doctors, let you squeeze his hand as the nurse drew your blood while he whispered encouraging things in your ear. He took in every word the doctor asked, and spoke up for you when things became a bit too much and you needed a break.

Your next procedure was a lumbar puncture, and Logan could hear the way your heart stopped and your blood running cold at those words. He immediately squeezed your hand, reassuring you that he was right there, that you won't be alone.

His hand pressed into your back soothingly, "Want me to go see?" He asked. You shook your head, you're not sure if you could handle being alone. Especially because you've been feeling the urge to run the moment you stepped into the hospital and you're fairly sure that without Logan's presence, you would have likely taken off by now.

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. "I wish we can just go home now."

"I know sweetheart." He rests his chin ontop of your head. "You've so strong, you'll get through this- we'll get through this."

Just as he soothes you, the doctor comes in with the nurse who was pulling along a tray of supplies- needles.

"Okay! Sorry for the wait." The doctor clapped his hands in a cheery demeanor. "Do you have any more questions before we get started?"

You looked at Logan and he shook his head at the doctor.

"Anything else you need me to explain about this procedure? I will be walking through everything with you."

"No, thank you." You shook your head, eyes falling to the tray, Logan's hand moved to your shoulder, giving you a reassuring squeeze.

"Okay, well, lie on your side and when you do, bring your knees up to your chest, nurse Hathaway here will be holding onto you to help you stay in place-"

You nodded, moving to lie on your side with Logan gently leading you, always keeping a hand on you as assurance he was still there. Ignoring the sick feeling of dread in your stomach as your mind continued to picture the needles you saw on the tray. You lifted your legs up to your chest. The nurse stepped forward, but Logan stopped her.

"S'alright if I do it?" He asks.

Relief flooded you when the nurse nods. She explains to him how to properly hold you, and make sure that you don't wiggle or move around during the procedure.

Logan leans down over you, arms securing over you. You're immediately comforted by his presence holding you during this- but it didn't stop the fear.

"I'm right here." Logan comforts, his thumb brushed against your skin. He didn't take his eyes off your face, watching your scared expression with a broken heart.

As the doctor spoke up, explaining every single thing he did, you squeezed your eyes shut, attempting to hide your quivering lip and the way you felt like you couldn't breathe.

You braced from the numbing injection, and then the big needle. A harsh breath escaped you as you become uncomfortable and uneasy, and Logan talked you through it

"You're doing good baby," Logan coos, "You're getting through it-"

"Ah, Hathaway, could you bring a new tray?"

"What?" Your voice sounded full of panic.

"It's alright, just need to do it one more time." The doctor says. His tone gave way no worry, completely professional but it gave you no comfort.

You took a shaky breath. "Logan?"

"it's alright, I'm here." Logan comforts, a quick glance at the doctor - something you caught to be one of his famous scowls; before turning his attention back to you.

3 more tries, and the lumbar puncture was unsuccessful. The doctor gave you instructions on what the next step would be- as you barely contained your tears and tried to listen. As soon as he left, you broke down.

Logan immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you to his chest as you sobbed and shook in his embrace. His shirt soaked from your tears, as you held onto him in a deathgrip. He pressed a firm kiss to the top of your head, praise coming from him for how strong you were- that you did great, and everything was going to be okay.

He held you until your cries calmed, and once everything was finished, he helped you redress and held your hand as he walked you back to the car.

You were exhausted, sore, and wanting to go home and climb in bed and do nothing for a week.

Reaching home, he didn't let you take a single step. Carrying you out of the car despite your protests that you were fine, just shaken up, but he wouldn't hear it.

He tucked you into bed, putting on your favorite movie, and ordered your favorite food for when you're ready to eat. All you wanted was him though.

He climbed in with you, pulling you close into his arms, a hand softly petting your hair while you closed your eyes and took a deep breath- allowing yourself to feel safe again after such an intense day. Logan's body was warm- always is, you tease him for being a human furnace but this time it's everything you needed. His steady breathing helped you stay present, not falling back to the memories of the day.

"I'm proud of you sweetheart." He says gently breaking the quiet silence you both were in for awhile, tucking some hair behind your ear. "You did great today."

"I don't know..."

"You did." He reassures, his arms pulled you closer. "And whatever happens, I'll be right here for you."

[bowser-garyopa]

Fundamentals of TI-99/4A Assembly Language

When I was in Federal Custody, I have a few supporters that would send me books from time to time, which helped me pass the time, and later on I even got a job running the prison library at #SeaTac.

Now that I am back in the land of freedom in Canada, I have been slowly building back up my technical book collection, with books that will help me with my current projects, as I find it still better to do research and learn new things via print, instead of just reading online.

From time to time, I still get some book donations from my supporters, and I am open to receive any book that will help me with my Texas Instruments projects, like this one I recently received written by M.S. Morley.

Fundamentals of TI-99/4A Assembly Language

Back in the day, this book helped me learn the #TMS9900 CPU, more than some other books out there at the time, so I recommend it to anyone that wants to start learning Assembly for the #TI99.

At least now, I don't have to write my federal inmate number on all my books, that is nice. So remember if you happen to own some good related technical books, that you are willing to part with, I am open to donations, so reach out to me anytime. Thanks.

[aetherflowers]

A Word With Friends 6/23

Thank you so much to @hedwigoprah for beginning this fun game and to @notyourmamasdeerbat for hosting this week. This week's word is so delightful!

Softly tagging: @in-the-drowning-deep @woundedsoul12 @redheadsramblings @davrinsleftpectoral (Nug E Cheese word of the day??) @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @p0lkadotdotdot @babydinosaur930 @jenn2d2 and :

You!

Rules: Use the challenge word to write a sentence or scene and then tag a few friends.

This week's word is:

Balter

to dance or tread clumsily, without particular grace or skill

It's a fluffy word, I think. Have some fluff. (Also inspired by this post from @animezinglife)

Word count: 1100-ish

Between training with Helaine in her free time, dance lessons, and fittings with tailors, Yvette’s days in Skyhold became full to bursting. Still, her nights were his. They stole kisses on the battlements and traded moves on the chess board they set up in the war room, though Leliana and Josephine jested with them by moving pieces around from time to time. Little moments kept them sane.

Elona had not held back on sending additional materials for her to study. A crate arrived filled with tomes on arcane warriors and battle mages, some of them with handwriting in the margins from when her half-sister had used the same books to study. She sent along long letters that detailed everything that had been imparted to her in the ruins of the Brecilian Forest and her own experience wielding the magic. Helaine had given all of it a cursory look and a shrug of approval. If the woman was pleased she made no sign of it in her rigorous lessons.

Templar training had been regimented and difficult, but she had also been fifteen years younger. Cullen had chuckled the first night she’d collapsed on her bed, exhausted and sore. “I bet this is what your men feel like,” she groaned into the sheets. He had dutifully rubbed her shoulders and arms, but she could see the amusement dancing in his eyes. She would let him laugh at her weak little mage muscles all he wanted as long as he kept massaging them.

At the end of her first week, he found her lying on the floor of the little room she kept her bathtub in, clothed in a thin robe. 

“Eve?” 

“I’m all right,” she assured him. “I just needed a minute.”

“On the floor?”

“The stone is cold,” she explained, rolling over to look up at him. “It feels nice.”

“I can leave you to it,” he offered.

The way she bit at her lower lip made him pause in the doorway. “I’m not entirely certain I can get up.”

Much as he tried to fight back a chuckle, it escaped him. He knelt and helped her sit, and she winced as her muscles stretched. “It wasn’t so bad until the dance instructor started insisting on Orlesian footwear,” Yvette insisted. “Those heels are worse than high dragons.”

With a sigh she trailed her fingers through the water until it steamed, and then she tipped a pouch of salts into the bath. “Join me?”

“I will,” he promised, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll let you boil and be in soon.”

Her lips curled into a grin. He often complained about the temperature she took her baths, but she knew the inflammation in his joints didn’t get along well with heat. The torn and sore muscles in her body craved it, and she sank into the water with a sigh.

By the time he joined her, she was dozing and the water was tepid at best. They exchanged a smile before she made space for him to slide in behind her. As nice as the scalding bath had been, reclining against his chest was better, especially when he carefully gathered her hair and moved it over her shoulder so he could knead the back of her neck. She moaned and leaned forward so he could have access to her back, and he obliged.

With careful strokes he worked his thumbs from the base of her skull to the base of her spine, chasing knots and soothing muscles. She laid her forehead against her knees and focused on breathing. His attention to detail and dedication to duty meant he wouldn’t stop until he found every spot that bothered her, at least the ones that could be soothed with his hands.

“You are the Inquisitor,” he reminded her. “If you need a break, you can take one.”

She hummed in thought; it had seemed like cheating to use her position to get out of training or dance practice. “I have a stack of reports to read and a list of correspondence to write,” she sighed, her chin on her knees. “Josephine’s dance instructor is very religious so I have the next two days off.”

“You’re pushing yourself–”

“What would you tell your soldiers?” She interrupted, and he could hear the rise of her brows in the challenge of her tone.

“I would tell them they’re no good to the Inquisition if they’re not at their best,” he answered carefully.

“So suck it up and get back to training.” She grinned and twisted in his arms so he could see the little victory in her eyes.

“That’s not what I said.” He sighed but the corner of his lips tugged up into a grin he couldn’t fight. “I’m not that mean, am I?”

She opened her mouth to respond but he stopped her. “Let’s leave that one rhetorical.”

Yvette laughed and wrapped an arm around him so she could rest her head on his shoulder. “You aren’t as bad as my childhood dance instructor,” she assured him. “She was a demon in an old woman’s body, and she had a little switch she used to correct my posture. ‘Lady Yvette, this is a waltz, stop baltering about like an unwashed peasant.’”

His chuckle vibrated through her.

“Orlesian dances have so many steps.” He was one of the only people she could complain to, though she planned to spend one or two of her free hours complaining to Dorian over a few bottles of wine. “And I don’t see why I need to train with a weighted sword when mine is made of magic.”

She could feel him suck in a breath to tell her exactly why so she stopped him, echoing his words back at him. “Let’s leave that one rhetorical.”

“I’ve seen you fight, you’ll pick up Commander Helaine’s techniques.” He ran his hand down her arm and twined his fingers through hers. “We can always tell Josephine to keep you off the dance floor.”

“The bait has to dance, Cullen.” She winced softly when his thumb brushed a blister on her thumb. “Just not in heels. Tomorrow we pick fabric samples for the uniforms. I still need–”

He kissed her fingertips slowly, one by one, and her thoughts scattered. 

“Tonight all you need to do is rest.”

She craned her neck to meet his eye and he brushed his nose along hers. “Is that an order, Commander?”

“It is if it’ll make you do it.”

“Well,” she considered, lips brushing his as she spoke. “I am very good at following orders.”

[nicki0kaye]

So; while Sasha and Reysha go to Mando summer camp, Kallus is in fact trying to figure out how to make it up to Zeb for being such a racist fuck face.

He decides the best thing to do is learn as much about Lasat culture as possible, and thankfully a lot of Lasat literature was saved, thanks to being digitized by their University and then transferred to other servers off planet.

This is how he finds out about Rival poetry and

and

that Zeb almost did his Honor Guard Thesis on Rival poetry, and personally translated several epics into Basic.

reading these poems, Kallus falls in love with him all over again. The Rival genre on Lasan is not just an antagonistic relationship, it's something much more intimate and, most importantly, life changing. Ones rival is supposed to inspire the full range of passions, from envy to lust to romance to grief. Once you meet them, they irrevocably change you, and are changed by you. This is one of @sidhebeingbrand's best Zeb headcanons and I looooove whenever I get to write Kallus discovering this core piece of his identity he can barely put words to has been explored in thousands of poems from Zeb's culture and is Zeb's special fucking interest.

This specific Kallus cannot remember the face of the person who saved him on that ice moon, cannot remember the sound of their voice or the words they shared, but in that memory, the only thing truly spared, is that sense of life changing safety. Of the beginning of his sense of gravity shifting under him and his relationship with this person evolving beyond his understanding or control.

Now he would have kept all this shit to himself, had Walon Vau not clocked a guilty mf cut from the same bitchy cloth and asked the kids to meet Kallus properly. They form a haughty friendship built on being two up tight mfs in love with heroic men, and then, Walon finds out about the rival poetry and their friendship REALLY kicks off bc finally Kallus has someone to info dump to about the HELL he's been living in. Walon understands and agrees he was an idiot and is happy to conspire with him about making it up to this rival of his.

so when the kids finally get done at summer camp and Sasha is grounded enough that going back to the Rebellion doesn't sound like code for 'going back where Sasha isn't wanted', Kallus leaves having made a friend who is Very Invested in seeing Kallus make right with his crush.

Reysha sends a message to let everyone know their ETA, but Kallus sends a private one to Zeb where he drops like four references to Rival poetry, and Zeb like. Is beyond not prepared for that left turn so has no Fucking Idea what to expect when Rex brings them back. The best part is that Reysha's message made it clear to expect Kallus as the forward facing personality once they land. Because they don't know what the fuck his plan is, but he's got one, and he asked nicely, so.

Not a man of half measures, Kallus steps off the ramp and is immediately eye-fucking Zeb and dropping more references. Which Zeb really can't wrap his head around. He wasn't gonna twist Kallus' arm about an apology. Kallus asks if Zeb really thinks so little of him and Zeb's like okay but you wouldn't have a reason to? You forgot. It's gone. Isn't it?

"…the way I feel about you, [rival, mine] was not lost. I woke up with your claws still in my heart, I just couldn't recognize your face." The High Lasana is imperfect--clearly the pronunciation is taken from a book, not learned by ear. But the effort is most certainly there. "I karked it up, I know. That's why I sought out your culture--and found my own feelings spoken back to me, in your voice."

Zeb’s eyes widen. He takes a hesitant step forward. “Kallus. I can’t— You keep slipping through my fingers.” He can’t say it but his body language screams it for him— he’s afraid to take the last step towards the other man. He’s drawn to him like a magnet, but… Kallus bridges the gap, taking the back of Zeb's skull and guiding him forward and down until their foreheads meet. Kal…needs a second, eyes squeezed shut as they breathe through the relief. They're burning when they open again, searing into Zeb's. "[None may fell me but you.]" Zeb makes a strangled sound. And then lifts him bodily into his arms. “Kallus,” he whispers, brow to brow and Chest to chest. “Kallus. [Rival mine. I grieved.] don’t — don’t you do that to me again, you understand?” "I'd come back. I'd--kriffing haunt you, you cannot escape me."

And then they sappily make out until Zeb remembers there's a surprise party planned for the kids return and they can't just neck all day.

which is where the RP tapered off, as they are want to do.

have I posted Lobot!Kallus? I keep meaning to I genuinely can't remember

vacant, only speaks when spoken to, has to be guided by hand bc his spacial awareness has been intentionally fucked with, is either In There behind all the programming, unable to jailbreak himself without permission which no one has thought to give him OR has been fractured so severely, his identity may as well be gone or only exists as a subroutine that only triggers under certain circumstances and is so buried by restrictions it's unrecognizable.

just things I do to my favorite characters uwu

[riddlesnap]

"Your suit is really green!" The little red haired girl stared up at him with wide, blue and brown speckled eyes. "Like grass! Or, umm...em'ralds!" She nodded firmly, convinced that was right. "My Papa likes green. Do you like green?" (From Essi)

He's dreaming again. It's not a very nice dream though. He's battered and bruised from head to toe, being dragged across a cold hard floor before being flung unceremoniously into an equally unpleasant cell even smaller than his usual one. He's back in Arkham. Again. Having been defeated by Batman. Again. The lights go out, leaving him in the sort of darkness where you can just about barely make out your surroundings, not that there's much to look at other than a thin strip of light from a door far too small for him to get out of. Edward sits up, brushing himself off as he patently waits for the dream to be over. He's had this one before and it's not pleasant, ending only when the cell starts shrinking so much it's like getting caught in one of his own death traps all the while hearing laughter ringing outside. Except, this time, that doesn't happen. This time there is a knock at the door, a small one made by small, almost shy hands. Crawling over on hands and knees, Edward goes to open it, finding it unlocked much to his surprise. What's more surprising is the visitor on the other side. A little girl with red hair and odd eyes none too different from his own. No child he's ever seen before, which makes it all the stranger why she's here, but he'll take it over the usual getting-crushed-to-death part. That part always had him wake up drenched in cold sweat, shaking and nauseous.

"It is green, isn't it?" Edward laughs, looking down at his suit. Gone is the badly-made jumpsuit Arkham forces all her inmates to wear, the scratchy grey fabric replaced by a smooth, verdant cut of wildest green. He feels more like himself again, not nearly so small now despite still being trapped in this tiny cell. It's a reminder that he's the Riddler, that no matter what happened, he always had a plan. Edward looks back at the girl, deciding that he liked her, whoever she was. "You're right again. I do like green. It's always been my favourite colour as lots of nice things are that colour, like grass or those emeralds you mention. Do you like green too? Like your papa?" He feels almost silly asking, talking to her like she's a real child. He knows none of this is real, that he's only dreaming but what harm could any of this bring? At least until he woke back up, and would forget all about this.

[naffeclipse]

Talk about your monster husband ocs coward (affectionate❤️)

Everyone, the tumblr user themeeplord is bullying me (affectionate <3)!!

You have no idea how normal I am about my monster OCs. They're so lovely just let me—ahhh!

Hawthorn is a Mothman monster. His wings are based on the garden tiger moth and he is so fluffy! He has a thick fuzz on his neck and chest and is a warm, cuddlebug. He also possesses bright orange eyes that pierce the darkness and startle the unfortunate late-night hikers or anyone piercing into the woods after midnight.

He has a thing for hanging out in the thick woods near where the MC lives. Wherever he goes, bad omens follow. He really shouldn't be near MC—he knows he'll be the death of his precious little human, but he can't help it. He's drawn to the MC like a moth to a flame (heheh). He's delightful and gentlemanly, but don't let that fool you. He's got a possessive stretch a mile wide and does not take kindly to anyone giving the MC looks or reaching out for a too-familiar touch. He will bristle and buzz, and fly swift and silent through the darkness to chase after anyone to ensure the MC stays all to himself. He is a bad omen, after all.

Grease is an oil demon! He feeds off of fear, literally, and delights in terrifying people in the night. His body is slick and iridescent, and he is constantly dripping black goo from his person. He is capable of shifting his form to hide in a puddle, slink underneath doors, or bubble through a crack in a broken window. He's got wicked sharp teeth, and eyes like a tiger but with a pale, unsettling blue color. He possesses tendrils on his head that constantly drip and a long, slick tail that he can use to grab MC by the ankle. He's terribly seductive and charming, terrifying but mischievous. He likes to say 'boo' just to watch MC jump. Of course, he's not all tang and salt. He's got a sweet side that rouses in a protectiveness over MC. He's possessive, sure, and he's marked his claim with the oil stains on MC's work apron, but he's got an ooey-gooey center of sweetness that MC occasionally finds when he blushes at a stray touch or a nice comment about him.

Calmo 91, otherwise just called Calmo, is a robot. Constructed in the 90s with a box TV screen head to match, he has bright yellow optics in the screen face along with thick wires falling behind his head in a ponytail-like fashion. He is cool and difficult to read but wickedly intelligent and learning much about humans and affections. His body is a thin endoskeleton with plastic matt gray coverings that give peeks of blue, red, and yellow wires at his metallic joints. He's got a mysterious past the MC is attempting to unravel that he truly wishes the MC would leave be. He's got much to learn about technology but he quickly figures out how to connect to the MC's phone for texting, phone calls, and other useful things of course, like keeping tags on where MC is and monitoring MC's heart rate. Useful tools. Modern technology. Living in the MC's house, he gets to spend more domestic time with the human he decided is kind and generous, but the MC occasionally finds him at the foot of the bed in the darkness, his yellow optics strangely switched to red until the MC says his name and his optics revert back to yellow again.

[iizuumi]

Guess Narumi isn't getting any paperwork done ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[littlexdeaths]

🗝️!!!!!

secret wip it is hehehhehehe

this is something i literally started months ago, only told one person about it and haven’t touched it since. 💀 honestly not sure if it will ever come to completion, but i love this idea so much and i’m super proud of the title i came up with, so i just wanted to share it anyway <3

wip weekend, send me a lil something <3

You carefully place your fingers on the planchette, praying that Carol doesn’t notice how they’ve started to tremble. She flashes you an unnerving smile that has a lump forming in your throat, the muted candle light casting harsh shadows across her pretty features.

“Are there any spirits here tonight that would like to communicate with us?” She asks, and your eyes immediately drop down to where both your hands are resting on the planchette.

You wait for a moment, but nothing happens.

“Are there any spirits here that want to communicate?” Carol repeats a little louder, and you can already hear her patience beginning to falter.

You’re only greeted with more silence, the wooden planchette remaining completely still in the middle of the board.

“I told you this was a dumb idea,” you sigh, ignoring her sharp glare.

“Oh don’t be such a wimp,” she bites back, sitting up a little straighter. “I said, are there any damn spirits in this dump that would like to communicate?”

There’s an unmistakable shift in the air, a dark and heavy feeling that slowly settles over you. The wicks of the candles begin to flicker before they are completely snuffed out, bathing the room in darkness. A sliver of moonlight begins to trickle in through open window, making the board appear to glow. Panic claws at your throat as the shadows around the room seem to come alive, slowly closing in around the two of you.

“Carol,” you whisper frantically, your voice starting to shake. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

The planchette suddenly flies out from under your fingertips, sliding across the board until it spells out the words, TOO LATE.

[andy-15-07]

heyyy! can you do a jealous!reader for danny :) maybe reader gets jealous after Danny gets hit on?

Mine, Not Yours

PAIRING: Danny Ramirez x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1048✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

You hadn’t planned on feeling jealous tonight. In fact, when Danny invited you to his friend's rooftop party in West Hollywood, you were just excited to wear that sundress he liked and spend the night at his side, maybe with a tequila soda in one hand and his fingers tangled in the other.

That plan, however, went to hell the second she showed up.

Blonde. Tall. Model-y. And very clearly not concerned about the fact that Danny was very much not single.

“Oh my God,” she cooed, her manicured hand lightly grazing Danny’s arm. “You’re so much hotter in real life. Like, I didn’t think that was possible.”

Danny laughed,laughed,with that damn crinkle around his eyes you loved, then scratched the back of his neck the way he always did when someone complimented him.

“Thanks,” he said, shooting you a brief glance over her shoulder. “Appreciate that.”

You were standing right there. Holding his drink.

And yet she kept going.

“Seriously. You were amazing in Top Gun. I didn’t even know I was into pilots until you.”

You took a slow sip of your drink and narrowed your eyes.

Danny, ever the charming diplomat, chuckled again and tried to inch subtly closer to you. “Appreciate that. My girlfriend actually dragged me to the audition, so I owe her.”

The girl’s smile faltered, but not by much. “Oh. Cute,” she said, as if it physically hurt to acknowledge your existence.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward with a tight smile. “I’m the girlfriend. The dragger of auditions. The reason he’s standing here and not bartending in Miami.”

Danny let out a cough-laugh and tried to cover his mouth, clearly enjoying this too much.

The blonde blinked. “Oh. Right. Of course.” She looked you up and down,not subtle. “Nice dress.”

You smiled sweetly. “Thanks. He bought it.”

Danny reached for your hand with a grin. “Babe,”

You didn’t let him finish. “Hey, do you wanna get another drink? You look thirsty.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “I’m good, actually.”

“Great. Bye,” you said, tugging Danny by the arm and walking him away.

Once you were safely tucked behind a group of strangers near the snack table, you dropped his hand and gave him a look.

“She seriously didn’t see me standing there?”

Danny smirked. “Jealous?”

“Obviously,” you huffed, folding your arms. “She practically licked your face in front of me.”

He leaned in. “Would’ve stopped her. You know my face is reserved for you.”

You snorted, but your arms stayed crossed.

“Don’t laugh. I saw you doing the neck scratch. That’s your I’m flattered but too nice to say go away move.”

“Wow,” he said. “You’ve been studying me.”

“I’ve been dating you for a year, Ramirez. I have a PhD in your mannerisms.”

Danny laughed, grabbing a mini cupcake from the table and offering it to you. “Okay, but like, you know you’re the only one I’m bringing home tonight, right?”

You took the cupcake, but didn’t bite it. “Still. You let her flirt with you for like ten minutes.”

“She was drunk and starstruck,” he said gently. “I didn’t want to be rude. I was trying to give her a soft letdown.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Soft letdowns don’t involve eye crinkles and chuckles.”

He groaned dramatically and cupped your cheeks with both hands. “You’re the only girl I want flirting with me. Ever. Even if your flirting involves passive-aggressively suggesting people are dehydrated.”

“That was direct,” you said proudly. “Polite, but direct.”

Danny grinned. “It was sexy.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, a little less icy. He leaned in, brushing your lips lightly with his before pulling back just enough to whisper, “You jealous, baby?”

You gave him a flat look. “No. I just don’t like when people pretend I’m not standing two feet away from my boyfriend while they try to get his number.”

Danny wrapped his arms around your waist and tugged you close. “Mhm. I like jealous you. She’s feisty.”

“I’m not,”

He cut you off with another kiss, deeper this time. The kind that made your knees weak and your brain fuzzy.

When he pulled away, your cheeks were flushed and your hands were fisted in the front of his shirt.

“Still mad?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

You sighed. “A little.”

“Good,” he said smugly, then leaned close to your ear. “Means you still care.”

You shoved him gently. “I swear, your ego is so,”

“I love you.”

You blinked.

His smile softened. “Seriously. And if you ever feel like someone’s stepping over the line, just say the word. I’ll shut it down fast.”

You exhaled slowly, some of the lingering tension melting away. “Okay.”

He kissed your forehead. “Promise.”

“Fine. But next time, I’m not saying anything. I’m just pouring a drink on her shoes.”

Danny burst out laughing. “You’re insane.”

“I’m protective. There’s a difference.”

He looped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight against him. “Well, your protective streak is kinda hot. Just saying.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean it. You in that dress, lowkey ready to throw hands? Sexy.”

You groaned, but you were smiling now. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am lucky,” he said earnestly, nuzzling your temple. “Like, unfairly lucky.”

You leaned into him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. “Next time someone hits on me, I expect a matching meltdown.”

Danny pulled back to look at you, mock-offended. “Someone hits on you, and I’m flipping tables. That’s not jealousy. That’s justice.”

You laughed, finally biting into the cupcake. “God, you’re dramatic.”

“Takes one to date one,” he said, kissing your cheek.

Later that night, curled up on the couch in his apartment, you found yourself half-asleep with your legs in his lap and a blanket draped over you both.

He was scrolling through his phone when he suddenly said, “So, how do we feel about me wearing a shirt that says ‘Property of Y/N’ at the next party?”

You opened one eye. “Danny,”

“I’ll do it. Don’t test me.”

You smiled sleepily. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, drifting off. “Mine. Not hers.”

Danny looked down at you, his whole expression soft. He brushed your hair off your forehead and kissed it gently.

“Always yours.”

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Drabble Challenge 2024 - Day 18: Zipper

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm

-

"Zipper, he called it."

"Apt name," Aylin murmurs over the odd whirring sound, as Isobel's robes split to reveal a delectable slip of skin. "The unforeseen benefits of sheltering gnomish inventors."

"I call it a great equaliser," Isobel grins. "For all of us poor mortals who cannot simply dismiss their clothes at will or wreathe themselves in moonlight."

Aylin nods, rapt. "Endless laces keeping me from you are detestable indeed."

"There is an art to the tease, though," Isobel, smirking, slowly pulls the thing further down. The sound is far more enticing than odd, now, and Aylin, eager, leans closer.

-

[fatepowered]

how i be feeling after a month on this blog with so many amazing interactions & new friends.... did u guys know i love u...

i hope u guys are liking my muses !!

[beevean]

2, hector/isaac i beg - innocent devil

…goodnight.

Another long, grueling day of work had come to an end. Dusting off the gem powder from their uniforms, Hector and Isaac returned to the safety of their bedrooms.

"Wait, it's too cold outside," piped Isaac with a smile. "How about we sleep together? Unless you're tired of me..."

Isaac's excuses were more and more thinly-veiled. It was all part of their little game they had going on: Hector pretended to think about it, only because he didn't want to spoil Isaac too much.

"I don't know, you are quite a handful..." Before Isaac's smile could vanish, he outstretched his hand, which was promptly grabbed. "But it is cold outside, so I'll have to make do."

Sometimes, Hector wondered why they couldn't be plain with each other, like the adults they'd soon become. The right words were stuck in his throat, ready to come out, but he had grown too used to speaking Isaac's warped language.

After many years, he could understand him, and everything he said without his forked tongue.

There was no better lullaby than the roaring of the wind rattling the glasses of the window, when Hector was protected under the covers of his bed and had Isaac lying close to him, warmer than a purring cat. The nights spent hiding in the forest, because the frigid cold and the damp soil were still better than his parents, were a distant memory that no longer touched him.

"Hectorrrrr," Isaac crooned, passing a finger up and down Hector's arm - despite the heat, his skin prickled into goosebumps at the touch. "Are you still thinking? Don't you ever get tired of working that smart brain of yours?"

Hector could have retorted with a joke. Asked him if he felt so lonely he had to beg for attention. Deny and simply say he was attempting to fall asleep. But something in Isaac's eyes, large and crystalline, that reflected his thoughts more than perhaps the other boy would have liked, made his stomach flip, and unledge his throat.

"I'm just happy to have found this place."

Isaac cocked his head in curiosity.

"It's... I never thought I'd be here. That I'd sleep peacefully in my own bed, with no one to wake me up. That I'd be doing something to be appreciated for. That I could be free to be myself without fear. That..." Hector smiled. "I'd have a real friend."

"Well," Isaac attempted to smirk, and he would almost look like his sky self, were it not for the blush creeping on his freckled cheeks, "aren't you in a swooning mood today."

"Yeah." And no longer caring about any silly game, Hector leaned closer, and kissed Isaac on his smart mouth, and he was so still that Hector nearly feared to have misjudged everything and maybe ruined what they had, but then Isaac cupped the back of his head and the world melted away.

When they separated, Isaac was all wide eyes and cheeks as red as his hair. For once, he was almost cute.

"Goodnight, Isaac. Thanks for... for... everything, I suppose."

"Uhm... yeah. Goodnight, Hector."

Isaac had no sarcastic answer, this time. He did, however, embrace Hector more tightly, as they drifted off to sleep.

[waywardstation]

It’s Wednesday. Usually you’re sharing a WIP today but I am once again encouraging you to not pressure yourself to share something today, especially when things are busy on your end. Or anything else that could keep you from getting here.

So no pressure! And hope you’re doing okay! Take care!

Thank you for the reminder and support, friend! Both are appreciated very much, and hope you’re doing alright too! ^^ A lot has certainly been going on lately, but I really wanted to get a WIP out on time this week, so here is one, even though it’s pretty late!

SO HAPPY WIP WEDNESDAY! Today’s WIP is the losing choice from HFBE from this poll — an argument about the viability of pokeballs in the Pearl Clan.

Enjoy! Writing is subject to change!

—————

“Excuse me Miss Irida, but may we talk for a moment?”

The Pearl Clan leader turned back to see Ingo – he was trailing behind the group, purposefully so. He had been waiting for the right moment to approach her.

“Right now?” Irida’s eyes flickered back over the tops of people’s heads, up towards the communal hall at the top of the hill. “I’m sorry, but can it wait until after the meeting?”

“It is actually about the meeting.” Ingo’s grey eyes were unwavering, waiting — he wanted to ask her something. And Ingo was not one to usually ask for things.

“Ok,” She relented, pausing in the snow both so he could catch up, and they could have their conversation with some privacy away from the rest of the group. “You have until we reach the hall.”

“Thank you, I assure you it will be quick.” Ingo fell into step beside her, shuffling through the snow as they now both trailed behind the group heading towards the warm hall. Just like her, he kept his head tilted down, using the brim of his hat to protect against the wind and snowfall. “I, ah… I am planning to re-propose a proposition at this meeting tonight. I’d like to make another attempt at advocating for the use of pokeballs.”

“Tonight? Are you serious?” Irida lowered her voice (for his sake, not hers), looking back between him and the group. How could he possibly think about proposing that when this meeting was for them to discuss how to prepare for this famine? “I’m saying this not as your leader but as your friend, Ingo; now is absolutely not a good time for that. Everyone is already going into this meeting angry. And if you try and start this again, they’re going to-”

Irida took a deep breath; she was already getting stressed over it.

“You know what the elders are going to say, Ingo. Especially after last time. And you said you’d let it go.”

“I am well aware of what I said and I intended to stick to it, but these circumstances have changed our tracks, and I believe this may save us from derailing!” Ingo whispered back. He kept throwing quick glances at the nearing hall, gauging how much time he had left to persuade her. “Pokeballs can help us much more than the clan realizes – I’m confident that this can bring us closer to a solution, if not at least be a part of one!”

Irritation and confusion were replaced with genuine curiosity, but a fleck of doubt hesitantly followed after. Irida shook her head, not understanding. “How could they possibly help with all of this?”

“I will explain that in the meeting.” Having conquered the snowy hill, the two reached the warm light that spilled through the hall’s windows to project onto the snow. “But to do that, I need to actually present my proposal, and I’m afraid that will be difficult with the elders tonight. I am trying this for the fourth time now, and I’m aware of how this will most likely be received. I expect they’ll attempt to send me back to my seat before I even start.”

Ingo paused just outside the doors, waiting for Irida to go in first — she could do so and end the conversation right now if she wanted to, but she didn’t. Instead she stood there, staring at their fading shoeprints in the snow.

Irida could see why he approached her about this now, and a part of her felt sorry for him. “So you want me to vouch for you in this meeting tonight.”

“Not for the proposal itself. Just for the time to talk.”