#moth's shiny flags

[dizzy-lights]

reposting these! sorry, but the original post's tags were broken, making them practically unfindable even on my own page so i decided to bite the bullet and repost them.

same note as before, using multiple versions of contested flags because it's not my business to say what people in those community should use to represent themselves.

flags are in order: pansexual (two versions), genderqueer, aromantic, asexual, aroace, polyamorous, achillian, sapphic, gay (two versions), lesbian, nonbinary, transmasc, transfem, bisexual, intersex and transgender.

#web graphics #pride pixels #pride #rentry resources #carrd resources #moth's shiny flags #moth's original content

[lepidoptera-family]

Lepidoptera Family (Main Post/Introduction)

The Lepidopteras are a long family of demons who resembles moths and butterflies. They've existed since the stone age and not too long after Lucifer's fall. They're very well known within the circles of Hell, each generation or side of the family with their own reasons to their fame.

Family Members:

Litho

Litho was one of second generation of the family. She was born around the stone age, known for selling “statues” back in the day. You aren't able to ask her about anything for reasons, however you can ask the rest of the family about her if you wish to learn more about this shiny demoness.

Dolabella

Dolabella, Litho's husband, was also created around the stone age, over millions of years old. He's the typical rich asshole you would see in movies. He runs a successful wine company in Hell. He's available to be asked about.

Mori

Mori is a part of the second generation, he was created in around 707,607 years ago during the stone age. He's everyone's favorite dad, the type of dad that will listen to you and help you with your problems. He's a chill guy - and also what people call nowadays a Male-wife. He's available to be asked about.

Atlanta

Atlanta, Mori's wife, was also in the second generation. She was created 789,001 years ago. She's a strict and cutthroat leader, but also a caring mother, under the belief that her kids deserves the best and will get the best....which is considered a red flag, but don't tell her that, she'll kill you. She runs a mob with some of her family. She's available to be asked about.

Iyar

Iyar is another one in the second generation, 500,786 years old. They're calm, collective and spearheaded. They also have multiple jobs. They're available to be asked about.

Polyphemus

Polyphemus, Mori and Atlanta's oldest son was birthed along with a batch of 40 siblings (He's 10,678 years old). He's a moody entitled man who uses the Boss' Son title to his advantage. He's available to be asked about.

Mothel

Mothel is one of the youngest of Mori and Atlanta's children - coming from the second batch of their eggs (They're 4,444 years old). They're a rather shy demon around strangers and tends to keep themselves quiet. However they're not afraid to stand up for themselves or others if absolutely necessary. They're available to be asked about.

Trandafir

Trandafir is the only son of Polyphemus (the mother is unknown). He's a relaxing individual who knows when and how to have fun. He's also caring. He makes Lo-fi music in his free time. He's available to be asked about.

The Butterflies part of the family isn't available yet, I have to finish their designs first.

#lil lucifer au #cuphead #cuphead ocs #moth demons #lepidoptera au #cuphead au #cuphead ask blog #ask blog

[wilwywaylan]

Do you hear the people sing ? Singing the song of full buckets ! It is the music of the people who will have so much sand everywhere... ♫

This year’s theme has been inspired by the ever-wonderful @paon-de-jour​ who always has my back (and the rest) ♥.

This was SO easy to do ! (sarcasm). Twelve days for the sketch, and then, and then.... Not to mention scanning the thing and then correcting the cut parts because the scanner apparently hates crabs and pride umbrellas.

Can you spot all the things I had to correct with the white gel pen and a pair of scissors ? Because I sure can, but I’ll never tell.

HAPPY BARRICADE DAY WHERE EVERYONE IS HAPPY AND NO ONE IS DEAD !

EDIT : can you believe I forgot to add Courf in the image ID ? TT.TT I’m sorry !! so here is the new version with it ! Thanks @despisydraws​ for catching it !

Here is the progress gif !

Image ID is this time underthe cut because it’s SUPER LONG !!

[image ID] a huge sand barricade being build on the beach, made of sand, pieces of wood and seashells. On the left, Enjolras, a white man with curled blond hair, blue eyes, wearing red shorts, is planting a red flag on the top of the barricade. Jehan, a tall white man with a long red braid, freckles, mismatched eyes, and wearing a large straw hat, is putting more sand on the barricade. There are roses tattooed on his right arm. On the right, Combeferre, a tall man with darker skin, brown hair with an undercut, grey eyes and glasses, wearing dark blue shorts, is measuring something on the barricade, head tilted on the side. He has a moth and constellations tattoed on his arm. In front of it, Feuilly, a white man with lots of freckles, red curls poking out of a hat, golden eyes, wearing a green shirt and red and white shorts with a “Les Amis de l’ABC” patch, is planting branchs in the sand. Behind them on the left, Montparnasse, a white man with sleeked black hair, wearing sunglasses, dress pants, a waistcoat and a shirt with rolled sleeves, is sitting on a beach towel, under an umbrella decorated with pride flags. Beside him, under another pride umbrella, Joly, an asian man with shortish hair and grey-green eyes, wearing a green shirt and shorts, is putting sunscreen on Bossuet’s back. Bossuet, a black, bald man with dark blue eyes, wearing white shorts with red hearts, is doing the same on his arm. They are both sitting on a beach towel, surrounded by bags and bottles of sunscreen. Beside them, Courfeyrac, a man with brown skin, tousled dark brown curls, and wearing pink, heart-shaped glasses, is lying on his stomach, legs up, and filming the sand barricade. In the background, Musichetta, a tan woman with pink curls, wearing a purple swimsuit, is floating on a shark-shaped float, holding a drink. Eponine, Cosette and Marius are walking by. Eponine, a tall, skinny woman with a pink sidecut, wearing a pink bra and cut-off shorts, is carrying a large bag with a shiny skull on it. Cosette, a fat, black woman with long purple braids, wearing a black and purple swimsuit, is holding her arm, as well as Marius’. Marius, a tall, skinny white man with black hair and freckles, wearing a white shirt and cut-off shorts, is trying to hold a black umbrella over Cosette’s head. On the far right, Gavroche, a white boy with brown, tousled hair, wearing an orange shirt and blue shorts, is splashing water on Javert. Javert, a tall man with tan skin, long black hair tied back and large sideburns, wearing a blue shirt and shorts, is stepping back. Behind him, Valjean, a tall, fat man with tan skin, white hair and a white ponytail, wearing shorts, is holding him. Fantine, a black woman with blond curls, wearing a yellow and purple dress and headscarf, is filming them with her cellphone. On the right of the barricade, Bahorel is running to it, holding two buckets full of water. He’s a tall, muscular man with brown skin, long black hair tied back, a beard, and black eyes. There are black, geometric tattoos on his arms, and he’s wearing a blue swimsuit. Lastly, Grantaire, a man with tan skin, black curls and green eyes, is sitting crosslegged on the corner. He’s sketching a traditionnal barricade and smiling. There are ivy leaves around his arm and lower back, Van Gogh’s Three Sunflowers on his left shoulder, and a geometric pattern on the right. end ID]

#les miserables #les mis #barricade day #enjolras #jehan prouvaire #combeferre #feuilly #montparnasse #joly #bossuet #musichetta #courfeyrac #eponine #cosette #marius pontmercy #jean valjean #javert #gavroche #fantine #bahorel #grantaire #gods that wasn't long to do at all #so many markers died for this #AND THEY ARE THE ONLY ONES WHO WILL ! #my Drawings

[bugs-are-nifty]

Good!

M!A a praying mantis enamel pin depicting the bug from the side with its wings spread; the wings are colored to look like the rainbow pride flag. Also, a similar pin of a fluffy moth, this one being in the colors of the blue and green MLM pride flag. Both are carefully packaged in a small, dark green box, on which Manti's name is written in a shiny, silver cursive.

[Manti is very gentle as he runs a finger along the cursive, and delicately takes out the pins]

T-thank you.

#[/gen] #[/shocked] #unknown specimen #manti

[7r0773r]

Poems by Elizabeth Bishop

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn't fight. He hadn't fought at all. He hung a grunting weight, battered and venerable and homely. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper, and its pattern of darker brown was like wallpaper: shapes like full-blown roses stained and lost through age. He was speckled with barnacles, fine rosettes of lime, and infested with tiny white sea-lice, and underneath two or three rags of green weed hung down. While his gills were breathing in the terrible oxygen —the frightening gills, fresh and crisp with blood, that can cut so badly— I thought of the coarse white flesh packed in like feathers, the big bones and the little bones, the dramatic reds and blacks of his shiny entrails, and the pink swim-bladder like a big peony. I looked into his eyes which were far larger than mine but shallower, and yellowed, the irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil seen through the lenses of old scratched isinglass. They shifted a little, but not to return my stare. —It was more like the tipping of an object toward the light. I admired his sullen face, the mechanism of his jaw, and then I saw that from his lower lip —if you could call it a lip— grim, wet, and weaponlike, hung five old pieces of fish-line, or four and a wire leader with the swivel still attached, with all their five big hooks grown firmly in his mouth. A green line, frayed at the end where he broke it, two heavier lines, and a fine black thread still crimped from the strain and snap when it broke and he got away. Like medals with their ribbons frayed and wavering, a five-haired beard of wisdom trailing from his aching jaw. I stared and stared and victory filled up the little rented boat, from the pool of bilge where oil had spread a rainbow around the rusted engine to the bailer rusted orange, the sun-cracked thwarts, the oarlocks on their strings, the gunnels—until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.

***

A Cold Spring

                                           for Jane Dewey, Maryland              Nothing is so beautiful as spring  —Hopkins

A cold spring: the violet was flawed on the lawn. For two weeks or more the trees hesitated; the little leaves waited, carefully indicating their characteristics. Finally a grave green dust settled over your big and aimless hills. One day, in a chill white blast of sunshine, on the side of one a calf was born. The mother stopped lowing and took a long time eating the after-birth, a wretched flag, but the calf got up promptly and seemed inclined to feel gay. The next day was much warmer. Greenish-white dogwood infiltrated the wood, each petal burned, apparently, by a cigarette-butt; and the blurred redbud stood beside it, motionless, but almost more like movement than any placeable color. Four deer practised leaping over your fences. The infant oak-leaves swung through the sober oak. Song-sparrows were wound up for the summer, and in the maple the complementary cardinal cracked a whip, and the sleeper awoke, stretching miles of green limbs from the south. In his cap the lilacs whitened, then one day they fell like snow. Now, in the evening, a new moon comes. The hills grow softer. Tufts of long grass show where each cow-flop lies. The bull-frogs are sounding, slack strings plucked by heavy thumbs.

Beneath the light, against your white front door, the smallest moths, like Chinese fans, flatten themselves, silver and silver-gilt over pale yellow, orange, or gray. Now, from the thick grass, the fireflies begin to rise: up, then down, then up again: lit on the ascending flight, drifting simultaneously to the same height, –exactly like the bubbles in champagne. –Later on they rise much higher. And your shadowy pastures will be able to offer these particular glowing tributes every evening now throughout the summer.

***

Insomnia

The moon in the bureau mirror looks out a million miles (and perhaps with pride, at herself, but she never, never smiles) far and away beyond sleep, or perhaps she's a daytime sleeper. By the Universe deserted, she'd tell it to go to hell, and she'd find a body of water, or a mirror, on which to dwell. So wrap up care in a cobweb and drop it down the well into that world inverted where left is always right, where the shadows are really the body, where we stay awake all night, where the heavens are shallow as the sea is now deep, and you love me.

***

The Armadillo

                                          for Robert Lowell

This is the time of year when almost every night the frail, illegal fire balloons appear. Climbing the mountain height, rising toward a saint still honored in these parts, the paper chambers flush and fill with light that comes and goes, like hearts. Once up against the sky it's hard to tell them from the stars— planets, that is—the tinted ones: Venus going down, or Mars, or the pale green one. With a wind, they flare and falter, wobble and toss; but if it's still they steer between the kite sticks of the Southern Cross, receding, dwindling, solemnly and steadily forsaking us, or, in the downdraft from a peak, suddenly turning dangerous. Last night another big one fell. It splattered like an egg of fire against the cliff behind the house. The flame ran down. We saw the pair of owls who nest there flying up and up, their whirling black-and-white stained bright pink underneath, until they shrieked up out of sight. The ancient owls' nest must have burned. Hastily, all alone, a glistening armadillo left the scene, rose-flecked, head down, tail down, and then a baby rabbit jumped out, short-eared, to our surprise. So soft!—a handful of intangible ash with fixed, ignited eyes. Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic, and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!

***

Sestina

September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child beside the Little Marvel Stove, reading the jokes from the almanac, laughing and talking to hide her tears. She thinks that her equinoctial tears and the rain that beats on the roof of the house were both foretold by the almanac, but only known to a grandmother. The iron kettle sings on the stove. She cuts some bread and says to the child, It's time for tea now; but the child is watching the teakettle's small hard tears dance like mad on the hot black stove, the way the rain must dance on the house. Tidying up, the old grandmother hangs up the clever almanac on its string. Birdlike, the almanac hovers half open above the child, hovers above the old grandmother and her teacup full of dark brown tears. She shivers and says she thinks the house feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove. It was to be, says the Marvel Stove. I know what I know, says the almanac. With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears and shows it proudly to the grandmother. But secretly, while the grandmother busies herself about the stove, the little moons fall down like tears from between the pages of the almanac into the flower bed the child has carefully placed in the front of the house. Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.

***

In the Waiting Room

In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited I read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole —"Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date.

Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain —Aunt Consuelo's voice— not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I—we—were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918.

I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance —I couldn't look any higher— at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen.

Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities— boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts— held us all together or made us all just one? How—I didn't know any word for it—how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't?

The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another.

Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918.

***

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

***

The End of March

                                         for John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, seabirds in ones or twos. The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist. The sky was darker than the water —it was the color of mutton-fat jade. Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed a track of big dog-prints (so big they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, over and over. Finally, they did end: a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost. . . . A kite string?—But no kite. I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of--are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious.) I'd like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light. At night, a grog à l'américaine. I'd blaze it with a kitchen match and lovely diaphanous blue flame would waver, doubled in the window. There must be a stove; there is a chimney, askew, but braced with wires, and electricity, possibly —at least, at the back another wire limply leashes the whole affair to something off behind the dunes. A light to read by—perfect! But—impossible. And that day the wind was much too cold even to get that far, and of course the house was boarded up. On the way back our faces froze on the other side. The sun came out for just a minute. For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, the drab, damp, scattered stones were multi-colored, and all those high enough threw out long shadows, individual shadows, then pulled them in again. They could have been teasing the lion sun, except that now he was behind them —a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, making those big, majestic paw-prints, who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.

***

Objects & Apparitions

                                        for Joseph Cornell

Hexahedrons of wood and glass, scarcely bigger than a shoebox, with room in them for night and all its lights. Monuments to every moment, refuse of every moment, used: cages for infinity. Marbles, buttons, thimbles, dice, pins, stamps, and glass beads: tales of the time. Memory weaves, unweaves the echoes: in the four corners of the box shadowless ladies play at hide-and-seek. Fire buried in the mirror, water sleeping in the agate: solos of Jenny Colonne and Jenny Lind. "One has to commit a painting," said Degas, "the way one commits a crime." But you constructed boxes where things hurry away from their names. Slot machine of visions, condensation flask for conversations, hotel of crickets and constellations. Minimal, incoherent fragments the opposite of History, creator of ruins, out of your ruins you have made creations. Theater of the spirits: objects putting the laws of identity through hoops. "Grand Hotel de la Couronne": in a vial, the three of clubs and, very surprised, Thumbelina in gardens of reflection. A comb is a harp strummed by the glance of a little girl born dumb. The reflector of the inner eye scatters the spectacle: God all alone above an extinct world. The apparitions are manifest, their bodies weigh less than light, lasting as long as this phrase lasts. Joseph Cornell: inside your boxes my words became visible for a moment.

                                       Translated from the Spanish of Octavio Paz

***

My love, my saving grace, your eyes are awfully blue. I kiss your funny face, your coffee-flavored mouth. Last night I slept with you. Today I love you so how can I bear to go (as soon I must, I know) to bed with ugly death in that cold, filthy place, to sleep there without you, without the easy breath and nightlong, limblong warmth I’ve grown accustomed to? —Nobody wants to die; tell me it is a lie! But no, I know it’s true. It’s just the common case; there’s nothing one can do. My love, my saving grace, your eyes are awfully blue early and instant blue.

                                      Unpublished manuscript poem

#elizabeth bishop #book quotes

[somuch-4-stardust]

umm still working really hard on midterms (i went to the store and got spiderman fairy light thingies) so now im gonna tell u about my very important studies (the other stuff i haveup next to my bed.) in very long list form bc i do not feel like taking a picture of it nd also its an ugly chaotic collection and its too much like me . and i think people would make fun of it .

technotooz's tag !!!! it is very beat up because i hate taking the tags off my stuffed animals (i cant explain this and also realized it was not common practice very recently and it shocked me) and so i had it on technotooz for like 7 months while i was taking him everywhere and his tag was getting smooshed . n e ways its super cool and shiny and pink nd i have it up because technotooz is my comfort object nd also SpIn. yippee <3

arctic monkeys logo ?!!?!this i painted this myself because thats howww i do things. it is up because i love the monkeys and their songs and musics and etc. yippee!

a picture of polar bears !? i love. bears especially polar bears. this picture was stolen from a calendar. yippee!!

a chain of . shiny things . this is up because i love shiny things and objects . it has shells and glitter and can tabs nd beads on it and its ugly and i love it. yippee !

minecraft logo ??!!! i love minecraft. it is my special interest so it is up becasue i like putting up pictures of myspecialinterests up on my wall so i can look at them. i got it from the tag of my stuffed piglin whos name is wilbur excalibur wiggles (we call him mr wiggles bc thats an absurd name for a piglin) . i got him for christmas and i love him lots and YIPPEE

red eyed treefrog poster . this poster is older than i am im pretty sure .it is cool and epic and i have it because frogs are my oldest SpIn and i love frogs. but poison dart frogs are actually my favorite not tree frogs. for the record. yippeeeeeee

moth tag. from my moth clementine it has a picture of her . she is a white moth stuffed animal my best friend got me for my birthday last year and i like moths alot so. yipeee!!!!

glow n the dark stars (2) these are stolen from a dance at my summer camp . i love my camp and my friends and etc and also glow n the dark stars are cool. YIPPEE!

rainbow flag sticker . i got this at my schools GSA which is a great little club where i feel better about my yucky school (its not that yucky of a school btw i live in a very good area. people are still mean sometimes tho.) and i am also. a gay person so yes yippee

spider man ..... this guy was cut out from spider man packaging for my spiderman lights. and its psiderman. and i love spider man. hes so me. so yippEE!!

ad for a squishmallow meet. it has the squishmallow logo on it and also i love squishmallows (they are. also a SpIn) so i put it up . YIPPEE

a lovely picture i drew of cwilbur and ctommy with belana the cow squishmallow and ronnie the cow squishmallow . call it a cross over episode ! i love my guys. also SpIns because. i have those. yes yes. YIPpee !

a wax seal from a little thing my friend made for me a while ago . the letter was a script from fnaf. 4 i think???? which is so yayy. ! i have it up to remind me that. i have friends ! yippeee!

coloring page of an asian black bear . i coloured it in myself btw. umm i love bears and moon bears. so thats why hes up. autism YIPPE

AND FINALLY . four of my squishmallows' tags. (purpled jack sage and belana. whose real names are piaxa jack skellington desmund and belana btw) i lov my guys. i put them on my wall yippee!!!!!!!!!!!!

side note. on other things on my wall: i have big lvjy lyrics from years ago (a drama in the futile a means to an end. and i do not know what song that isfrom tbh which is funny cuz ive listened to them all at least 500 times .) umm theres cat and mellohi made from old cds (which i may or may not have stolen from craft places . ) and also glow n the dark butterflies from when i was a kid. and star lights that were on sale last christmas. and ycgma, lemon boy, pebble brain, aya and two other albums i will not name which i painted like two summers ago. YIPPEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#very long post. i do not think it is . something people will read through but that is OKAY. its important for me. #it is . my blog where i express. myself. and sometimes i do that in ver ylong posts on topics which nopony cares about. which is okay !

[astroboots]

Versus Chapter Four

Warnings: angst, swearing, anxiety, PTSD.

Word count: 5755 words

Summary: When Dave York is assigned with a name on his list to take care of, one that hits a bit too close to home for Frankie, yours, it forces him to tap into a dark part of him that was supposed to be a closed chapter of his life.

CO-WRITTEN WITH @thirstworldproblemss

Chapters {01} {02} {03} | Series Masterlist | Masterlist & Tag List

The wall clock is stuck at 04:40. It’s been that way for the last three appointments Frankie’s been here.

For a broken clock, it still ticks with a deafening noise in the emptiness of the waiting room that drives Frankie mad. It takes everything within him to not walk over, across the waiting room, reach up and fix it. The only thing stopping him is that if he does, his therapist is definitely going to mark him down as irredeemably crazy. Frankie doesn’t want that, because Frankie likes Dr. Alvarez.

He likes her enough to keep coming back every Monday. Enough to actually talk to her, and tell her things that matter. Things like, how he can’t sleep at night; how his anxiety gnaws into his organs; how he misses you even though he knows the healthy thing is to move on.

Sometimes he hates it. Hates how much he has to share in order to get better.

Like how he is going to have to tell her about what happened last night. He squeezes and unsqueezes his palms against his thigh, already rehearsing the inevitable scene that will unfold when he gets into Dr Alvarez room. Mentally preparing himself for the surgical probe of questions that he knows is coming:

Did the two of you talk before you got physically intimate?

Did you consider how this might affect Mireya?

Have you talked about what’s going to happen next?

And he is going to have to answer each of those questions with shame burning hot in his cheeks.

No.

No.

No.

He doesn’t want that reality check.

Delusional as it may be, he wants to hold onto the childish hope that maybe what happened last night was a sign that there could still be a you and him. Doesn’t want or need a professional affirmation that he is objectively wrong to hope.

Tearing his eyes away from the taunting broken clock, he searches for a distraction. The waiting room is sparsely decorated, with a few moth-eaten chairs and not much else. The listless receptionist is chewing bubblegum while watching Fox News’ coverage on a lawyer who was strangled in her hotel room in Miami. Grim. The receptionist is so caught up that she hadn’t even noticed Frankie when he walked in, she never does. The building could be on fire, and she wouldn’t notice.

There's another man in the waiting room today, which is surprising because of the last six months worth of Mondays--the entire time he's been coming here--it's always been just Frankie and the receptionist.

Frankie had asked about this once. Dr. Alvarez, had explained that since most of her patients are former vets, she always leaves an hour between bookings. She’d found that vets are often prone to embarrassment of needing to seek help, or consumed by guilt of taking up resources when others are in a much worse shape than themselves. Sometimes, they’re a combination of both. (He had to resist every anxious instinct in him to not interpret the last part as a subtle jab at himself).

The man sits across from him. Neatly dressed in a fitted suit, slicked-shine shoes, with the shiny enamel of the American flag pinned to his lapel.

“Marines?” The man asks.

Crap.

Frankie must’ve appraised him for longer than appropriate if the man is trying to make conversation with him. And he knows before it’s even begun that it’s going to end up being the same conversation he always ends up having with those who have served in the military.

When did you serve?

Where were you deployed?

How’s your nightmares?

When Frankie’s asked these questions he always has to lie. Never tells people he was in Delta. Considering that to this day, the military doesn't officially acknowledge the division’s missions, it would be in poor taste. Instead Frankie gives the man the rehearsed answer, “Army, a small tenant unit at Fort Bragg.”

The man flashes him a smile that looks plastered on. He is friendly enough. But there’s something unsettling about him. Frankie can’t quite put his finger over what it is. He chalks it up to his military nerves. Always trained to be suspicious and observant of any abnormalities. But in real life some people are just odd and socially awkward. It doesn’t make them the enemy. Just people.

“What did you do?” the man asks.

“Helicopter pilot.”

There’s a whistle of appreciation. It's loud in the empty waiting room, too sharp for Frankie’s ears.

“You must’ve been smart. How long were you a pilot for?”

“I got my licence in 09.”

“So you were a pilot before Pontius then.”

Frankie pulls down the bill of his cap, uncomfortable with the praise for his pilot experience when he doesn’t even fly anymore.

“I’m as experienced as any pilot in the military is supposed to be.”

He really wasn’t setting out to have a conversation in the waiting room of his therapist, and definitely not one about his military past. The best course is to reroute the conversation.

“What about yourself?” Frankie asks.

“Former Marines. I work for the government now.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

The man hasn’t stopped smiling this entire time. But at the mention of his work, the corners of his mouth twist and contort, into something that is slightly unsettling. Frankie can’t put his finger over why that is.

“It’s work. You’re not supposed to enjoy work. That’s what the money's for. I didn’t exactly enjoy the work in the Marines either. I don’t think any one of us really did. Except for the few crazies, who really should be locked up in jail.”

As the man talks, Frankie can feel the man appraising him from the dirt of his boots to the wrinkle in his cap. It makes him want to wipe off the dirt, smooth out his cap.

It is enough to summon that all too familiar intuition of impending danger that has every nerve inside of him humming like live electrical wires. The high frequency pitch in his head, warning him this man is a threat. It takes everything Frankie has to snuff it out. To remind himself, it’s just survival instincts gone haywire.

“Did you enjoy taking lives while you were in the army?”

Frankie tenses, as though the man had struck him. “No,” he answers.

The man smiles wider at that, and fuck that unsettles Frankie.

“The thing I dislike the most about this job is all the travelling,” the man says. “The case I’m dealing with now at work is causing me a lot of grief. I’m supposed to be tracking down these retired Delta Force operatives that went rogue.”

All Frankie hears is Delta and rogue. It’s like his heart and time stops ticking altogether at once. Fuck.

The man’s still looking at him and Frankie swallows against the tight restriction building in his throat. Swallows it all down, the paranoia, the red flashing alarm. Logically he knows the man isn’t talking about him. He’s not the only DELTA Force operative that has ever gone “rogue”. You can’t spend millions of dollars training a man to kill, set him loose on the world and expect him to stop one day and be even remotely well adjusted. None of them are, they just pretend to be, and some do it better than others.

“Oh?” Frankie forces out with his best attempt at pretending to be that, well adjusted. But fuck, he sounds like someone already on death row.

“I’ve been on the road constantly the last couple of months. It’s like a heist movie following their tracks. Has me flying to Colombia then the Bahamas and Miami. I’ve barely even seen my family the past month.” He pauses, eyes honed in on Frankie. “You got any family?”

Frankie hesitates. He thinks of Mireya. He thinks of you. He thinks of how even though he has no real reason to, his instincts tell him that he absolutely does not want to mention either of you to this man. So he lies. “No, no close family.”

“That’s a shame. Family’s a good support system. I think that’s what went wrong in this case. These men, the five of them, didn't have much of a support system when they left the military and became civilians practically overnight. One was divorced before he even retired. The other three had no dependents or spouses.”

There’s something wrong here. Actually wrong. That’s not just in Frankie’s head. A former marine. A government operative should not be telling him any of this.

“Are you allowed to share this information with me?” Frankie asks.

“It's fine.”

“Isn’t this classified?”

The man doesn’t seem to hear him. “Only one of them was married with a young baby. But even he got divorced. You see it all the time. Career soldiers who return home and don’t know what to do with themselves. They lose their homes. Their wives. Lose their place in the world. It’s really unfortunate.”

Not him, the man isn’t talking about Frankie. The young baby isn’t Mireya, the divorce—No. It’s just his paranoia getting the better of him. It’s got to be.

”What did they do that would have the government investigating them?”

His smile turns cruel, and it tells Frankie that he’s been dumb enough to have taken the bait.

“It’s a crazy story,” the man starts. “You have these five Delta soldiers, who travel all the way to Colombia to rob a mansion.”

Fuck.

There’s no denying it now. This man is talking about him. About Lorea. About the $250 million they stole from Lorea’s mansion. Alarm pings out to every one of his limbs all at once until his face feels numb.

“The owner of that mansion just so happens to be a Colombian drug lord. He kept millions of dollars locked in a vault in his house.”

Not a vault. Inside the walls of the fucking house.

“No one knows exactly how much, but it is estimated to be at least a hundred million.”

His vision flattens and his heartbeat both accelerates and slows all at once, pumping out thick syrup blood that clogs in his veins. It’s like he’s on Candid Camera. Except instead of a smiling TV host, the door will be busted down by a SWAT team to handcuff him and take him into custody. Any second now. Frankie’s eyes stay on the door—nothing.

Instead, the man keeps going.

“A drug lord is hardly someone I have sympathies with, but still being burnt alive in your house alongside your bodyguards is not the way I would want to go. They covered their tracks pretty well. It took me ages to track down the local militia operative who procured a MI-8 for them. Told me these men brought two vans worth of money zipped up in duffle bags.”

There is no recognition in the man’s eyes. Still that bland, dead eyed expression in his insistent smile. But he knows. The man knows exactly who Frankie is. What he’s done.

“Still, there was no sign of the money anywhere. Been tracking suspicious large transactions for months and months, and then— a few months ago, someone in this town bought a huge multi-million mansion, paid full in cash. Some kid working at J.P Morgan stole some paperwork that led us to the name of their offshore lawyer. Turns out they set up a family trust of $5 million.”

Something switches in Frankie from amber to red and adrenaline takes over. The old instincts of calm nerves and a quiet mind in a danger zone returns to him. If this man is a threat, a hostile, then Frankie knows how to handle that. It’s the civilian part he never had a good handle on.

“Are you here to arrest them?” Frankie asks, and it actually sounds casual this time.

“We both know that’s not how this works. Arresting them means paperwork and due process. They’re Delta. It'd be a fucking media circus. Bring down the wrong sort of attention. But the man they robbed did not just hold drug money. He also held money for a lot of other interested parties with powerful connections, and military operators in those parts of the world. Parties who are all keen to have their investment back. I’m here because my employer likes things to be handled in private.”

The man leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair in slow beats. The pace of a beating heart.

“50 million. That’s what they put in and that’s what they want back. If that money comes back, this story ends here.”

Frankie’s eyes drags up to the man’s face. There’s no expression there. Bland and cold, just a blank canvas. It finally clicks what is so unsettling about him. The man’s bored. Disinterested even.

“What if they don’t have the money anymore?” Frankie asks.

“That depends. Are they going to tell us where the money can be found?”

The smell of burnt paper lingers in Frankie’s memory. There’s a broken part of his brain that wants to laugh at the irony. He kept that fucking note in his sock drawer for three years for god knows what reason and now when it could do some good it’s gone.

“It’s at the bottom of a ravine in Peru.”

The man chuckles, but it is completely humourless, like he's mocking the idea that laughter is supposed to be an expression of joy.

“You have to realize how implausible that sounds.”

“You can take it or leave it,” Frankie answers.

The man doesn’t like that, there is irritation creasing between the man’s brows now. “Are you telling me they’re not giving up the money willingly?”

“They can’t give you something they don't have.”

There is a contempt in the man’s eyes, accusing Frankie of what is clearly the real crime for this man, not one of theft, but of being a fucking inconvenience.

He pauses.

“Elton Drive 1920.”

The blood rushes to Frankie’s ears and roars with such pandemonium, he’s sure he must’ve gone deaf.

“Your ex wife lives there, with your daughter Mireya Camilla Morales. She’s four this year, and she’s about to start pre-kindergarten at St. Mary’s.”

The man takes a deliberate pause, and they both understand the veiled threat that’s unspoken. It makes the soldier in Frankie want to leap out of his chair and snap the man’s neck clean from his shoulder.

“I’m not an unreasonable person,” he continues, voice still blank. “I don’t get a kick out of this. I just have a job to do. You return the cash, and your part of this nightmare goes away. We’ll pretend none of this ever happened.”

The man pauses for a few seconds, like he’s giving Frankie a chance to respond. Frankie doesn’t.

Then there’s a sharp pinging noise from the man’s coat, and he fishes out his phone and glances at the screen. “Last chance. It’s the eleventh hour,” he says, like it’s an announcement on a game show.

Franke still doesn’t answer him.

With a weary shake of his head like the man is a disappointed mother, (fuck that annoys Frankie), the man rises to his feet. He dusts off his coat. There’s a sneer of disgust at the dirt from the chair. An expression that all of this is beneath him.

“Just remember, Morales,” he says, cold eyes pinning Frankie’s, “you were offered a choice.”

The man walks towards the exit at a leisurely pace, unbothered, not glancing back even once. Frankie is left sitting there unsure if the whole interaction was a fever-dream.

There’s a voice in the distance calling his name, but it sounds like it’s being spoken underwater. It’s repeated several times, before Frankie can drag himself out of the tides. The sensation of water filling and burning his lungs. He can’t breathe.

“Mr. Morales? Doctor Alvarez will see you now.”

The carpet underneath him sinks, dissolving under the sole of his boots. This isn’t real. Can't be real... Can't... Fuck

“I'm sorry, something's come up. A family emergency," he barely makes out.

His body isn’t his own anymore. Even as he’s standing in the reception staring at the door, he isn’t seeing the familiar exit. His hand tightens into a bruising fist at his side, hard enough for nails to dig into his skin, but the tip of his fingers are numb. He’s getting up to his feet, with no sensation of weight or ground beneath him as he starts to walk. One feet in front of the other.

The next thing he knows, Frankie's standing on the stoop outside Dr Alvarez' office and scrambling for his non-existent sidearm, with no memory of leaving the office. He realizes that he's pressed up against the side of the doorway under the overhang, scanning the opposing building for snipers. Shit. Shit. Heart thrumming with the pace of a gatling gun. But there’s no gunfire here. Just the sound of lazy traffic and cars honking from a distance.

He has to get himself under control. This is Florida, he reminds himself. Home; not enemy territory. There’s no threat here, except there clearly is. Fuck. He scans the street, looking for the man from the waiting room, but he’s nowhere to be seen. This early, there’s only a few civilians on the sidewalk. A mother pushing a stroller across the parking lot, a young teenager walking a dog on the other side of the street.

Frankie pulls his keys from his pocket. Makes himself straighten up away from the wall and walk out onto the sidewalk. The back of his neck prickles, but he keeps going. He has to get to his truck. Has to get to you and Mireya.

Never has 100 yards felt so long, worse even than hostile territory because at least there he’d had his team at his back. Now it’s just him, alone and unarmed and exposed, flinching every time a car goes by. He gets to the truck, and manages to jam the key into the lock despite the tremor of his hand. Unlocks it. Opens the door, and climbs in, letting out a shaky breath when it closes behind him, and jams the key in the ignition. The rumble of the engine and the feel of the steering wheel under his hands calms him somewhat. He realizes he’s already breathing in the calming rhythm his therapist taught him.

Four, Seven, Eight.

Inhale through his nose for a count of four. Hold his breath for a count of seven. Exhale for a count of eight.

It doesn’t help.

He makes a note of the time as he pulls away from the curb: 09:04.

It usually takes about 25 minutes to get to the house from here, but he should be able to cut it to 18 if he takes the back roads. He has never been more thankful for the military paranoia that made him plot out the fastest routes to and from the places you and Mireya are most often.

Frankie tears his phone out of his pocket, balancing it on his knee so he can unlock it, and hits your name--still first on the list of common contacts--and then the button to put it on speaker. “C’mon, baby, pick up,” he mutters under his breath, listening to the phone ring -- four -- five -- six rings, and then it goes to voicemail, and Frankie swears. Your voice fills the car, calm, if not a little bit stressed as you tell him that you can’t come to the phone right now. “Please leave a message.” “Hey, it’s me… uh… Frankie,” he starts, trying to sound normal. Doesn’t want to worry you with his panic. “Can you-- can you call me back when you get this? Soon, please. It’s… uh… it’s urgent.”

He hangs up, trying to fight another rising wave of panic. Counts his breaths as he hangs up and then dials again, trying to match them to the rings that sound too loud in the cabin of his truck.

Six rings, and then voicemail again. He doesn’t bother to leave another message. Just hangs up and dials again.

Six rings; voicemail. Again.

Six rings; voicemail.

And shit, this is just wasting time. The sickening terror wells up in his stomach tells him this is pointless, but he can’t help thinking that if he just calls just one more time maybe you’ll answer.

Six rings. Voicemail.

Disjointedly he wonders if he'll ever hear you speak to him again, but he will. Of course he will.

09:07. He’s still 15 minutes away. Fuck. Just one more time

Distracted by his phone, Frankie doesn’t see the red light ahead. Nearly plows into the car in front of him before years of instinct have him slamming on the breaks. His phone goes flying off his knee and onto the floor, still ringing, and Frankie scrambles for it frantically, unwilling to lose his last possible connection to you.

This is every nightmare that’s ever had him waking up in cold sweat in the middle of the night come to life, in the most mangled Frankenstein abomination possible. He finally gets his hand around his phone just as voicemail picks up and your cheerful voice rings out in the cab. The car behind him honks, and Frankie jumps, cracking his head on the underside of the dash, before he manages to get upright in his seat again. The lights green, the cars ahead of him already gone, crossing the intersections. Frankie jams his foot down on the gas, and the truck lurches forward. His head throbs. Your voice is asking him to leave a message. Frankie knows better than this. Has been trained better than this.

09:09 - 13 minutes

He makes himself scan his surroundings. The cars on the road around him. There’s a white car several cars back that he thinks has been there for a while. Is he being tailed? No, it’s making a left at the intersection. Two cars ahead of him on the road, but there’s a passing lane coming up.

His phone beeps, signalling the end of the recording. “Voicemail saved. Press 3 to send or 6 to delete and re-record.” He punches 6 and ends the call. His finger hovers over your name again, but this is getting him fucking nowhere. What he needs is backup.

His team. He needs to call the team.

Benny first. His apartment is only 23 minutes aways and they can rendezvous at your house. He taps the contact to call, but it goes straight to voicemail. “FUCK!”

He listens to Benny’s stupid jokey message, and leaves a quick message, “It’s Fish. Sitrep: FUBAR. Call me ASAP, Benjamin.”

With a strained curse, he ends the call. Since it went straight to voicemail, Benny’s probably training. There’s no reception at the gym, and God knows how long it’ll be until he’s free. If Frankie’s unlucky and caught him at the start of a training session, Benny could be out of contact for hours. Hours that you don’t have.

Pulling up his contacts on the screen, he scrolls over the list by muscle memory until he stops. His finger hovers over Pope’s name. Hesitates for seconds he cannot afford, then scrolls past it. Not now.

09:11, 11 minutes

He bypasses Will’s number. That phone is at Benny’s apartment for safekeeping while Will is playing Mother Theresa with the Peace Corps. There’s no point in trying to get him. He’d only be speaking to an operator; Will’s out of contact. Can’t be reached for days at a time–sometimes weeks.

Another red light. Jesus fucking Christ.

There’s no one ahead of him, and for a moment Frankie considers running it, but the cross traffic is already moving. He stops. He waits. Fingers squeezing and releasing on the steering wheel as he scans the cars around him. There’s a little kid in a carseat in the backseat of the station wagon next to him. The little boy waves when he sees Frankie looking at him, just like Mireya likes to do. Mireya. Fuck. Panic threatens to squeeze his throat shut.

You and Mireya are going to be alright. You have to be, or he might as well go home and eat a bullet from his service revolver because you’re the only two things left in his life that are worth shit.

09: 14, 8 minutes. The light turns green, and Frankie slams on the gas. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking when he dials your number again. Because of course there’s not going to be any answer. It rings twice, and this time, he hangs up before it goes to voicemail. He can’t keep doing this, calling you and wasting time. He knows better. He needs his goddamn team.

Frankie scrolls down his contacts with a trembling thumb. The text whirs by with such speed it blurs before his eyes, despite his 20/20 sight. It doesn’t register with him what he’s doing as his thumb presses down on the dial button. Not even when he hears the automated voice tell him that the number he is trying to reach has been disconnected. Then Frankie’s staring at the contact name flashing on his screen.

Redfly.

And realization sits there like a sharp splinter wedged into his chest. There is no fucking team. Not any more. Frankie’s on his own.

And so are you.

5 minutes.

He’s going too fast. Makes himself ease off of the gas until the needle falls back within 5 mph of the speed limit. The traffic outside is too slow, everything around him, every car, every traffic sign that goes by trickling like cloy sticky syrup. But he can’t go any faster. Can’t afford to get pulled over. Not now.

Still 5 minutes. The steering wheel creaks under his grip.

He dials you again, even though he knows you won’t answer. Counts the rings. Listens to your voice. Doesn’t leave a message.

09:18, 4 fucking minutes.

And again. Six rings, and then your voice fills the cab. You ask him to leave a message, and this time he finds himself answering.

“I’m coming, baby. Just hold on. I’m… fuck.” He sucks in a sharp breath and tries to level his voice. His panicked thoughts spilling out onto your voicemail as though you might actually be able to hear him and respond.

“I hope this is all just a false alarm, but, shit. I…” Frankie swallows hard, voice hoarse as he confesses, “I fucked up, baby, just like always. A serious fuck-up. And I might’ve brought something bad down on you and Mireya, but I’m gonna do whatever it takes to keep the two of you safe. Whatever it takes, baby. I promise, because I…. Fuck. I can’t lose the two of you. I know…. I know that you’re not mine to lose anymore, but I can’t… I…. You have to know that I’ve never stopped lov--”

Beeeeeeeep.

The voicemail system cuts him off before he can finish the declaration, and Frankie swears under his breath. He hits the button to end the call and huffs out a pained laugh that’s perilously close to a sob. A day late and a dollar short. Story of his goddamn life.

But it’s the truth. Unsaid or not. He’s never stopped loving you.

His eyes sting with something that feels humiliating close to tears. It’s all such a goddamned joke. Dragging his eyes from traffic to the dashboard he hones in on the sharp red digits.

09:20. He’s almost there. Just two more minutes.

Get your shit together Morales. You don’t have time for this.

Doesn’t have time to sit and stew in his emotions.

Frankie turns onto your street, eyes scanning automatically for anything out of the ordinary, but there’s nothing. Just the same cars as always, parked in the usual places.

Mrs Ramirez is out walking her dog, and turns to wave and smile at Frankie as he passes. He makes himself raise a hand and return the gesture. His attempt at a smile twitches and pulls oddly at his face, and he drops it as soon as she turns away.

The house finally comes into view, the wedge blue so much brighter in the daylight, but he makes himself keep scanning the street, doesn’t let himself look too closely until he’s finally able to pull into the driveway.

He takes in the house as he throws the truck into park. The lights aren’t on but he can see into the kitchen window from outside.

Jabbing uncooperative fingers at the seat belt release button, it finally springs free. He opens the car door. Makes his way across the lawn even though every muscle feels dead and numb. Then he’s standing on the front door steps.

Reaching into his pocket, the only set of keys he finds are the ones to his apartment, not home.

And fuck, Frankie wishes now that he had taken the keys last night when you had placed them in his hand. Right now, he wishes a lot of things about last night.

He knocks, but there is no reply, only a hollow knock that seems to echo inside the house and back at him.

In his impatience, he grabs at the door handle, and it gives way. Ice is in his veins. You never, ever leave the door unlocked.

He calls out your name, and all he hears is his own voice. Unsteady with a simmering fear he’s not going to allow himself to feel yet, he steps inside. With each empty room, the rising sense of déjà vu tastes like bile in his throat.

Empty hallway.

Empty bedroom.

Empty nursery.

Until he’s standing by himself in the living room of an empty house again. Rooted to the same spot when he came back home from Colombia. Feet over the threshold overlooking the space.

Everything is still and calm. There are no signs of struggle or intrusion. If he didn’t know better, it’s like you’ve up and left home again. It makes for the same picture. The oversized armchair, with a throw blanket. The sunlight from the morning sun streaking across the books on the shelf. The large dining table looming across the emptiness of the room. The dead quiet telling him, everything’s fucked.

Three years ago he was certain that with everything he’d lived through up until that point, coming home to find the house empty was the worst moment of his entire life.

He was wrong. Adrenaline burns slow and heavy. Molten lead that scalds with the realization that this is the worst moment of his life.

This is his fault.

Fuck, this is all his fault.

It burns.

Like he’d been force fed a gallon of gasoline and someone lit a match, shoving it into his mouth to swallow.

There’s nothing left for him, and he only has himself to blame, just like last time.

There’s a small click coming from the bookcase, and then the door at the bottom slants open. His heart stops in that long overstretched second, and it doesn’t beat again, until he sees the nub of a small nose peeking out, her round cheeks and big brown eyes staring back at him with a bright smile.

“What took you so long, Daddy?”

Feet leaping forward, his body moves with brute instinct. He doesn’t even register tearing off the door by its hinges. Not until he’s pulled her into his arms, a tight press of her small body to him. Doesn’t realize how hard he’s squeezing her until he hears her yelp out like an alarmed puppy, and he makes himself ease up.

Mireya’s there, right in front of him. Soft and warm against his chest. Real, not just a figment conjured by his mind. He hasn’t cracked. She’s actually here.

“Mireya, What were you doing in there?”

Mireya is looking at him with wide confused eyes, still wincing from his tight hold. “Mommy told me to.”

Her tone is quiet, the cheer gone, as if worried she’d done something wrong. Frankie realizes that his tone is off. His voice clawed with cold anger in a way that she’s never heard from him before. Gentle, he reminds himself.

He can’t do this in front of Mireya. Never, in front of Mireya.

Breathe.

“Princesa.” He combs an unsteady hand into her curls in a comforting gesture with the endearment. Ignoring the sharp grind of panic in his ears. Soft, calm, don’t scare her.

“Where’s mom?” he asks.

That worried expression is still in her eyes, seeing through him, clear as glass for all his ugliness. Frankie swears he can see it, his own daughter looking at him like the hideous monster he is.

"Sweetheart, where's your mom?" he repeats.

She curls into his chest, hiding her face from him. “Mommy woke me up to play hide and seek,” she says, her small hands fisting into his shirt. “She said I should only come out when you got here.”

You hid her.

“Did I do something wrong, Daddy?”

“No, baby,” he says, running a shaking hand over her hair. “You did just right. You did just what your mom said to do. You were very brave.”

And so were you. His brave, clever girl— fuck. Not his. Not anymore. And he’d hoped—but shit… It doesn’t matter what he hoped. You’re not here. Fucked over by his bad choices one more fucking time. Maybe for the last time...

The grinding in his ears stops, like sound itself has ceased to exist. Frankie’s eyes are glued to the open door of the cabinet and he can feel it. Feel the remaining fear and horror in him solidify into something else. The familiar anger and clarity of purpose that has been trained into him that he will never be rid of. It is always there, lingering at the fraying edges of his mind, waiting to take over.

He lifts Mireya and turns away, as though he can escape that part of himself. Stares blindly out over the living room until his eyes catch on something out of place. There's a folded white piece of paper pressed under a half-full cup of coffee on the dining table.

Unfolding the note, he recognizes your familiar handwriting. Except it’s entirely lacking of its usual sharpness, a little wobbly around the edges—shakey. Five handwritten words on a scrap of white paper that permanently sear themselves into the back of his eyelids.

‘You were offered a choice.’

~* to be continued *~

Dedications: To @thirstworldproblemss who wrote this entire breathtaking and adrenaline filled car chase scene that had me on the edge of my fucking scene!!!!

And now a few words to our sponsor beloved clown sister:

Thank you for listening to me day and night, through my delirious, half coherent ramblings about how I don't know how to make this work. To my even more delicious and less coherent ramblings about how horny thots.

Thank you for not blocking me when I harass you with the out of tune singing of karaoke cat—

Thank you for being the best human being and my friend that I get to talk to everyday.

🤡simply 💖her 🤡

==

A/N: Guys I know this took fucking forever and truth to be told I have no damned excuse cause this was already written by the time chapter 3 was finished and it's barely undergone any changes 😂😂😂

A hearty-ass thank you goes out to @miceandpens who came up with the harrowing idea at the end about the note (I both love and fear her a bit now in all honesty).

Thank you in particular to 🌈anon, -🐼- anon, and @beautyagegoodnesssize for checking in and reminding me that I need to get this thing posted and off my wip folder.

#cici writes #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal character fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fics #triple frontier #frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #francisco morales #francisco morales x reader #versus asks

[xradinoxinterloperx]

Hi People! I wanted to share something very nice that

my Friend Shinigami did

for me, with Vaggie and my OCs who, in my headcannon, are closest to her. The 3 become almost family.

The idea was to dress them as their National birds, with their flag indicating the nationality. What in itself and more with the demonic forms of my OCs could get tricky but Shini being so talented she managed to make it work beautifully 😁.

First we have Zaza , the barista goat demon, whom everyone affectionately nicknames "Mama Goat" because of her warmth and motherly manner. She is a joyful lover of her Mexican culture and represents them with the appearance of a Royal/ Golden Eagle.

Second we have Vaggie , the Salvadoran Moth wearing the feathers and vivid colors of the beautiful and Picturesque Torogoz

And Third we have Vic, the Colombian Cobra demon with his ruffian appearance. He is Dressed as the Lord of the Vultures, The Imposing Andean Condor, shared bird of Colombia and other Andes Mountain Range's nations.

I have to congratulate again @Shinigami pray for carrying out such a beautiful and cultural idea 🙂, it would be very nice to see more characters, birds and flags from different places like this, but I felt more than honored that she done it first with my OCs 🤩

The drawings, the birds and their details and attitudes of the characters came out really great 😮

Here is her Twitter if you want to see some of her art and projects: https://twitter.com/ShinigamiJG?s=09

Oh and also a Huge thanks to @sisterstories02 , the designs of my characters were based in the drawing you did for me for free on Valentine ☺️ .

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel oc #Vaggie #Vic #Zaza #hazbin hotel fanart #national flags #national birds #culture #drawings #english #fanart #hazbin fanart #helluva fanart #mexico #san salvador #olivia colomar

[bird-in-a-cage]

It wasn’t Steve’s fault. He came across the page by accident. He certainly wasn’t social media stalking some guy he spotted in the library when he should have been working on his accounting course because he was far too shy to just go over and say hi.

What a ridiculous thought.

He didn’t lay awake in his dorm room that night, after seeing those blue eyes and hearing that laugh and certainly wasn’t instantly smitten. Definitely didn’t spend almost half an hour finding out his name through college facebook pages, then use that information to find not one but two instagram accounts. One clearly a more public page, photos of cars and coffee and the bay at sunset. The other just a total thirst trap, post after post of shirtless shots. Chest bare and shiny and tanned and toned and gorgeous. There also, definitely, wasn’t a link to an Onlyfans page right in the bio line, topped and tailed by sparkle emojis.

Steve, categorically and without question, did not pay $12.99 to become a subscriber after less than a minute’s thought.

He then absolutely did not turn the brightness down on his phone, slip in his earbuds and spend the whole night watching seemingly endless videos of this guy going to town on himself. On the most beautiful dick Steve’s midwestern, recently-out-of-the-closet-for-good-and-wrapped-up-in-a-bisexual-pride-flag ass had ever seen. He didn’t immediately commit this guy’s name to memory like maybe this was all a dream and he’d forget it in the morning somehow.

BillyBoy

Just paying for college with what god gave me

Steve really should have stopped. Should have cancelled the subscription in the cold light of day, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. The crush had only been small before, no more than just a passing glance. But now Steve knew what this guy sounded like when he came. The ramp up of moans going deep, the sudden stop before the gasped out sigh. The endless string of fucks that came with thick ropes of cum. It was impossible to go back to not knowing that information.

Most of the videos were taken on campus. Places Steve had to pass everyday going too and from class. Mostly bathrooms. Occasionally just empty hallways in the middle of the day. Not that Steve sought them out to check his theories about this guy. With his perfect chest and perfect dick and perfect cocky grin and clear exhbitionist streak.

Steve wasn’t obsessed. It wasn’t something that could easily become a problem. It wasn’t as if some days he would just walk through places videos had been filmed previously in the hopes of just bumping into this Billy guy, who outside of the internet was apparently incredibly illusive. Not that Steve would even know what to say if he did find him. Probably just stutter something embarrassing before going to find a corner to die in.

The boy can come out of the closet but the cape of shyness apparently comes with him. Accounting and finance wasn’t the course to meet people.

There was one video though, one three minute clip that lived in Steve’s head from the moment it ended. It wasn’t taken in public like the vast majority of the others, but clearly in a dorm room from all the furniture matching Steve’s own. A see through silicone sleeve taped to the corner of a desk, clearly filled with little bumps and ridges. Taken from a chest down angle it was just Billy’s magnificent cock fucking this toy over and over, thrusting and pumping, thighs getting tense as the sounds were just groans and a slick wetness. Gradually getting faster and faster, the thick head of his cock poking through the end of the sleeve with each thrust, shiny and pink and fat and weeping. It gave Steve endless dreams about being fucked like that. Bent over a desk. Feeling all that weight and girth break him apart, just begging for it. Feeling the load spilled over dark wood deep inside him instead.

It wasn’t an obsession. It wasn’t.

Steve didn’t nearly drop his phone in the middle of the silent library when a notification vibrated and sent jolts down his spine and his eyes to go wide.

BillyBoy is live!

Steve acted as natural as possible, finding a place to sit on a table that was mostly empty, set up his things like he might at all try to study and flipped open the video like he was texting. Just to check. Nothing more. He wasn’t obsessed, goddamnit, he wasn’t. But he recognised where BillyBoy was though. All the books in the background were a dead giveaway. Steve tried to keep his face in neutral. He’d thought about this moment, bumping into the guy in the middle of a shoot and offering to lend a hand. A throat. Anything this guy wanted Steve was down for. Carpet burn and bruises be damned. He held his phone close to his lap as he watched. Watched Billy grin at the camera, pan down his ridiculous body with his shirt pulled up under his chin and cup his hard cock through a pair of bright red board shorts. When Steve could pull his eyes away from the main focus, a book in the background caught his eye, a name on a spine.

Mastering Bookkeeping.

That information hit like a punch. Steve knew exactly where he was hiding this time. Knew he was there right now. Suddenly his tongue felt fat, his limbs just deadweight and useless. He could get out of the chair, walk to the back corner and find the man who had been plaguing his every fantasy. Finally put them to rest and witness first hand what he thought about every single time he jerked off. But he couldn’t move. What would he even say? Hi, I’ve been giving you money to see your dick for months now, can I touch it? Steve cringed at even the idea. He wasn’t one of those people. The bolder part of him knew exactly what he wanted to do. Find Billy and have that cock fuck his throat until it was raw and horse. Swallow everything. But Steve had been in college for almost three terms now, had barely even said hello to anyone not in his class. He couldn’t just do that if he couldn’t speak to people. Especially someone he wasn’t obsessed with. Someone he hadn’t wasted hours scrolling through instagram posts figuring out what this guy was like in real life and not half naked spread out on a mattress with his dick in his hand.

But life doesn’t throw you very many chances. And his father did always say to grab each one you come across. Of course he never meant it to be about boys, but still.

Steve turned the video off when he knew it was almost over, it was kind of embarrassing that he knew that from sound alone, slipped his phone into his pocket and decided to just be bold for once in his life. He could always say he just needed a book. It wouldn’t be a total lie. He left his things on the table, all intentions of coming back to actually get some work done and wandered up to the upper level, towards the back corner. He was there, leaning back against a shelf of textbooks, even more perfect in real life. Flushed from clearly just coming, shirt rolled back down and shorts rolled back up. If Steve hadn’t known any better it maybe looked like Billy had been doing something weird like jumping jacks or just running on the spot. But Steve knew a lot better. And seeing that grin in real life made his knees feel weak. Blue eyes sparkling. Blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, one that looked effortless. Like he’d just rolled out of bed and had an early class. Steve felt his palms start to sweat. He shouldn’t have done this. Just grab a book and leave. But he was caught in that gaze. Like a deer in headlights. Like a moth to a flame. Stuck. Billy licked his teeth, looked Steve up and down very noticeably.

“Hey there pretty boy...”

Okay, Steve was obsessed. Very obsessed. And this was everything he’d wanted for months. His heart was hammering in his chest, palms now practically soaked, trying to force the sound of this beautiful man coming over and over again out of his head enough to talk around a nerve swollen tongue, because nothing would happen if he didn’t just try and say something regardless of how stupid or embarrassing it would sound. Nothing would happen if he didn’t try.

“Hi…”

#harringrove #billy x steve #my writings #so i haven't written anything in two weeks #be gentle #not 100% happy but i finished something #so thats good

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

I Like Boys

A Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Story

Master List

Pairing: Stucky   |  Word Count: 2256  |  Warnings: Language

Based on the Todrick Hall song I Like Boys

A/N: With all the crazy in the world right now, I thought we could all use a little something fun and fluffy. This is my first Pride fic, please be kind as I did my absolute best. Love who you love, people. There’s nothing greater in life.

This fic is for @magellan-88​ who inspires me even when she doesn’t intend to.

***

James Buchanan Barnes was ninety-seven years old when his Hydra programming finally broke. He spent two years running from his best friend, another two in cryo, and five after that apparently blipped into nothing. After the fight - were, somehow, they all came out alive - Bucky decided, fuck it! 

How many times had he almost died? How many chances had he had? How many more would he waste before finally living his best life?

So he retired—sort of. 

There was no such thing as "retiring" when your idiot best friend continued to throw himself out of planes and into the line of fire on a regular basis, but Steve did slow down. He took on a more managerial role, was promoted to "General" for his service, and spent his days sitting on his ass behind a desk. 

Bucky liked him there. He liked having Steve unbruised and unbusted at the end of the day, saunter through the door to their joint living space and holler, "Honey, I'm home!"

It was a joke on the blond's part that was wearing thin, for when Bucky decided to live his best life, he'd begun to do some research about what that meant. Be true to you was a big part of it. But to be true to himself, he had to be honest with himself, and honesty meant admitting he'd been in love with Steven "is this a test" Rogers for most of his natural life. 

Sadly, Steve liked girls. Case in point, one Peggy "gonna bust some balls" Carter. 

Bucky couldn't exactly compete with that. She was one classy dame, and it hurt him to know that Steve would likely never move on. This era and it's dating rituals had thrown Cap for a loop. Women were too forward, and Steve - surprisingly - too shy to dive into the world of casual dates and sex. 

For Bucky, it was different. He liked boys. There, he'd said it, but he still hadn't said it to Steve. Natasha, however, was a different story. She'd grown used to him sighing and pining on her shoulder. She said she hated it - she didn't - but she bitched enough for both of them. 

Then she took him shopping. 

While he was standing in some place called Sephora with miles of makeup and aisle of perfume that kind of made him want to sneeze, he had the shock of his life. All this "girly" crap everywhere, but in the middle of it was a guy? A cute guy. With well-groomed hair and this fabulous winged eyeliner - nothing like his Hydra days - wearing really cute skinny jeans and glitter on his cheeks. 

Enchanted, Bucky left Natasha's side and slowly made his way over. The guy, man, guy he wasn't sure, looked up and flashed him a smile. 

"Help you, honey?"

Bucky blinked. He had fantastic skin. "You're so shiny." A flush immediately reddened his face. 

But Sephora Guy, whose name ended up being Ben, laughed and lightly patted his arm. "Aw, thanks, sweets. You looking for some skin care tips?"

Bucky nodded, unsure what else to do. 

"Honey, you came to the right fella!" 

Ben grabbed his wrist and led him to a chair where he bid Bucky sit. For the next hour, he was educated on everything from moisturizer to foundation to why Ben wore makeup. They talked about hair care, skin care, and what it meant to be "out" with such enthusiasm. Bucky had never spoken so candidly with anyone about his sexuality and found it enlightening. 

He left the shop with five hundred dollars worth of product, a list for the hair salon, and a bunch of links to reputable websites if Bucky had more questions. 

The smug on Natasha said she set him up, but he didn't care. He'd had the best day.

And when everything wound up on the counter in his and Steve's shared bathroom, Steve only arched a brow, smiled, and said nothing. 

Bucky continued to learn, research, and occasionally visit the mall to have coffee with Ben or his partner Matt. They were always kind, never impatient, and easy-going. He'd begun to wonder if they hadn't realized who he was until one day he asked, and they both looked at him with amused smiles. 

"Metal arm, slightly brooding, runs around after a "little punk" but now with a much better skin routine? Honey. Please," Ben snorted.

After, Bucky began to explore and try new things. He cooked, found a love for baking, and especially loved baking for Steve. The man refused to slow down, so it never affected Steve's physique, but Bucky found he was a little bit softer around the middle, his face fuller, his body less hard, and he liked it. 

It was nice not to be combat-ready all the time. Sure he could strap on the black and spend nine hours running down Hydra, that hadn't changed, but he had the smallest pudge of a belly, a soft little roll that he loved. 

Then, out of the blue, Natasha introduced him to roller derby. 

Bucky was thrilled! He'd never seen anything so flashy, showy, violent in all his life that was meant to be fun! Oh, sure he'd watch the wrestling that showed up on TV, but he felt most of that was so phony. This? This was chaos. This was mayhem. 

This was freaking awesome!

And the women were great. They were loud and boisterous, or sweet and shy, but when they put on their gear, they all became demons. Natasha occasionally trained with the group known as Red's Devils, a group of women from difficult circumstances she sponsored during the blip. It gave the ladies an outlet for grief, anger, pain that they wouldn't have had otherwise.

Once they met him, they'd put him in a pair of roller skates and dragged him around the track. Of course, with the serum and his enhanced body, getting his balance and figuring out how to move on wheels was cake, and soon he was skating around the room, learning neat tricks and tips from the women catcalling and laughing along with him

Bucky loved it. 

Finally, after seventy years as a Hydra pawn and all the crap that came afterward, he'd figured it out, found himself, and was happy. The only thing he wasn't satisfied with was Steve. 

It was getting harder and harder to pretend like he didn't tent his pants every time the big dumb blond wandered through the apartment in a towel. Or that "Honey, I'm home!" didn’t make his damn heart flutter. Some days it hurt to look at his stupid beautiful face and not want to kiss it. Or punch it. 

He swore Steve's shirts were getting tighter. Sometimes, it felt like his eyes lingered. 

The shit was messing with his head, dammit!

Then, just as the world was getting it's shit back together, the pandemic happened. Covid 19 struck, and everything stopped. The world stood still, went into lockdown, and Bucky wanted to slam his head on the wall.

He had been going to his first Pride event with Ben and Matt, ready to step outside and be who he was, while those who didn't approve could kiss his lily-white ass. He was going to tell Steve. He was going to stop hiding, conforming, resiting who he was. And it all went to shit thanks to a fucking virus.

He was pissed! It wasn't fair! He'd been so prepared. 

Natasha found him pouting on the couch in the common area of the now mostly empty compound. Anyone who could go home was sent home, leaving them running a skeleton crew of people, and forcing as much separation as possible. 

She flopped down mostly on top of him. "Why so glum, chum?"

"Pride's cancelled," he muttered. 

She snorted. "No, it's not."

He rolled his eyes. "We're under a shelter in place order, Natalia."

"I'm aware, Barnes," she huffed. "But Pride isn't cancelled. Just because you can't strut down the street waving a rainbow flag doesn't stop what this month is about. It's about you, celebrating you, and all the people who came before you who fought, screamed, raged against injustice and in some cases, died to be able to stand up proudly and say I'm gay, I'm bisexual, I'm transgender. You can't go out. That doesn't mean you can't celebrate."

She patted his chest and left him sitting there to think about what she said.

***

The music that pounded through the compound jerked Steve's head up. Reports forgotten, he rose and went to look out his office door, only to gape in shock as Bucky, wearing the shortest, tightest, black shorts he'd ever seen and a cropped top that showed off his cute little belly, rolled by on roller skates. He'd cut his hair not long ago, his interest in styling it a new hobby. Right now, it was fluffed high and held there with wax, looking soft and shiny and pretty as hell. Glitter sparkled on his cheeks, on his lashes, and glossed his lips. 

He smirked as he rolled by, blue eyes amused. "Close your mouth, Rogers."

Steve swallowed thickly and followed Bucky down the hallway. Those shorts should be illegal. The top wasn't much better. The cropped top was blue, sleeveless, showing off defined muscles and metal arm. His skin freaking glowed against the blue. 

It was seriously unfair how hot his best friend was, and Steve thanked his lucky stars he'd worn sweats and underwear today that helped disguise the tent forming in his pants. 

When Bucky stooped to pick up a big ass rainbow flag, Steve's jaw dropped. He knew what June first represented, how did Bucky?

Like a moth to a flame, Steve followed Bucky into the common room where Bucky was skating in happy circles, singing along to the music. 

"I like boys, I like pecs, like them arms when they flex. Like that print in them sweats. Tell them, girls, "Thank you, next." I like when they text me sexy pics of 'em, like them abs when there's six of 'em. Tell them girls I'm sorry; I like boys, Mama, boys like me."

Steve's jaw dropped. His mind refused to compute what he was hearing. It blue screened, whited out, and returned in time to watch Bucky drop it low and twerk like he'd done it all his life. 

"I like when they shake it, shake it. I like when they grind real slow. I like when they almost naked. Tell dad I'm so homo. Lights off, doors shut. Tall, dark, clean-cut. Thick with a bubble but. Yup, Mama, I like boys."

A sound like a fax machine escaped his throat as Bucky danced, shook his ass, swung his hips, and sent Steve's mind so far into the gutter he wondered if it would ever come out. 

"Bitch, B to the O to the Y to the S, Boys will be boys, and with boys, I'm obsessed. Boys in their gym clothes, boys in a dress, and if boys are a crime, then I'm under arrest. 'Cause I've been boy crazy since the boy scouts. Fuck the closets, let the boys out. Don't be a camel when you are a llama, period. No comma, bring on all the drama. Mama, I like boys, I like pecs, like them arms when they flex. Like that print in them sweats. Tell them girls, "Thank you, next." I like when they text me sexy pics of 'em. Like them abs when there's six of 'em. Tell them girls I'm sorry; I like boys, Mama, boys like me."

The music continued to play, but Bucky rolled away from the window, leaving the flag he'd been carrying behind on the couch when he skated up to Steve and stopped. On the skates, Bucky was inches taller and caused Steve to tilt his head back to look up at him as he had when they were kids. 

"So," Bucky murmured, a blush under the glitter and eyes suddenly shy and uncertain. "I like boys."

Steve's heart clenched. Before he could stop himself or second guess what he was doing, his hand shot out, grabbed the back of Bucky's neck, and dragged his friend down in a kiss that had been pent up for almost a century. 

Bucky squeaked, flailed once, almost rolled away, and finally wrapped his arms around Steve in a near bone-crushing hug. Lips slanted, mouths softened, parted, inhaled, changed the angle and softened. 

Tingles raced through Steve's body as he kissed Bucky, his Bucky, pouring every bit of emotion he felt into it. Then, he nipped his teeth into Bucky's lip and slowly pulled away. 

"I'm bisexual," Steve murmured. "I've known for years."

"You punk-ass piece of shit! Why didn't you say something?" Bucky barked, but Steve noticed he didn't let go. 

"There wasn't time." He gently squeezed Bucky's nape. "And how do you tell your best friend in the whole world you've been in love with him your entire life?"

"Steve…" Bucky whispered, resting their foreheads together. "You're an idiot."

Steve kissed him again because there was no refuting that logic.

***

From the second-floor observation deck, Natasha turned her phone camera from the scene below to her grinning face. The live stream event had hearts and comments blowing up her Instagram. "Happy Pride everyone. If those two old farts can figure it out, anyone can." 

She blew a kiss at the camera and ended the stream.

-The End- 

#i like boys #stucky #tumblr exclusive #for pride month

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, Worthless, 10: These trinket are garbage plain and simple. They would be termed vendor trash or junk loot in video games. They aren’t touched by stray magic or mystery as with regular trinkets, aren’t made from valuable materials and aren’t particularly useful even if they aren’t damaged.

A burlap bag containing a dozen assorted doorknobs.

A rather large and dead hairy spider that looks as if someone tried to make a wig out of it.

A small beige oilcloth sack embroidered neatly with the word ‘CHEESE.’ You can smell it from halfway across the room.

An expertly taxidermied rat with a built in candle holder capable of bearing a small tea candle. The mouse is posed as if scurrying

A lump of coal with runes carved into it.

A five pound pyrite (Fools gold) ingot.

A worn minotaur’s nose ring that has been bent and beaten back into shape many times.

A lacquered wooden coin engraved with the holy symbol of a minor God of Random Neutral Domain.

A smooth, flat, black river stone.

A small, tattered canvas sack containing a dozen half-rotted teeth that are as long as a thumb, but are decidedly identifiable as human.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A burlap bag containing a dozen assorted doorknobs.

A rather large and dead hairy spider that looks as if someone tried to make a wig out of it.

A small beige oilcloth sack embroidered neatly with the word ‘CHEESE.’ You can smell it from halfway across the room.

An expertly taxidermied rat with a built in candle holder capable of bearing a small tea candle. The mouse is posed as if scurrying

A lump of coal with runes carved into it.

A five pound pyrite (Fools gold) ingot.

A worn minotaur’s nose ring that has been bent and beaten back into shape many times.

A lacquered wooden coin engraved with the holy symbol of a minor God of Random Neutral Domain.

A smooth, flat, black river stone.

A small, tattered canvas sack containing a dozen half-rotted teeth that are as long as a thumb, but are decidedly identifiable as human.

A single feather hanging from a chain of slender twigs reminiscent of a bird’s nest.

A dull-red, cloth pouch filled with five pounds of finely ground, rust flakes.

A pair of minotaur horns, which were well used by their original owner.

A tangled mess of metal wires fused together with heat and attached to a wooden plaque. It may be a worthless mess of twisted scrap metal or a priceless piece of inspired artwork.

A heavily used hand cranked wood drill that creaks loudly when used.

A foggy hand mirror that when cleaned, immediately fogs back up.

A cracked and weathered hourglass that only has some sand remaining

A battered leather satchel filled with dried red beans.

A fishing hook that cannot be bent.

A large tin canister whose lid is crudely stamped with the word “JURKY”, which contains dozens of sticks of meat jerky. Any creature can clearly identify the jerky as “meat” but as to the exact animal the dried “food” came from, (If it is only from a single species of animal) is impossible to tell.

A battered stone shaped like a heart.

A child's wooden doll that makes whoever looks at it uncomfortable.

A cloth sack packed to the brim with cat fur.

A cloth sack packed to the brim with dog fur.

A flat, round, dark gray stone speckled with reddish flecks, and about six inches across.

A sewing thimble that, when poked by a needle, will roughly squeeze the bearer's thumb.

A small brass key.

A hand mirror with a horn handle. Instead of actually functioning correctly, the mirror reflects all creature's image as a specific bald human of unknown origin.

A very roughly drawn map of the surrounding area. A knowledgeable creature is able to tell that the map is not to scale and is barely useable for actual navigation.

A spindly iron key.

A chipped nautilus shell.

A moth eaten, gray velvet clutch purse.

A fairly convincing but ultimately inaccurate map, with a single red dot marking “You are here”.

An old scratched up lyre, strung with well-worn cat gut strings.

A Random Humanoid Race’s rotting, severed head.

A crudely made staff topped by a small skull.

An uneven, gnarled length of wood from a grotesque tree.

An old and cracked velum scroll whose script has been rendered illegible by the ravages of time.

A simple, springy rod made of twisting vines and twigs.

A rotting wooden goblet filled with a festering brew of pus, blood, wriggling maggots and worms that spill from the froth on the liquid's surface.

A dusty old pair of half-moon glasses of such a strong prescription that they are unwearable for most creatures.

A cracked glass jar containing a crudely removed bear claw.

A poorly embroidered handkerchief with the words “I love you dad” crudely stitched into it.

A red, child sized, fuzzy blanket that smells of mold and mildew.

A desiccated hoof that once belonged to a large, male elk.

A simple dusty scroll has no marking, seal nor text on it. By all appearances, it is a standard sheet of writing material that is bound by a single hemp thread.

A stone jar of filled with acid. The jar's lid is badly fitting, and the acid bubbles and froths as it moves. The object's sole markings are a skull symbol resting overtop of a warning written in Dwarvish.

A bedroll that is covered in a large, dark stain, but is in otherwise fair condition.

A set of crude fishing supplies, including a box of maggots, several bent hooks and a ten foot length of wire.

A set of clothes, appearing halfling in size and design. They appear partially burnt and have a large, black stain on the chest.

A primitive woolen bag filled with bones.

A rough bag full of leaves and stems of an unknown plant.

A crude animal cage. Inside there are two dead rats a dead bat and a large number of healthy maggots feeding on the aforementioned corpses.  

A badly water damaged book whose pages cannot be read.

A set of badly maintained scientific instruments, including a compass, measuring rods, quills and ink. With some repair, they could form a cartographer's toolkit.

A humanoid skull that has been cleaned and bleached white. It has a large, drilled hole in the center of the crown and several abyssal symbols are crudely carved into the temples.

A long clock hand of dark metal, the end raggedly pointed and stained with old blood.

A dusty glass bottle that still holds a few drops of viscous red liquid.

A page torn from a hymnal book dedicated to a god of war.

A clay tablet with indecipherable symbols.

A padlock that any key can open.

A bundle of crumpled papers, each having a partially completed love poem on them. Most of the words are scribbled out and are illegible, but the intended recipient appears to be a woman by the name of Neurelia.

The skull of a bird with an iron nail driven through it.

A crude wooden mask featuring a head crest of branches. The entirety of the mask is scorched wood and it smells like charcoal.

A beaten crate filled with rotted children’s clothing and old toys.

An alligator skull that reeks of sulfur and bog water. The druidic rune for “Preserve” is carved into the forehead.

A stone statue of a goblin, paper-thin and hollow. If the statue is broken, goblin bones tumble out.

A rusty dagger with a blade that is wildly unsuited for any sort of cutting whatsoever. Dangling from the pommel-nut is a leather thong strung with teeth and walnut shells.

A latticed or deformed stone that's possibly a meteorite

A malformed doll with a strange leer that wears a sackcloth dress.

A stitched up bear composed of multiple parts from different teddy bears.

A lady’s brush, elegantly carved of ivory with boar bristle. The ivory is stained and cracked, and many of the bristles are missing.

A hefty book full of notes written by many authors and inserted pages from other books. There are bite marks and slashes on the covers and some dirt might slip from between the pages when shaken.

A wizard's spellbook that was enchanted to repel liquids. Unfortunately, the enchantment is so strong that the pages cannot be written on rendering it completely unusable.

A reasonably shiny pebble.

A plank of wood whose knots and grain, crudely (At best) depict a lesser known deity of Random Domain.

A corroded metal cylinder bearing forbidden writing. The runic script bears little coherence, appearing like mad ramblings about the things beyond.

A set of brass lockpicks that couldn't possibly fit into any known style of lock.

A sheaf of poorly rendered sketches made by children.

A torn flag of an ancient city long since fallen into ruin.

A dissected and flayed corpse of a tiny fey creature.

A syringe with a squared-off crystal barrel. The plunger, flange, and needle hardware are nickel alloy ornately etched in twining, serpentine coils. Though it has no needle, and the plunger no longer seals, it is finely made, given its age.

A rotting quarterstaff made of oak wood. The staff has grips wrapped in slimy brown ape skin.

An old pair of trousers that are almost entirely made of patches and stitches, having been kept in service long past their time.

A crooked rod of dark wood with a possum skull lashed to the top.

An antique sword, rusted to its mildewy scabbard.

A length of heavy rusty chain, entangled in an impossible knot.

A thick waxy candle the colour of sickly pallid skin. When burned, the smoky odor of roasting ghoulflesh fills the room, ideal for setting the mood for foul necromantic rituals, preparing volunteers for human sacrifice, and all manner of depraved acts involving corpses.

A large bird's nest that has human finger bones woven into it.

A thick shirt of coarse brown horsehair.

A small leather pouch containing a double handful of seemingly fresh tree nuts, still in their shells.

An ugly gray wine skin, heavier than it looks, sloshes and gurgles in response to any movement.

A large, cast pewter vial containing a quantity of strangely textured sand. It clumps and sticks in a single doughy mass.

A piece of parchment bearing an unusual symbol drawn in iridescent green ink.

A long and tangled piece of twine with tiny brass bells knotted into it every few feet.

A dingy, brown leather collar with a sea serpent branded along its length is stuck on a jagged piece of splintered wood.

An intricate and spiky ball of cat and rat whiskers.

A heavy shot glass with a cat's face carved into the bottom.

A copper coin with a small hole drilled at the top and attached to a long length of fishing line.

A small, stained sack with a crudely painted figure of a halfling on the side. Opening the sack releases an odour that invokes tears and gagging to those nearby. The sack itself contains a number of crude items designed to disguise a goblin as a halfling. Laying the kit’s inventory out on the ground, you assess its value as a tool for subterfuge and determine a figure of zero. The wig leaves an odor of wet dog on your hands. The goblin disguise kit contains the following items: a chopped and damp wig made from worg fur, flesh-toned paste that burns when applied, a set of incomprehensibly disgusting false teeth, a canvas tunic with a poorly painted “shirt front,” and a pair of greasy gloves.

#d&d #dnd #d&d 3.5 #d&d 4e #d&d 5e #d&d homebrew #d&d 5e homebrew #loot #custom loot #loot generator #random loot table #pathfinder #trinkets #roleplaying #rpg #dungeons and dragons #dungeon master #dm #d&d ideas #treasure #treasure table #d&d resources #tabletop homebrew #junk loot #vendor trash

[dizzy-lights]

another batch of pride flags! I'm open to doing requests for these aswell! free to use for anything, meant to be viewed small, tags in order of flags.

#bigender #pangender #progress pride flag #demigender #lgbtqia ally #demiboy #demigirl #demisexual #demiromantic #genderpunk #genderfuck #genderfluid #moth's original content #moth's shiny flags #rentry resources #carrd resources #pride pixels #pride badges #pixels #web graphics

[multiedits]

Can we see the list of current requests you have?

We plan to close requests soon, because there are too many of them, so ask for everything you need right now

— Squigly (Skullgirls) Moodboard

— Katsuki Bakugo x Uraraka Ochako (Boku no Hero Academia) wallpapers

— Peacock (Skullgirls) Moodboard with themes of Anarchy and 50s cartoons

— Raymond (Animal Crossing) Icons

— Bee (Minecraft) Honeygender Instagram board

— Sam Gladiator (Yandere High School) insta Board with themes of trouble kid and white and yellow colors

— Duncney (Total Drama) Instagram board

— Eda Clawthorne (The Owl House) icons with tiaras of heart emojis

— Oswald Rabbit (Oswald the Lucky Rabbit) Icons with Angelcore and Pastel

— Lollipop (Battle for Dream Island) trans icons

— Orange, Yellow, Red witch themed Stimboard

— NiGHTs (NiGHTs Into Dreams) icons

— Goro Akechi x Makoto Niijima (Persona) Moodboard

— Hobbes (Calvin and Hobbes) Moodboard with themes of Stonercore + Psychedelic based off of the song 2AM by Slightly Stoopid

— Weasel x White Rabbit (DC) wallpapers

— White Diamond (Steven Universe) icons

— LUMi (Vocaloid) Moodboard with themes of shiny rocks, slimes, boba, stuffed animals and general comfy things in blacks, greys, whites and purples colors

— Amity Blight (The Owl House) ADHD Pan icons

— Karkat Vantas (Homestuck) Moodboard with soft things, neutral colors and missing Dave Strider

— Alucard (Hellsing) Wallpapers and Instagram board

— OC's Stimboard with Long wavy Dark Hairs, Larg Comfy Jackets/Hoodies, soft squishy things, aliens, monster energy/pop rocks looking slime (or ice cream rolls), lava lamps, and glow in the dark ceiling stars in deep maroon, black, green colors

— Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel) GIF icons

— Legoshi (Beastars) GIF icons

— Caspian (Brawlhalla) Moodboard in red, blue, black colors

— Quote (Cave Story) Webcore Moodboard

— Darkrai (Pokemon) Vaporwave Moodboard

— Mustache Girl (A Hat In Time) GIF icons with Bi and Agender Flags

— Norman (Vocaloid) Moodboard with blacks, browns, reds, whites colors and themes of coffee/tea, moths, shiny black rock and old-timey villages, books, etc.

— Moodboard with Brown-colored American black Bear who's friends with a blonde boy from England with Grandmacore and Teddycore

— Rigby and Mordecai (Regular Show) headers with summery and woods themes

— Lilith Clawthorne (The Owl House) icons

— Catra (She-Ra and the Princess of Power) Stimboard

— Simon Bellamy (Misfits) Moodboard with misses Nathan

— Dr. Habit (Smile For Me) Moodboard with Flowerly themes

— Terezi Pyrope (Homestuck) Scenecore icons

— Arggh (Trollhunters Tales of Arcadia) softcore Icons

— BlackStar (Soul Eater) Blue wallpapers

— Moodboard with Serpentine Dragon who warps itself around the world with lovecore

— Vincent Everyman (EverymanHYBRID) trans icons

— ᴍᴏᴅ ɢɪʀ 🤖💚

[dizexplainstheuniverse]

The daddy, the issue and what’s so great about walking into the fire.

The daddy

When I was 10 years old, my father broke my heart.

As I watched him marry his third wife, I burst into tears as he declared his love for her in front of our entire family and friends. It was as if my heart fell from my chest into my stomach and Lucifer’s hand reached down my throat, wrenched it out and threw it down onto the floor in front of me – “You won’t be needing that”, he said.

“You may now kiss the bride”, I stared across the room at them, broken and confused, as my heart lay limply pulsating at my feet.

I remember my older sister laughing at me and asking me why I was crying. I couldn’t tell her it was because the man I loved so deeply, the man I so desperately craved the love and affection of, the man who abandoned me when I was 6 years old, the man who – as it turned out – didn’t hug me until I was 16 years old and to this day I can still count on one hand how many times I’ve felt his awkward embrace, the man who was so far from the definition of a father you’d assume we weren’t related had just married a stranger.

I told her I was crying with happiness.

The issue

The joys of being self-aware and invested in the business of self-development often means that I can spot the reg flags in a potential relationship pretty early on. I can smell the avoidants and dismissive from a mile off and yet their alluring scent draws me in closer to the fire. I gaze longingly into it, knowing if I get any closer I will definitely get burnt – I’ve got a million burns to prove it. It never gets any less painful, and yet, like a moth to a flame, I flutter on into the blaze.

Ouch, that hurt. I knew it, why did I do it AGAIN?

I know exactly why I do it. I do it because I’m idealistic, romantic and my inner child desperately craves validation and approval from a particular type of person because of the deep wounds my abusive father left with me with. (It’s unfortunately an all too familiar storyline for many of us.)

I’m always looking for a do-over. Always chasing the kind of love only a father has for his daughter. The “I’d die for you” kind of love. Even when I think I’ve found it, it’s never quite enough. So I keep on searching, I keep on pining after the men who don’t seem to give me enough attention. I keep on craving their approval, needing so furiously to be desired, to be everything they’ve ever needed and more. I need it to feel powerful, I need it to feel safe, I need it to feel loved.

Even if I do succeed in capturing their attention, it still feels like something is missing. I become restless, there must be something wrong… and so the craving sets in once again.

I’ve spent much of my adult life trying to heal through practicing self-love, doing the work, nurturing to my inner child work, facing my shadows and releasing my embodied trauma. This shit takes time and whilst we’re healing, inevitably we sometimes end up repeating some of the same mistakes, more than twice. We try not to judge and punish ourselves, we show ourselves compassion, we forgive ourselves and we continue to grieve the loss of the love we didn’t get from our parents. It’s exhausting.

There’s an interesting moment in time in the healing process when our unhealthy habits and coping strategies no longer work for us – they seem entirely pointless. But equally, our new coping strategies are really fucking tough because they’re these new, weird, inconvenient tools that we don’t really know how to use yet and we aren’t quite seeing the pay-off from the expensive investment that we’ve made in ourselves. We’re stuck in limbo. We’re in an incredibly transformational period; so close, and yet so far. We see clearly the patterns of behaviour which are no longer serving is. We see very clearly the habits that are preventing us from growth. But, we just can’t seem to shake them.

For me, this is particularly true when interacting the ‘popular’ types. You know the ones, the shiny, extroverted, sun-shines-out-of-their-arse types. Someone I’d perceive to be more attractive than me and more successful. These aspects are quite specific to the areas in my own life where I believe I’m a failure – likely because these were the areas that I felt if only I was better or special in some way and then maybe, just maybe, my father would finally acknowledge me and show me he loved me. This all very much drives my perfectionism and my insanely critical inner voice.

So, these types really stab me in the ‘daddy’ shaped hole in my heart.

Thankfully, after a little chat with my inner child I can usually spot the signs that I’ve been triggered. If they aren’t responding well to my yearning, the rational thing to do would be to turn the ship around and save myself the aggro of falling for yet another avoidant dismissive and having my heart wrenched out of stomach after feeling rejected or abandoned. These types make it very difficult for me to remember my worth, to keep myself grounded, to remind myself I am enough, I am safe and I am lovable. However…

I just can’t help myself. It’s honestly an addiction.

And what’s so great about walking into the fire

This was a question that up until very recently, I had never considered. I’d always assumed the reason I did it was because I didn’t respect myself enough – I think probably to begin with that was true. I’ve often wondered if it’s because I don’t love myself enough, or maybe I do this because feeling unsafe is all I’ve ever known. But that’s not true, I have had very healthy, very loving and very successful relationships and I really do care for myself now. I stopped judging myself, I forgave myself, I learnt to love and accept myself. I let go of the layers of shame and guilt that smothered my ability to fully express myself. I even learnt how to have boundaries. And yet, those flames still really, reallyyyyy titillate me...

But whyyyy?

I decided to sit down and I write out a list of things that draw me towards the fire:

First of all, I live in an absolute idealistic and romantic fantasy (most of us do!). Thanks to innumerable trashy rom-coms, I have ridiculous expectations of what love is supposed to look like and the things people will do to win the affection of their beloved. Maybe this time it’ll all work out? The shy wallflower will finally be acknowledged by the tough jock when he realises how wonderful she is and they’ll live happily ever after?

Never.

Secondly, it’s exciting. There’s risk involved in potentially (inevitably) getting burnt. It’s much like any other risky addictive habit; gabbling, drugs, sex with your best friends ex when he explicitly told you not to. Maybe the rush of it will be worth it this time? It definitely won’t be. The low, the regret, the guilt and the self-loathing is ALWAYS horrendous. On the other hand, maybe you already feel pretty shitty so, what have you got to lose? Might as well, ey?

Nope.

And finally, I honestly find everyday life seriously mundane. I constantly crave intensity and losing myself. Routine is boring, change is exciting. The fire offers me the perfect distraction from the monotony of the day-to-day snooze fest. I used to believe I was trying to escape something, trying to run away from my problems by filling my time with a chaotic love life just so I had something to talk about other than the files that Susan lost when the auditors came to… GAH! To begin with, this was true. But I’ve done a fuck tonne of work on myself since then, I no longer find solace in my old coping strategies because they simply do not work. I gave them up, I started actually taking care of myself and tending to my needs and wounds instead. So what was it?

I then realised something very important. Wanting excitement, thrill, ecstatic joy, bliss, celebration, partying, romance, love, sex, creativity, playfulness and adventure is in no way a bad thing. It is in no way a sign of weakness or an indication that I’m trying to escape something. It tells me I am human, that I’m alive, that I’m a social being. It tells me I want more than this average life we get sold by the system, that I won’t settle for this bullshit, that I deserve more, I am worthy and – I am the fire.

I already embody all of the things I so desperately crave. I am everything that I need. I have everything that I desire. I’m drawn to the fire because it’s calling me to be seen. My attachments and wounds have left me feeling dismissed, unacknowledged, invalidated and deleted… But I AM the fire. We all are. Whether or not another human experiences you in this way is irrelevant. We do not need anyone else to approve our existence and worth. Even if it is never seen or shared with anyone, the fact still remains true that you are indeed already burning effervescently.

No permission.

No recognition.

No validation.

No attention.

No acknowledgement.

And you will still remain the brightest light in the universe.

Instagram: @dizexplainstheuniverse | Facebook: /dizexplainstheuniverse

#daddy issues #validation #self-worth #self-development #self-love #attachment injury #attachment styles #love #heartbreak #abandonment #rejection #wounds #healing #grief #ptsd recovery #trauma recovery #personal development #personal growth #spirituality #spiritual path #spiritual journey #spiritual awakening #spiritual growth

[lysonde]

TRP Flag: Lysonde Riverblade - Lady; Aerialist; Dancer; Knife-thrower’s Girl

Directory Information: Race: Sin’dorei Class: Performer Age: Adult Eye Color: Mint green Height: 5′9″ Body Shape: 147 lbs. (Athletic) Birthplace: Dawnstar Village Residence: Silvermoon City

Additional Information: Pronunciation: “Lihs-ahnd” House: Riverblade (née Stormfall) Nickname: Lys Piercings: Two gold studs per earlobe. Left ear tragus with ruby stud. Tattoos: Elaborate art nouveau blackwork on right thigh from hip to knee. Scars: Slash on upper left arm. Affiliations: Dalaran infirmary, Armies of Legionfall Vitality: Healthy and happy! Languages: Thalassian, Common, Orcish

Personality Traits: Lawful (4) < Chaotic (16) Altruistic (17) > Selfish (3) Gentle (18) > Brutal (2) Cautious (5) < Impulsive (15) Swords (8) < Spells (12) Extroverted (16) > Introverted (4)

Physical Description: Stout of form with skin the color of rich clay, Lysonde faces the world with the polite smile of a woman who will not take your shit or anyone else's. Freckles decorate her skin, concentrated on her cheeks and shoulders and collar bones. Heavy mahogany-tinted curls tumble to the middle of her back. She walks with an acrobat's grace and bared limbs reveal lean muscles. An elaborate tattoo of architecture-inspired curves and diamond-tipped spires marks the outside of her right thigh from hip to knee in soft black ink.

Despite her no-nonsense demeanor, she's often caught smiling or laughing, and dresses in the wild colors and patchwork mix of fabric common to flower children and carnival followers. She sports a substantial iridescent topaz ring on her left hand, stacked atop a diamond-set wedding band.

History: - She's a known performer for the Succulent Tart troupe and spotted more and more often at charity events.

- Elves in Lordaeron at the time of the fall of the city may have seen her before.

- Frequenters of traveling shows and carnivals might have spotted her performing aerial rope acrobatics and dances, as well as acting as a knife thrower's assistant in her younger years.

Those actually involved in the carnival circuit have probably heard rumors of her as a tramp who sleeps with patrons and steals their money, an unreliable dreamer who skips performances whenever she feels like it, or a cold-hearted maneater with a taste for rich men.

At First Glance:

Smells like... A light perfume of amber, vanilla, and tiger lily.

Dark-skinned elf. Contrary to available skin-tone choices in the game, this character has tawny brown skin. She also has a substantial scattering of freckles.

Shiny! Sporting a topaz ring on her left hand, stacked atop a diamond wedding band.

* Fancy! Wearing a lovely gold and pale yellow gown with fiery orange beading decoration.

Other Information (OOC): I like big words and I cannot lie. http://lysonde.tumblr.com

Inventory:

Ruby Stud Earring Jewelry          Earrings “A single, small ruby stud earring.”

Shell Necklace Jewelry          Necklace “A spiral shell wrapped in wire and capped with three raw crystals. A hinged top hides a miniature black panther figurine inside the hollow of the shell.”

Rosewood Bead Necklace Jewelry          Necklace “A multi-stranded necklace of hand-polished rosewood beads which produce a lovely rose scent when warmed against the skin.”

Med-kit Container “A hard-sided case containing all the necessary items for non-magical triage healing: bandages of various types, needle and thread, antiseptics, painkillers, antidotes, gloves, burn cream, tweezers, and a myriad of herbal salves and potions.”      Cough Drops      Consumable          Medicine      “A small linen sack of throat-soothing candies.”      -----      A Medicinal Guide to Herbs      Document          Book      Use: Read the book.      -----      Arcane Antibiotic Ointment      Consumable          Medicine      “The sterilizing properties of arcane magic are harnessed in this cream to prevent and treat minor, common infections. Use: apply liberally to breaks in the skin to prevent infection. Not for oral use. DISCLAIMER: Arcane resistance is increasing globally in microbial populations. Contact a healer if infection develops.”      -----      Medicinal Sutures      Consumable          Medicine      “Suturing material pre-soaked in a palliative concoction of herbs. Designed to promote healing, reduce scarring, and prevent minor infections to superficial wounds that require suturing.”      -----      Herbs and Their Uses      Document          Book      “by Gavin A. Dobinson”

Libram of the Light Trinket “A simple prayer book and paladin’s libram, bound in leather and strips of silver.”

Iridescent Topaz Ring Jewelry          Ring “A white gold and iridescent topaz ring in shades of cool twilight, framed by two triangular white diamonds.”

Diamond Wedding Band Jewelry          Ring “A white gold band channel set with sparkling white diamonds.”

Simple Dagger Weapon          Dagger “A small, simple dagger of good steel and minimalist design, meant as a back-up or last resort weapon.”

Citrine Crescent Stone Trinket “A yellow orange stone associated with midsummer, bringing warmth and happiness.”

Silversage Smudge Sticks and Liferoot Water Trinket “A handsome leather pouch filled with two smudge sticks of dried silversage, bound with thread. One bound with red thread, one bound with white. Used for blessing home and cleansing energies. Also included is a vial of liferoot water, with a small living root inside it. The root can be used to safely purify any water put inside it in minutes, and sprinkled around the home to bless it.”

Pocket Mirror Cosmetic “Check your style with style.”

Highborne Starwood Dice Trinket “A game enjoyed by sailors and in seaport taverns. Carved dice in the shape of stars, thrown to reveal shimmering arcane dots. The person who rolls higher will find a small drink of their liking in the hand. This seems to be attuned to personal preference. They sometimes backfire, however, and have been known to produce shots of things like pickle juice, hot sauce, and mud on occasion.”

Welcome Sign Decor “A hand-made stained glass welcome sign with the word for ‘welcome’ in the Travelers’ tongue. In shades of green and gold and white, it reads ‘Fáilte’.”

Oversized Hand-knit Blanket Decor “An oversized hand-knitted blanket.”

Jewelry Box Container “A fine jewelry box such as one might find on a dresser in a modest estate.”      Gold Bangles      Jewelry          Bracelet      “Several inexpensive yet pretty gold bangles, some engraved to glitter and others painted with vivid colors.”      -----      Mint Green Zen Crystal      Jewelry          Necklace      “A clear, mint green crystal on a silver chain. Small mist flakes bounce in the crystal to calm the wearer.”      -----      Ocean Princess Crystal Crown      Jewelry          Head      “A wire and crystal crown in beautiful ocean blue.”

Wardrobe Furniture “A large wardrobe, like one might find on a modest estate.”      Beaded Slippers      Armor          Feet      “A pair of beaded slippers with a rope design around the ankles, a pair of daggers, and some flowers. Soft-soled and meant for house wear only, they’re lined inside with rabbit fur.”      -----      Silverpine Grey Wolf Cloak      Armor          Cloak      “Exquisite cloak crafted from ethically claimed hides of fallen wolves. Perfect for the snowy Northrend climate!”

A Jar of Cold Cream Consumable          Cosmetic “Removes makeup for natural skin.”

Wild Dusk Shampoo Consumable          Cosmetic “A subtle perfume using twilight jasmines in shampoo form.”

Light in Dark Perfume Consumable          Cosmetic “This perfume begins with notes of fig leaf, night-blooming jasmine, gardenia, and sage. Applied on the skin, these scents intermingle with blackcurrant, violet, plum, and black amberwood. Comes in a black bottle, the liquid inside shining out with a soft pearly glow. When applied, fireflies and moths will be drawn to you at night, as you will cascade a slight, shimmering glow under the light of the moon.”

Vial of Anointing: Oil of Mothers Consumable          Cosmetic “A base of jasmine oil. Made with banana blossoms, fruit stones, beeswax, and coconut milk. For motherhood or the expecting.”

Glass White Rose Trinket “A rose that helps bring good luck and clarity. Can help bring better chances at pregnancies, etc.”

Al’ar Plushie Uncommon Plush “The elemental god Al’ar, here to warm your hearth and your heart! Handmade with love and a little magic, this warm-to-the-touch plush glows with traditional Thalassian paisley, and stuffed with hawkstrider down for the softest hug you’ll ever experience! Brought to you by Dawnseeker Tenacious Tapestries!”

Faerie Dragon Plushie Common Plush “Cute little faeries that glow in the dark! This one is in spectral blue.”

Silver Covenant Hippogryph Plushie Rare Plush          Silver Covenant Fundraiser “Silver Covenant Hippogryphs are known to be fiercely loyal to their friends. What better addition to your plushie collection?” Use: Give your plushie a hug!

Phoenix Plushie Rare Plush          Commemorative “Released to commemorate the marriage of Aeriyth Dawnsorrow to Binor Dungalion.” Use: Give your plushie a hug!

Patchwork Lynx Plushie Rare Plush          Food and Blanket Drive “Made from donated and recycled cloth bits and buttons.” Use: Give your plushie a hug!

Bear Cub Plushie Common Plush “It growls when you hug it!”

The Three Virtues Document          Book “A brief volume on the Three Virtues of the Light.”

An Elder’s Wisdom Document          Book “A slim volume commonly shared around the Order of the Silver Hand, detailing wisdom shared by an old master speaking to young trainees.”

Compendium of the Light Document          Book “by Symmathan Brightarrow A book bound in brown leather and softly glowing Light-blessed gems.”

====================

Delwyn - A fancy white rat

Delwyn is a curious and friendly white rat. He's clearly well-cared for with glossy fur and a plump belly. Somebody spoils him.

#TRP flag

[pokemoncoloursplash]

Dahlia Batch List

121 requests total in only 24 hours! Thats impressive ^.^ 

Full list is under the cut

Alcremie – Shamrock Komaeda (Dangan Rompa)

Polteageist – Fave Celestial Seasonings tea

Polteageist – Shiny Hope/Prediction

Polteageist – Mrs Potts (Beauty and the Beast)

Polteageist – Agathion (Shin Megami Tensei)

Polteageist – Asexual flag

Polteageist – Transgender flag

Polteageist – Red/Orange like lava/orange soda

Alcremie – Rainbow Sherbet w/Cherry on top

Umbreon – Nonbinary/Asexual flag w/Galaxy

Houndoom – Rocket Exec Archer palette

Ampharos – Blue eyes/Pastel body/Orange stripes/Blue gem

Gengar – Pansexual flag and Galaxy

Lugia – Luigi palette

Meloetta/Steenee – Palette swap

Phantump – Galaxy normal and Shiny

Absol – Edits of my choosing

Raichu/Espurr – Transgender flag

Gourgeist – Entrapta (She-ra) palette

Bisharp – Transgender/Bisexual flag

Magearna – Gold/Pink partial edit

Swablu/Altaria – Green screen cloud

Deoxys – Asexual flag

Eeveelutions – Kokichi (Danganrompa) palette

Chandelure line -Pink flames

Flareon/Froslass – Hades/Persephone palette

Meowstic – Dahlia and Iris Hawthorne palette

Steven Stone – Gay flag

Mew – Mewtwo palette

Umbreon/Espeon – Butch Lesbian flag and Spinel (Steven Universe) palette

Lunala – Purple galaxy wings

Lilipup – Isabelle (Animal Crossing) palette

Pikachu – Chuchu (Pokespe) design

Golurk – Celesteela palette

My Choice – Persona 5 palette of my choice (I’m going to consult a friend on this one)

Celesteela – EVA-1 palette

Ultra Necrozma – Shiny redesign

Serperior/Altaria – Crowley/Aziraphale (Good Omens) palette

Ninetales/Mega Rayquaza – Shiny vitiligo

Ariados – put in shorts (??? I’ll try)

Houndoom – German flag

Cyrus – Giratina palette

Mega Gallade/Vivillion – Count Bleck/Tippi (Super Paper Mario) palette

Diancie – Spinel (Steven Universe) palette

Necrozma – Pink/Yellow/White/Blue Diamond (Steven Universe) palette

Bulbasaur/Sobble/Turtwig – Albino

Giratina/Shaymin – Gay flag

Whitney – Fairy type theme

Litwick – Rainbow flame

Cresselia/Lunala – palette swap

Luxray – Purple/silver/grey/pink

Volcarona – Moth of my choice

Goomy – 50/50 shiny

Lurantis – Pink/Orange

Mimikyu/Meltan – Calico pattern

Charizard – White face/hands/wings

Eevee – Brown-grey w/green vitiligo

Haunter/Gengar – Pink w/blue mouth and pink w/blue eyes

Pikachu – Shiny redesign

Suicune – Transgender flag

Scyther/Haunter – Pansexual/Demisexual flag

Eeveelutions – Asexual flag

Quagsire – Demiboy flag

Rayquaza – Guardian Stalk (Zelda BOTW) palette

Leon – Kaito Momota (danganronpa) palette

Sonia – Athena Cykes (Ace Attorney) palette

Blanche – Nonbinary Lesbian flag

Sonia/Leon – Sonia/Leon (danganronpa) palette

Aggron – Shiny redesign

Victor – Apollo Justice (ace attorney) palette

Gloria – Trucy Wright (ace attorney) palette

Diancie/Mega Diancie – all diamonds (steven universe) palette

Zorua – Racoon

Valerie – Water type theme

Sobble – Shiny Mudkip palette

Valerie – Pink Vitiligo hair

Cheryl – Pink hair/shirt

Karen – Black hair/top

Blacephalon/Naganadel – palette swap

Weavile – Spidergwen palette

Ghetsis – Angelcore

Legend Dogs – Asexual flag

Doduo/Dodrio – Asexual flag

Pikachu – Lesbian/Butch lesbian flag w/heart tail

Fave/Least Fave Eeveelution – palette swap

2x Wooloo – Waluigi palette

Darkrai – my fave colour/scheme

Furret – Mutliple palettes of my choice

Zorua/Zoroark – Sou (Your Turn To Die) palette

Serena – Full redo

Sabrina – Shiny Mega Gardevoir palette

Vaporeon/Flareon – palette swap

Growlithe – Galaxy

Rapidash/Eevee – palette swap

Magby/Gardevoir/Aggron – Mario/Peach/Bowser

Chikorita – Colress palette

Braviary/Luxray/Sawsbuck – Fire Emblem ThreeHouses

Delphox/Ninetales – Palette swap

Rapidash – Princess Cadence (MLP) palette

Eeveelutions – Gay flag

Pachirisu – Black/Pink shiny and White/Pink normal

Rosa – hair down

Sylveon – Genderfluid

Jolteon/Vaporeon – Purple/green

Hilda – Long sleeves/Pants with no pockets

Silver – Ponytail

N – Transgender flag

Togekiss/Deoxys – palette swap

Partner Eevee – Byleth (Fire Emblem) palette

Deoxys – Bisexual flag

Deoxys – Genderfluid flag

Giratina/Togekiss – shiny palette swap

Meloetta – music in hair

Jessie/James – Asexual flag

Allister – pink hair/pink and black clothes/ green eyes

Sylveon – Lesbian ribbons

Deerling – light blue

Roserade/Sharpedo – Dahlia colour

Meloetta – Genderfluid/Asexual flag

Skitty – Asexual/Pansexual flag

Pichu – Pastel Pink

#dahlia batch #decima talks