adaminfinitium

[adaminfinitium]

PROMPTS FOR ORDINARY THINGS THAT FEEL INTIMATE *  inspired by this post. these don't have to be romantic - you can specify romantic or not when you send them. in essence, these are simply intimate, affectionate moments to share with someone you love and care about. adjust as necessary, send 'reverse' for the reversal of the prompt

[ lean ] sender rests their head on receiver's shoulder

[ shop ] sender and receiver go to the grocery store together

[ brush ] sender brushes receiver's hair

[ tie ] sender helps receiver with their tie, either by putting it on or adjusting it

[ necklace ] sender helps receiver with the clasp of their necklace from behind

[ zip up ] sender assists receiver with zipping up a piece of clothing

[ unzip ] sender assists receiver with unzipping a piece of clothing

[ shoelaces ] sender bends down to tie receiver's shoelaces

[ swipe ] sender notices a smudge of something on receiver's face and gently wipes it off

[ braid ] sender braids receiver's hair

[ jacket ] sender takes their jacket off and hangs it on receiver's shoulders

[ puddle ] sender hurries to stop receiver from stepping into a puddle

[ drinks ] sender brings receiver a drink from a bar/their kitchen

[ feed ] sender feeds receiver's pet/s for them

[ cook ] sender and receiver cook a meal together

[ feed ] sender allows receiver to try a bite of their dish, holding their fork out for receiver to taste

[ teach ] sender, an expert at something, takes time to teach receiver how it works and how they can get better at it, too

[ readjust ] sender comes up behind receiver and readjusts their stance (maybe holding a gun, holding a golf club, aiming for something, etc.) to help them

[ makeup ] sender fixes receiver's makeup for them

[ bathroom ] sender and receiver go to a public restroom together and have a normal conversation in between the stalls

[ aloud ] sender reads aloud to receiver

[ refill ] sender refills receiver's glass without asking

[ massage ] sender notices receiver looks tense, steps up behind them, and massages their shoulders

[ listen ] sender listens to receiver explain something they're passionate about

[ silence ] sender and receiver comfortably exist in silence together, both of them working or reading or focusing on something different

[ food ] sender brings food over to receiver's house

[ hum ] sender hums along to a song receiver is singing

[ see ] sender sees something that reminds them of receiver and texts them a picture of it

[ admire ] sender stares at receiver across a room, silently admiring and appreciating them from afar

[ win ] sender lets receiver beat them in a game

[ puzzle ] sender helps receiver solve/put together a puzzle

[ carry ] after receiver falls asleep in an inconvenient place, sender carries them to a bed and tucks them in

[ kneel ] sender finds receiver sick in the bathroom ("tossing their cookies"), and kneels beside them, holding their hair back and cleaning their face

[ clean ] sender helps bathe receiver

[ wash ] sender helps receiver wash their hair

[ patch ] sender carefully patches one of receiver's wounds

[adaminfinitium]

continued from here. / @co1one1jgr

Logan scans the hallway briefly, pursing his lips in response. "Someone gave it to me." Which, obviously, but he wasn't really in the mood for a detailed explanation. The smell of an animal wafted through his nostrils, familiar in a way difficult to describe to those who weren't operating on instinct ninety percent of the time. His appearance matched the grainy photo in the manilla folder he'd received just days prior. A certain bleakness in his eyes, one that was recognizable through the many years fought beside those who had thrown their lives to the wayside. His location doesn't particularly tick off any red flags, or point to it all being obtained in the warped, frankly bias, manner chirped from his temporary supervisor. He was here for one purpose and yet Logan couldn't ascertain a true motive; Jager could be fighting for a noble cause, or simply be an agent in waiting. Through most of his years in service, this grappling before dealing the final blow to take someone's life plagued him greatly. It wasn't until thirty or so years prior, when he'd gained an additional ability (forced on his person, more like) that the voice quieted down for good.

It catches him off guard for a second, staring at the man a little too long. Any preemptive conscious attempting to give the current situation nuance was ripped away the moment the sleek metal of his claws sliced through the only thing separating him and a ride home. He grips the edge of the door, swinging it open enough to fit himself through and steps inside, slamming the heavy wood behind him. His claws are still out, a sharp pain courses throughout his knuckles ultimately going ignored as he focuses his attention to the man. "I'm gonna make this real easy, okay?" Logan depresses the claws in his left hand, stepping slowly, closer and closer toward his target. His eyebrows pinched, dark irises piercing through his eyelashes with a menacing expression to sell the point that resistance is futile in the face of his abilities. Something tells him, as per usual, it won't go as easily as he hopes.

"I won't have to kill ya' if you don't piss me off. Don't fucking care either way. Dealin' with you mafia types is a pain in the ass already, don't wanna quit your snoopin' around." Logan grumbles, rolling his shoulder. The words slice through the air with an undercurrent of annoyance. "Same mug as yours—says he ain't a fan, kid. Now you go grab your shit, and get outta town unless you're dumb enough to take the other option."

[adaminfinitium]

old man logan save me old man...

[adaminfinitium]

MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN

[adaminfinitium]

Manhandling symbol starters

Send one for your muse to…

★ - drag my muse by the arm ⁂ - grab my muse by the front of their shirt, possibly shoving them back ✱ - take my muse by the hips to carefully move them out of their way ➜ - smack my muse upside the head ⌧ - grip my muse by the back of the neck © - put a hand on my muse’s back to steer them somewhere ✂ - point sternly at a chair and tell my muse to sit down ✉ - push my muse back down when they try to get out of bed (perhaps involving illness, injury, or sleep deprivation) ☛ - press a finger to my muse’s lips to shut them up ♚ - put a hand on my muse’s knee while sitting next to them, to discourage them from standing up ♧ - slap my muse’s hand away from something they shouldn’t touch ♦ - grab my muse’s hair and yank ♤ - slam a door shut before my muse can leave the room ♞ - physically pick my muse up and carry them ♭ - grip my muse’s jaw to make them look yours in the eye ♨ - rub my muse down with a sponge/wet cloth  ☀ - pin my muse with their arms behind their back ☠ - slam my muse into a wall ☾ - wrestle/pin my muse to the ground

Add as much or as little context as you’d like!

[adaminfinitium]

So she's a smart ass, Logan feels his eyes attempt to shoot from out of their sockets at the drip of cheery sarcasm in her voice. Even her mannerism freak him out a bit, except the creepy villainess archetype pokes at his hindbrain (is he even looking straight?). He can sympathize with having a psycho for a boss, occasionally having to pair with some of the world's most dangerous. Whether or not that had much to do with his outward tolerance for them or his ability to shut them down he'll bank on the former. A flick of his tongue around his teeth gets him a brief taste of the whiskey he'd indulged in, providing him a bit of respite before having to sit and pretend he gives a damn about her interest in his abilities. The high wears down faster each binge, a body constantly pushed to reach its prime will develop that response, he supposes. Anything to keep him in peak physical condition while his mental state falls by the wayside. From the looks of it the woman is in no mood to let him walk peacefully so he can regroup; not that it would deter him for long—no one ever expects the regenerative healing factor from an animal hybrid.

"You should listen to friends Miss... what the hell are you supposed to be? Some kind of princess?" Logan purses his lips. He can't help the slurred laugh that follows, bellowing from his stomach with every heave. It's been a while since he could let himself have a little fun; grappling to a well earned high shouldn't cause too much friction and he's always come around to completing objectives last minute anyway. Maybe it's the white flowing hair, or the silhouette beneath all the prim layers of clothing—fabric too crafty and detailed to be available in the poor man's designer boutique. Plenty of mutants have a grandiose outlook on their abilities; within the school many of the children create personas, shout cheesy one-liners, all what you might expect at that age. Logan's never encountered that in an adult quite like what he's seeing unfold before him. A Charles Xavier welcome so blatantly laden with horrible intentions. Only thing missing is the telltale sound of warped metal.

There's a brief gesture he makes between them, and then around the room with the walls following suit. "Listen bub, I've met enough fucking lunatics. Want me to come with you, maybe work on the smile. Almost looks like you don't wanna fuckin' kill me. You think I—shit wait," Logan says, turning his head to empty his stomach. He curses again when he's faced with a burned throat from the lack of food for the past couple days. Bile fans out, spreading over the floor, some even touching his pants and dances the line between uneven flooring and the woman's shoes. It's the last thing he sees before his vision lapses and the sort of aberration one might get from a psychedelic unfolds before he comes to again in a cold sweat. The worst introductory meeting by far.

Logan doesn't make any sudden movements lest he be impaled by the woman's crew immediately. His mental state isn't far off from before, he's definitely not drunk and definitely regrets a thing or two that make the pounding at his skull thrum unbearably. He notes the location, not unkindly thrown in some dungeon or moldy basement (or sanitized lab, thank god) but in a room. Some hotel by the looks of it—a bed, a couch, both too nice to belong in any home near the place he'd made a fool of himself. Judging by his track record, he's not especially surprised. "Gotta kidding me, fuckin' woman..." Logan grumbles. The hairs on his neck perk at the feeling of a pair of eyes on him, the same eerie yellow. He racks his brain for the name in the dossier but the all the energy put into recollection settles him further and further into the mattress. A cigar would make it so much easier to think. Probably. "Hey. You gonna whisk me away sweetheart? Least you can do is act like you had fun."

❅ ― ❝ @adaminfinitium inquired:

Left to his own devices has to be the worst outcome after a long mission. He's taken to crashing wherever in the school's hallways his body lands on first and the kids either leave him there or have the balls to wake him up and point to the nearest bathroom for him to vomit. Unfortunately, it happens there's another loose ends that needs to be tied and cut off before he can think about resting his sore muscles. It's why he's kneeled before a woman, of which he has no recollection as to whether her name appeared on the dossier he was supposed to read before indulging in shot after shot at the bar just down the street (he can hear a faint yells; glass clanking). "You gonna kill me now?" Logan mutters with a gruff chuckle. He's so out of it. The posture wasn't common practice for him, and it was killer having such a sharp canary-sunshine (whatever) eyes attempt to pierce through his own slightly glossed over ones. A simple result of him taking a nap on the floor and an arrival catching him by surprise. "Or you rather I carve my name into your chest first? That's a crowd favorite."

The fools continue to act as they were expected to act. The natural disaster steps onto the scene dressed in white, it doesn’t fit this place. Heads are turned, eyes show hunger, and mouths hang open when ethereal beauty enters the place where drinks and glasses fly between people. They pass them like they pass offenses and insults with cackles; they are empty and lacking any interesting spark to make the iceberg melt enough to show her interest. Despite how this place was filled with trash of human society, there is something that lingers in the air. The rumors and the whispers. Her team made it clear there is something happening inside. 

Or, well, happened inside…

A man sits on his knees in front of her. Not the first time she sees this type of situation, but the first time she wonders exactly why someone like him is in the neighborhood when she’s there. It makes her wonder. There have been discussions of what kind of man he is. The whispers of fear and worry, the hushed talks where grown men trembled while talking about him. It got her curious. Mutants weren’t uncommon, she was one herself (or was she?). Her team certainly is considered a team of ‘gifted’, including one who doesn’t possess a ‘supernatural’ ability. 

Zarina Sokolova has her arms loosely crossed under her chest. She brings her right hand up, finger touching her chin as she pushes her lower lip forward and switches her weight on her right leg. Her golden eyes scan him, studying his slumped statue and noting every single flaw and virtue on him. The glossy eyes, the way his muscles twitch, the way he looks at her, the way he speaks, and the way his body language gives him away. No, what gives him away is the scent and the sound of his heartbeat. The temperature of his body is noted right away, including the glossiness and the way he breathes. She can hear his heartbeat. Several rings (limiters) were taken off because dealing with mutants will always require caution above any grade. 

When he opens his mouth, Sokolova raises an eyebrow. Internally, she rolls her eyes at him, scoffing with a subtle ‘ugh, men’. There is something so predictable to his words that it almost makes her want to turn around and abandon him, but he is still a person of interest. There are those who can get in her way and who would allow a wolverine outside without having a symbolic leash of loyalty on him? He must work for someone. People like this don’t go around without a job. Especially in these places. 

It might be a coincidence. Or it’s an opportunity. 

His inquiries are predictable and boring. His abilities, on the other hand, are not. His affiliation can also come in handy. If she finds his handler, she’ll be led to an interesting place. People from this part of the world are so unique. America is a place where Russians haven’t been looked at with kindness for many years when it came to politics. Her current presence here comes to dealings with criminal syndicates and selling them weapons based on mutation research and newly opened innovations on the market. But who is scarier than guns and poisons?

A human weapon. Always. Humans. 

Zarina’s gaze softens as she does a step back and then settles down, elbows on her knees, heels allowing her to remain in a stable position with her hand on her open hands. Her smile turns gentle and soft, golden eyes show nothing but a gleam of warm amber. She will react faster than he’d ever expect, the elemental of ice will create hands to drag him away at the speed of sound if he twitches to attack her. Her gaze remains observant and watchful, but her smile becomes more sunshine-like with a giggle to her words.

“Nah, why would I kill you? Not like you tried to kill me!” Her team is around the room, securing the perimeter and looking at their leader with exasperated expressions. Especially Derek Atwood, the tall and gloomy faced gentleman acting as a bodyguard and the stronghold of their current team right now. There are only four people here right now including Zarina and this newly found gentleman. A bitey gentleman. “Well, don’t really like the crowd favorite either. This is my most favorite dress, sir! Also blood and white don’t mix together on fabric. I think you’d be quite rude to ruin such a beautiful custom work.” 

They both can hear a sigh behind the man. Atwood massages the bridge of his nose, shaking his head while the older man by the door chuckles while smoking and checking his tranquilizing gun. 

“I propose another thing, Sharpie,” she giggles, voice higher than it should be with a sing-along tonality. She looks like a Cheshire Cat, only needing a pair of cat ears and a tail that sways from left to right. “Come with us…”

It doesn’t take a second for the sound of something to fall in the background before a man’s voice rings out with an unhidden British accent. 

“Are you mad?!” Derek steps forward, but is unable to step closer because he feels the pull on his leg and the colder sensation on his thigh. His expression remains grim and unhappy, frowning as if he heard something outrageous. “We didn’t come here to play rescue!”

“But he’s not a rescue, goodness gracious, Derrie,” the woman pouts as she speaks, glancing at her teammate with a pout before returning to watch the man. He doesn’t look good. Is he drunk or on drugs? Usually, regenerative capabilities work that out quickly. At least, hers do. Intriguing if his mutation works differently. “Sir, we’ve got a hotel nearby. My medic can assist you and if you wanna leave? You can do so in the morning.”

She hums then, getting up and dusting off her skirt. She offers her hand to him, quite fully expecting him to try and harm her. It’d be a shame

“You see, we’re not supposed to be here either, so we kind of would like to fuck off from here,” she laughs, light and unserious. “It’s not really charity. What I’d ask of you would be your name and for you to not like…" Silverette gestures at his hands. "Turn me into thin slices of salami. So life for life! You don’t skewer me and I don’t do anything to you! Deal? Pinky promise with cherry on top.” Grown ass woman.

An actor, to be precise.

[adaminfinitium]

Logan tilts his head at the display in front of him. The sketch he'd been working on seemed to build gradually but he could feel there was something missing and didn't quite like all the empty space surrounding what was supposed to be a basket of lemons. Over two hundred years he'd gotten relatively good at drawing from memory, though in the past twenty he was able to start practicing through a technological medium. He assumed everyone preferred being able to gauge their skills properly with traditional methods, but the ease of correcting grievances was appreciated. Logan, for once, was in a good mood after months. He nods at the piece, lips quirking up ever so slightly before leaning to his left, gently nudging the girl next to him. "What do you think? No Da Vinci but... it's pretty solid." (wolvie)

An Art course sure was always full of oddities, but the guy beside her sure took the cake, and honestly she could not tell how old he was by now, with how jacked he looked at the same time. With how often she had studied the male body, his clothing did not hide his trained body completely, or he was simply lucky with genes to have this kind of shape. Apparently it had fascinated her enough to ponder about him almost the entire time. He sure was hairy though. Even his fingers had caught her gaze, which did not appear like they were used to holding a tool like a brush that did not require any strength.

"Huh?!" Even if gentle, the little touch took her completely off guard, after she was more focused on her own art again, that contrasted heavily to his traditional piece; a scenery from a city at night inspired from a dystopian movie. The many tiny lights had been the most tiresome part. Fang squinted at his painting again, or should she just call it a sketch. "Why lemons?" She could not help but ask, considering how glaringly yellow and sour they could be. "Like.. why just lemons?" One alright, two maybe, but a whole basket? The most typical fruit a beginner would usually pick was a damn apple or various fruits at least. With her question she was also partially trying to be nice to a (she assumed) beginner, as she found the pencil drawing rather uninviting. Perhaps more leaves would helped, setting a better atmosphere, a bird maybe, vague shadows in the background, anything. "It looks pretty stale," she mumbled. From a guy like him, she would expect a bit more action, more confidence in his strokes. Or a mess. "You should consider water colors." But she was also biased towards colored art but she liked to think, a popping yellow would save the art piece at least a little, combined with a fitting background color. "Doesn't even have to be detailed, just a bit of color, y'know?" she tried to argue, while this course had reached its end and others were already leaving. It was a course anyone could attend, and draw whatever they want and get help from a teacher if they desired. It was a place to simply find the time for one's hobby for once, or maybe win some friends, though even with the same interests, it was not always easy. "Of course, you could shade it better but then it just gets darker and looks unappetizing."

[adaminfinitium]

WARNING: This is an 21+ only independent, semi-selective, J.ames "Log.an" H.owlett sideblog. A mix of Fox (MCU too) & comic lore. Knowledge of the Xmen movies/comics are not necessary to interact! There will be mature themes such as abuse, alcoholism, human experimentation, graphic violence etc. (all tagged with tw) If that is not for you, I suggest you unfollow. ( Being so common place, please let me know if I miss tagging something important/avoid following as it's a fairly recent practice. )

loved by Lav, 21+, EST, semi-hiatus (university) following from @dernarrleid