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rosedom · 2 months

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hi there! I'm here because I wanted to share with you an idea I had in mind.

wanderer x guitarist boyfriend reader where he finds the reader's hands attractive and started to masturbate in his room imagining the reader's fingers inside him and reader catches him masturbating in his room once he got back to his place after a band performance.

I hope this is okay with you, I'm sorry if it's not though. I love your works btw! also can I be 🥯 anon?

"in an open match, 【 🥯 】 has invited WANDERER to play . . . a well-strummed man

✦ㅤㅤ 【 CW 】 dom!male!reader, sub!ftm!wanderer, hand kink, fantasizing turned to masturbating, getting caught (by you), vaginal fingering, lots of love & praise .

A/N : i've been thinking about this scenario these past weeks, oh my goodness . . . (⁠♡⁠ω⁠♡⁠ ⁠)⁠ ⁠~⁠♪

"do you want to watch, [PLAYER]? press KEEP READING to spectate the match."

Kunikuzushi is a dead, dead man.

Listen. It's not like it’s his fault you’re a guitarist, much-less the lead of a band; and it most certainly does not fall to his blame that he’s been lonely, alright?

You’ve been out all weekend, and it’s already Sunday night. He—he won't admit he misses you, but it’s a close thing.

“I’ll be back Monday, baby,” you’d said, last Friday. You’d held him in your broad arms, your large palms a searing brand to his hips as he grunted at you for spinning him.

He had shoo’d you away, said, “Okay, okay!” and pushed you out the door with your guitar and damning crooked grin.

You had pouted, too, standing in the doorway like some kicked kitten, and Kuni couldn’t deny such pitiful look on your handsome face. “C’mere,” he’d grumbled, reeled you in and kissed you soundly on your lips. “Goodluck, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You’d kept your faces together for a few moments, breathing in him, before you ultimately straightened up. “I love you.”

With a scoff, another shove and a soft, “Goodbye—,” one you gave him back, your own adoring farewell—he had murmured, “I love you, too.”

(He hasn't seen the smile on your face for you turned the other way. It made your heart skip a beat, made you hold tighter to the purple straps of your guitar as you went to the curb your bandmates had been waiting for you on.

Kuni had seen, however, the grip of your fingers across the leather; he had seen it well. So well.)

Kuni groans. Your hands. He can't get your hands off his mind: your hands tightening around your guitar strap, your hands holding tight to his waist, your hands covering the expanse of his pale skin, your hands dipping down, your hands stroking his cock and nudging into his cunt and and—

he’s a goner. Not only dead, but gone: utterly, entirely, wholly for you.

Your hands are just so—enticing. That's it, that's all. They're nice to look at.

. . . and nice to imagine knuckle-deep in his cunt. Of course, they’re nice to feel actively thrusting in him, rubbing across his chubby cock and smearing the mess of slick and lube across his hole; but you're not here right now, and he's left with only a whisper of you in his imagination, and a video of you playing live.

He couldn't attend your show, thanks to a paper he had to submit by Saturday night. But tonight's Sunday, and the paper's squared away and submitted and done, and he's lonely, right now, replaying your recording, eyes watching the both steady and jerking movements in turn of your fingers across the guitar strings.

His cock throbs. “Shit.”

With another groan—albeit far weaker, without any gusto behind it—, Kunikuzushi lets his phone fall to the side and sinks full-bodied into the bed. The plush blankets wrap around him, swaddling him in a semblance of you, you, you. They carry your subtle scent in them, a mixture of your soap and his own embedded into the fabric in a heady mix that Kuni greedily drinks in, pressing a corner of it to his mouth and nose as his other hand teases down his body.

A tweak—gentle, mimicking your own soft touch—to his nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt makes him lowly gasp. It’s not as satisfying, with his own touch, but the sensation still makes small zaps of pleasure zing up and down his spine, ending with a heavy pulse at his cock and sending his cunt dribbling.

Pulling off his briefs is an easy thing, if not made a bit messy by the string of slick that connects to and snaps from the seat of the fabric. It’d be embarrassing if you were here to see it, feel it, taste it; but you're not here right now.

He's sorely reminded, again and again: he's alone, for now.

(He misses the embarrassment under you, already, misses the way your touch is always so gentle against him, teasing him and bringing him to release again and again with those damning hands.)

He plays across his opening, now bare, with his fingers, just like you'd do. The wetness clings to his fingertips, and he mourns the loss of the calluses on your hands; his own are soft n’ smooth, providing little friction against the parts that need it most.

“Please,” he whispers to himself, to the air, to absolutely no-one.

He wants you here, so, so bad; but the next best thing is the slide of two fingers, right off the bat, right into the third knuckle. It’s slow going, but it's smooth, and he sharply exhales at the barely-there stretch.

It’s quiet save for the squelch of his fingers, the in-n’-out thrust

When his mind starts playing your voice, the devilish thing, he's a goner twice-over. “Takin’ my fingers so well, baby,” you’d say, he imagines you saying. He mewls at the thought, bending his fingers sharply in the way he knows you would. Though they don’t come into contact with his g-spot how yours would, not at first, the press against his sensitive walls makes him bite his lip still.

Sometimes, Kuni wonders if you know his body better than he does. (You do.)

He thinks, then, of the other things you'd say to him, pressed up close and deep in him. Maybe you would tell him, “So needy,” with a lilt to your voice that reveals you're really not mad at all. “All wet n’ dripping for me, aren't'cha? Aren’t I so lucky to have such a pretty boy under me?”

Maybe you'd lean down and lick at his cock while you spread him open. The thought makes him whine all loud-like, working a third finger in beside the other two, whimpering quietly after the shame of his initial whine.

“Turn over for me, babe,” the you in his head sweetly commands. He swears he can feel your phantom touch on his hips, murmuring, “There you go,” guiding him to roll onto his belly. The shirt he’s kept on bunches up, allowing a whisper of the cold bedroom air to brush his nipples. “My obedient, good boy.”

He feels safer like this, pumping his fingers into his cunt the best he can with the new position. The angle no longer allows his fingers to curl into his g-spot, but it mimics how you handle him: a worthy trade-off, he thinks. He imagines you on his back, stretching him on your fingers as you drape yourself across him, licking n’ kissing at his neck and blushing ears.

“Opening up so good f'r me,” you'd say; Kuni whimpers, biting the pillow—your pillow, saturated in the subtle scent of your shampoo—to muffle himself. He’s safe, like this.

This is as close as he can get to having you, right now—

until it's not.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Kuni, sweetheart.”

Fuck. Fuck.

“You—I—” Kuni wrings himself upright, coming right up to your face, inches away from his own. He growls at you, but it falls short—how could it, when he’s red-faced and pushes at your chest with his slickened hand? “When did you get home?”

“Just now,” you murmur, grabbing his hand and bringing it up to your lips for a kiss, for a taste of him. Then, “Have you cum?”

He rips his hand back. “You can't just—”

“So you haven't,” you say, grinning. Silently, he sputters, but then you're leaning in and kissing him soundly and pressing him down into your bed and—

“Gonna let me make you feel good, baby?” you ask. Your grin turns devilish when you dip your fingertips into him, just so, the callouses on your two fingers already resting so perfectly against his opening.

Your roughed-up thumb presses into his jutting cock, right as he whines, “Yes,” his whole attitude turned on a dime. Sweet, sweet Kunikuzushi.

“You're so wet,” you murmur, entirely awed at the slick glide of your fingers, able to slide a third in oh-so easily. While he had three of his own stuffed up to his third knuckle, your fingers are broader, wider—the knobs of each knuckle is prominent still, nudging each sweet spot in his cunt easy as anything. “God, pretty boy, what were you thinkin’ about to make you this messy?”

Kuni whines again, the sound airy and high, pleading n’ begging.

“Heard you keep saying my name,” you continue, curling your fingers and forcing the bumps at your fingertips against his g-spot in a way his own hands failed to. Asking, “What about me, hm?” makes him tremble, and you think his brain is too pleasure-mushed to process it.

But then he’s reaching for the hand you've got snug on his hip, and he murmurs, “Your hands.”

“My hands?” He nods, closing his eyes tight. You kiss the flutter of eyelashes. “What about them?”

“They're so—” a moan cuts up his words, your thumb working tight against him.

“They're so...?”

He groans. “They're so—so big, ‘nd they're always so warm, so hot in me, s-stretch me so—so good.”

“Yeah?” You pull apart your fingers at his words—only slightly, enough to feel the slight resistance of his cunt. “Like it when I open you up all nice n’ pretty for me?”

“Yes, yes, I l-love it.” Kuni’s so unabashed, now, so close to his orgasm. The clench of his cunt is uncontrolled, pulsing against your fingers and urging you to rub his chubby cock faster, harder, stretching him out and making his mind melt from his pretty, perfect lil’ pussy.

As his back unconsciously arches, his thighs jerking with the spasms of his muscle, he begins to plead you to let him cum. Soft begs fall from his lips as he clutches right at your free hand, both of his smaller ones holding yours tight when you lean down and kiss him, soft n’ sound right against his swollen lips.

You can't even finish your sentence, a gentle, “Cum for me, sweetheart,” before Kuni’s creaming around your fingers, the thick cum left dribbling in your palm and being smeared into his twitching cock.

By the time he’s dropped your hand to grab at your other wrist, he's left a whimperin’, whinin’ mess. You lie next to him and roll his body on top of yours, holding him close around his middle and letting him nuzzle into your throat.

His breathing eventually steadies, matching the gentle rhythm of your chest against his. “Thank you,” he mutters.

“For what?”

He sighs. “Makin’ me cum.” The tone of his voice makes you chuckle, and he raises an eyebrow at you. “What?”

“Nuthin',” you say, laughing. You kiss his forehead in apology, and you continue with, “I should be thanking you, anyway, for surprising me with something like that.”

“Shut up, you perv.”

You’re appalled! “Says the guy fingering himself on our—”

Kuni growls, jumping up and covering your mouth with his hands. “Shut up!” But those pretty indigo eyes soften, crinkling at the edges, and he leans down to kiss your forehead in turn.

“Missed you,” he says, a whisper against your skin—one you return to his sternum, pressing a kiss and your love so close to his heart.

Maybe, if this is death, like this, Kuni wouldn't quite mind being a dead man.

kuni's so real for this: hands r UNREASONABLY attractive. i hope this somewhat like u imagined, sweet anon 🦭🦭

6 MAR. 2024, @rosedom, rosey .

#ㅤ✦【 ASKS 】#【 🥯 】#technically this is modern au . . .#otherwise i wouldn't consider that he'd have a heartbeat or need to breathe 😵‍💫😵‍💫#sub scaramouche #sub wanderer #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #he has double the tags bc of all his dmn names #sub genshin #genshin smut #genshin x reader #dom reader #top reader #male reader #ftm smut

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michelle-jacksons-art-blog · 1 year

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Hi hello have this somewhat old Jonmartin kids concept ideas while I try not to die

#I have I'm Gonna Fucking Die Disease #symptoms are I've coughed way too much for like almost a week now #my bad #so anyway the drawing #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma #tma podcast #the magnus archives #how does one tag these things #so uh I think I made Lyra the older one #one of these names I got straight out of a fanfic but I can't remember each one so when I feel mentally capable I'll look for it #or if you happen to remember a fic that had them have a daughter with either of those names feel free to mention it #anyways they're a happy family #a bit weird bc let's be honest Jon and Martin are really weird #like as normal people go they can be freaks sometimes #but that's fine otherwise they wouldn't be popular on tumblr dot com #two funky colored eyes for the price of one head I'd call that a great deal #I just think it would be interesting to know what happens when two avatars of different fears have baby like do you know how many fears Jon #involves on his own like that's all 14 dude what happens there #he's like aang in the sense that he's thee avatar and also can never recover from this experience #would the kids even be connected to the fears in whatever universe their dads ended up in we just don't know #anyway this is all actually for a story idea I've had since forever but you're not ready for that yet #peace everyone I'll bring trying to sleep

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viric-dreams · 2 months

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A quick little thing set off by all the dancing going around that got away from me. Lt Roberts absolutely loves to dance. It's one of those few times that he's able to let loose and blow off some energy, and one of the few times he can acceptably be physically close to people. In earlier days, before many of the promotions and before his dreaded reputation had fully set in, he'd loved going for a spin on the deck on a festive evening. This had largely tapered off over the years.

I'm not sure under what circumstances Nite rediscovered this skill, but the morning after was one of the few in which Roberts woke up still exhausted, but for once feeling better.

#roberts/nite #my art #happy self-indulgent sunday #the name switch feels so weird #but i'll get used to it i'm sure #nowadays anyone who doesn't think he's too unpleasant would still not take him up on the offer #for fear of being thrown into the dawn machine for stepping on his foot #which wouldn't actually happen #being clumsy is hardly a crime #but that ship has long sailed and good luck convincing someone otherwise #i'm so glad that #freddie i blame you #is already a tag i have #because ain't that just a general state of being

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hood-ex · 1 year

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I was doing the dishes and thinking about the Beauty and the Beast AU when it hit me... The Little Mermaid but make it DickJoey. Because! What if Dick signed his voice/tail away because there was something on land he needed to retrieve in order to save someone? And what if Joey ran into Dick, realized Dick couldn't talk, and then tried to see if Dick knew ASL? And Dick was like umm... and then just started writing in the sand alskdja. Except it wouldn't be English and so then Joey would be the one being all umm... Then they'd just communicate via body language or drawings until Joey started to teach Dick some ASL. And anyway, I just think it would be fun if they went adventuring together to hunt down whatever Dick needed.

#no because was there ever a reason why ariel could sign her name but never just wrote a message to eric?#also in my version of the little mermaid--the mermaids have their own language #and how would they learn english when they wouldn't have access to books and such y'know?#and it's not like they've got humans to teach them bc humans scary. stay away from humans.#i mean idk maybe some magic thingy. but otherwise. dick wouldn't know english.#also idk if i'd go for the prince joey angle. that would make sense with the au obviously #i also just... don't remember enough about eric's role in the movie to decide lmao like what did he do other than play w his dog or whatevr #oh yeah they did have that boat scene with the shalalalala kiss the girl song #anyway. *possibilities*#Dick Grayson #Joey Wilson #dickjoey

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landwriter · 1 year

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I'm dying (thirstily) to hear more about the 70s San Francisco AU... the bits you've posted so far have been delicious

Thank you so much, anon! Gonna take the 'about' literally:

I haven't had a chance to work on it in ages but after this next Oaths chapter I might turn to it and see if it's ready to be finished!

I think it'll be over 15K all-told

This came from the prompt 'listen to the [#] song on your Spotify Wrapped 2022 and describe the fic you'd write for it'. Well, I am describing thoroughly, gang

I'm starting to believe I've accidentally written a fluff fic despite it being filled with bonkers levels of pining and some real angst

(the fluff is their friendship)

There is an incredibly self-indulgent scene where Hob brings a sick Dream soup and jokes he's not allowed to die because he'd be shit at elegizing him like Shelley did Keats in Adonais

It happens on Tuesdays in 1974

It features real historical events! And I find that HOT

It also has (what I think is) the hottest and most unhinged sex scene I've ever written in terms of dirty talk but that sort of thing is WILDLY subjective so. The kind where you write a sentence and then reflexively think no, no, I can't say that, that's INSANE

The biggest thing holding me back from finishing it might be that I'll have to stop writing it and it's SO delightful to write. I'll have no more excuse to go through incredible digitized editions of Bay Area Reporter from the mid-seventies, which contain spectacular ads for bathhouses and gay bars shouldering up with Harvey Milk's politics column and astrology. The personals are horny and banal and heartbreaking. Look at this page. Just one page. Look at everything it holds.

Which is to say I might make an entire post for like...queer ephemera I have gathered and now cherish but cannot actually force everyone to look at. Would people be into that?

I normally love titling but I have never gotten this deep into a fic without one in terms of wordcount or closeness to completion and I am starting to panic

#asks #seventies san francisco au #the sandman #dreamling #to think i named san francisco and 70s arbitrarily #and it took me here #sorta grateful for that #yanno?#all the things i've gotten to see and remember that i wouldn't have otherwise #just in my queer feelings and history feelings and queer history feelings

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randomnameless · 16 days

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how would have Rhea raised Billy if Jeralt failed to take them from the monastery? Aside from actually giving a shit about them and not letting them starve on a semi regular basis I mean

See their enlightened one outfit?

They would have gotten tacky outfits in the same style from age 3 onwards, all "made" by the Archbishop herself.

More seriously, I think the plot would change?

Maybe Seteth wouldn't have been "summoned" at the Monastery, if Billy had been there, or he would and would have acted as Billy's caretaker ?

If Billy was raised by Rhea since day 5, I'm pretty sure they would have told her about the gremlin in their head, and that plot would have been solved way earlier, but as to what happens with Supreme Leader's war... idk.

I personally see Billy, in this verse, as someone raised like Sitri, maybe being a monk/random ward in the Monastery, but Billy likes to help people (and smiles at least in the jp!version!) so maybe they would have became some sort of kickass cleric, or a member of the knights of Seiros (Rhea'd disagree at first, she doesn't want them to be hurt and would have prefered if they became a fisherman or something that would keep them away from the battlefield, but Billy makes their own decisions, and wishes to protect the monastery and the people they cares about, maybe being triggered by another assassination attempt targetted at Rhea, maybe Christophe's or someone's else).

Billy'd be good friends with knighs and members of the CoS, maybe take Cyril under their wing (as much as they can) and have wednesday evening sessions of sitting with their "like" family eating Zanado fruits, or even fishing. When they want to become a knight or know how to use weapons "to protect", they could spare with Seteth'n'Rhea and end the "training" sessions with some of Rhea's cookies and Zanado fruit juice.

If Billy's still a teacher in this verse - well, I don't think the entire "crust + church BaD" spiel affects them, hell, they might be a bit more pissed at this entire nonsense and voice their annoyance, why are those nobles blaming the church for their own failings in ruling their lands?

(that's where Seteth has to remind them about this thing called "tongue in check")

Maybe they can decide to travel through Fodlan to make up for the regional branches' failings (but only after Rhea got from the gremlin the promise that Gremlin will keep Billy safe!) - when Supreme Leader comes crashing down with her army?

If Rhea survives, Billy hangs out in Faerghus, but if Rhea is caught, Billy leads a resistance force (like SS) - granted, in this AU, Sothis is around and less of a gremlin that in her canon appearances, so Rhea's freed from her Enbarr jail way earlier than in the game, the Agarthans are toasted and everything's well that ends well.

#anon #replies #fodlan AU #Billy stuff #lizard family time?#Rhea'd of course dote on them #Billy as a member of the CoS imo wouldn't have any of that crust bad shit or crust system #doubly so if they know the secret behind crusts #as for Jerry I guess Rhea would have had everyone who knew him if he really ditched the kid #swear to tell Billy Jerry was the former Captain of the Knights who died heroically holding off against dozens of 'foes' to protect GM #and the people living there - which will play a part in Billy's decision to become a knight too #sure sure it's a lie but it's better than to tell them the truth 'your dad abandoned you because you were not normal enough for him'#cue Billy wondering who is this captain jeralt leonie keeps on mentionning maybe someone who has a similar name ?#Billy teaching 'cousin' Flayn how to fish #cyril was so dumbfounded when Billy sat in front of them and remained silent for twelve entire minutes #before asking him if it's alright to call him 'brother' because otherwise it'd be too complicated #What happens with Sothis in this AU? Frankly idk #FE16 #maybe the CoS would have started to look for Agarthans earlier? Or not #Rhea would have stopped being the Archbishop if the knew her mother refused to return and assume her role?#What if Sothis resurrects the dead Nabateans from their Relics selves what happens in Faerghus/Leicester?#will the secret about Nabateans be revealed earlier?#It's basically opening too many possibilities anon lol #what do you think would have happened?

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transingthoseformers · 10 months

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actually wait cybertronians being able to directly ping Bluetooth speakers allows us to commit so much chaos in general

*door slams open*

Starscream: wHO REQUESTED "Big Dick" IN MY ROOM AT THREE AM?!?!?

#that song despite the name and premise is oddly good #oh it'll definitely make you laugh but there are some very good lines in it #poor screamer tho. he didn't expect to be woken up by it at full volume #Starscream #maccadam #transformers #if tiktok is good for any it's introducing me to so much music that i otherwise wouldn't have found #whether it's finding a new genre or artist... or songs that are just fucking hilarious #it's a joyous day when i get to find a new one and immediately hunt it down on youtube music

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mrcowboydeanwinchester · 1 year

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☀️ Cast No Shade 🐎

jomary fic - 5193 words - rating: T - western au - read on ao3

There isn’t much to Saint William, the motley one street town that the surrounding ranches flee to when their occupants need to get supplies, food, or drunk. Luckily for Jo Harvelle and Mary Campbell (barmaid at the Roadhouse Saloon and stablehand of the Singer Stables) their occupations fall well into these categories. And so: while they are not content, they are earning, and there is much to be said for that for two young women in a small town nearing the bottom corner of Nebraska.

Jo and Mary: cowgirls, sapphics, and gender extraordinares. They're running and they're kissing and, most importantly, dicussing their names and shattered pasts.

i cannot thank @kerryweaverlesbian enough for betaing this fic. i really couldn't have done it without you <3

written for my josjoyousbday celebration!!

It’s early evening on a scorchingly hot July day when Jo Harvelle drops by the Singer stables. The temperature has only just become bearable. Jo tugs her bandana down from around her mouth as she wanders along the ramshackle wooden stalls. The dust outside is unmanageable, what with the lack of rainfall for almost a month now, but inside it gets just that bit easier to breathe. Whether that’s truly from the break in the dust or simply because her mother isn’t standing, hovering over her shoulder is probably up for debate.

Either way, Jo takes her time making her way through the long corridor of the stables and greeting the horses on either side of her. The town is small enough she knows all of them pretty easily. She gives a congenial pat to Eileen’s broad bay, Sam, who looks to be more moose than horse. Conversely, she keeps a wide berth of Cas, Meg’s horse, who Meg always complains seems to have come out the farm with a crack in his hoof.

She produces an apple from her pocket for Claire. Claire had been Jimmy Novak’s horse, before Jimmy got himself killed on some holy mission several years ago while Claire was young. Claire is now in the habit of bolting for the fields the second she sees an open gate, and Bobby once explained to Jo it was likely because of the trauma of losing Jimmy.

“Horses,” he’d said, “are surprisingly human creatures.”

Since then, Jo has felt a particular kinship to Claire, and an apple shared between them is a ritual she likes to think does them both good. Today, though, that ritual is cut short, as Jo spies movement in another stall out the corner of her eye.

There’s one horse, in the stall beside her own, that Jo hasn’t seen before. She’s a gorgeous Arabian mare, with a hide so black she looks like she’s been dipped in rich ink. And she’s tall, too: Jo can’t see her legs from here, but she knows they’ll be lean and strong. This is a horse built for running. But no one runs through the meager, fatigued town of Saint William if they can help it.

So who’s here running? Who from? Or, Jo ponders, who to?

Jo is so deep in thought over who could possibly be the owner of that beautiful horse, the fact the door to her own horse’s stall is slightly ajar slips her by. It continues to slip her by until she goes to unlatch it, and finds the wooden panel bangs restlessly against the post. It then swings away, freely, revealing a skirt-covered behind bent over a rake. The person the behind is attached to appears to be turning the hay on the stable floor, a shortish head of blonde hair almost indistinguishable from the hay around her.

“Holy hell!” Jo splutters, managing to bang the stall door into her fingers in the shock of her surprise. She hisses a curse. By the time she’s shaken her hand out and opened up her eyes again, the girl has risen to her full height and is looking on apologetically.

“Sorry,” she says, in a drawl somewhere between sweet and gravelly; like a siren with dust in her throat. Jo likes it. “I didn’t mean to startle you- is your hand alright?”

Nodding, Jo manages a small smile. “Sure. May I ask what you’re doing with my horse?” Her tone comes out perhaps a little sharper than she intended, as the girl recoils away slightly. But still, the girl’s in Jo’s stall, Jo reckons, and even if it’s a free country she has the right of way.

Her horse isn’t a horse to be trifled with, either. Everyone knows that. A dashing gray Quarter horse, Blade had been raised alongside Jo such that they were more like brother and sister than horse and rider. She’d named him Blade while she was young enough for her father to be alive, and quite rightly, too: his hide shines, almost metallic silver in the sun.

“I was clearing his stall out, miss. I’m the new stablehand.”

Jo folds her arms. “I ain’t heard of no new stablehand.”

“Well, I am one,” the girl rebuts, with a certain amount of her own spunk. “You can ask Mr Singer if you really want, but all you’ll hear is that I arrived yesterday and started work today.”

“Where are you staying?” Jo quizzes.

“Mr Singer is letting me board.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Lawrence. Kansas.”

“Why are you here?”

“My parents died,” the girl says, and lowers her chin in such a way Jo instantly knows this part of the conversation is over.

The girl opposite her is not much older than Jo herself, if at all. Her hair falls around her face unevenly, like she hacked it off herself in some dingy saloon mirror; strangely, something like jealousy rises in Jo’s chest over that surely undesirable image. The skirt she’s wearing is tattered around the hem. Similarly, her shirt is crumpled and mud-stained, visibly wearing at the elbows and collar. This is the appearance of a girl who hasn’t got much, and so Jo is inclined to believe her.

“I’m sorry,” Jo says, scuffing the toe of her boot along the floor. “I’ve lost my Daddy too.”

The blonde girl nods. She opens her mouth as if she has something more on the topic to say, but then seems to change her mind. She lets whatever idea she had go with a little puff of breath and instead says, “Mr Singer was a friend of my pa’s. That’s why I’m stayin’ here, so you know. I ain’t some nobody.”

“No,” Jo mutters, and she can feel her cheeks reddening. “I didn’t think you were. I was surprised to find you here, is all. Bobby didn’t say anyone new was coming.”

“Well, I’m here,” the girl says with a shrug. A hint of a smile catches on her lip as she takes the moment to rather blatantly look Jo over, from tip to toe. Jo feels like she’s being inspected, or studied, or something. Like if the girl were to take an exam on her now, she’d get all the answers right. “Might be a good thing too. I’m Mary Campbell,” the girl, now Mary, announces.

Jo nods, feeling her own cheeks dimple. “Mary,” she repeats softly, feeling the name in her mouth. It’s a little plain, as all the girl’s names seem to be in these parts, but it fits her, Jo thinks. There’s always more to a Mary than meets the eye.

“And what’s your name?” Mary asks, turning back to her work in the stall. Blade doesn’t seem to mind her presence at all, happily munching from his food box. If nothing else had made Jo trust Mary already, that sign alone would have.

“Everyone calls me Jo,” Jo supplies in turn. She pushes the stall door to, so she can lean against it and peer over as Mary works. As Mary bends over again, it’s another one of those moments where Jo wishes women got to wear unforgiving denim jeans like the men did.

“That short for anything?”

“My mamma seems to think so,” Jo huffs. “But it’s really just Jo. Jo Harvelle.”

“Alright then. Howdy, Jo Harvelle, it’s nice to meet you.”

There isn’t much to Saint William, the motley one street town that the surrounding ranches flee to when their occupants need to get supplies, food, or drunk. Luckily for Jo and Mary (barmaid at the Roadhouse Saloon and stablehand of the Singer Stables) their occupations fall well into these categories. And so: while they are not content, they are earning, and there is much to be said for that for two young women in a small town nearing the bottom corner of Nebraska.

A year after Mary’s surprise arrival, the July sun scorches the land as surely as it did the very first time Jo and Mary met. Jo pulls her hat from her head and fans herself with it a little as she slips into the Singer Stables, in a move now so habitual she barely thinks about it. The late afternoon’s fingertips are starting to loosen their grip to the cooler breeze of evening. Only just, though.

“Hey honey, I’m home,” she calls out among the seemingly empty stalls.

Blade snorts fondly at the sound of her voice. A second later, Mary’s blonde head pops out of the stall beside Blade’s, the stall now belonging to the horse which had stolen Jo’s attention that day a year ago.

“Hey,” Mary says, a smile curling across her lips at the sight of Jo. Her gaze drops from Jo’s eyes as she rambles closer, drifting across her chapped lips instead.

“Hey,” Jo agrees, falling readily into the kiss Mary presses between them. It’s too chaste, like a tequila shot; leaves Jo wanting a chaser, wanting more. But still, it’s kinda perfect.

Since Mary ran into Jo’s life, it’s been far more kinda perfect than it ever was before.

The contact is over, but still they stand in each other’s orbit, neither of them wanting to pull away. The heat seeps through the skin and straight to the stomach, on days like this. It doesn’t matter that to stand so close means yet more warmth. Not when the rising devotion in Jo’s stomach has her singing for intimacy.

“How’s Baby?” she murmurs, lips still close enough to Mary’s cheeks to grace her sun-weathered face. Jo feels, easily, how the hairs on both of their necks rise and stand like a freshly lit flame.

Mary grins, turning away to gaze at her horse so tenderly it almost makes Jo jealous. The Arabian mare stands, gleaming black as ever. “She’s good,” she says. “Wheels need oiling a little, maybe, but she’ll run.”

Jo laughs, feeding her fingers between Mary’s buckled hands.

They’d fallen into a relationship in the brisk air of last October, rather in the same way the Earth turns. One day, they weren’t ferociously making out in the back corners of local barns and yet, the next they were.

One thing which Jo had noticed almost from the first kiss though, was how crooked Mary’s fingers were. Like they’d been broken and trampled and never given the time to heal right. But it was a hard question to ask, how a girl got all her fingers broken and crudely healed again by the ripe old age of 19.

Jo had chanced it once, and got the blunt reply that “my parents were bounty hunters. They wanted me in on the family business. But sometimes, the bounties hunt you back.” Then Mary had dipped her chin again, in the way that Jo knew meant she was starting to pour salt into a wound not yet healed.

It hadn’t taken much to put two and two together and realize that bounty hunting was probably how Mary’s parents had wound up dead. It also took a single glance at Mary to see she was glad to be out of it. It must be a terrible thing, Jo mused, for that kind of death to feel like an escape. But if the paper she had seen crumpled on Bobby’s desk was to be believed, it seemed that her parents’ death had almost been Mary’s.

Now, with her fingers entwined around Mary’s, still broken, Jo wonders - and not for the first time - what it’s like to come back from the brink of death. How it would be to come back, and not know if you’ve come back wrong.

But then again, Mary’s fingers have healed in all sorts of finicky, wrong ways. And Jo loves how exquisite they are all the same.

“Tell me you’re finished up here, and that you’ll take me somewhere fun,” Jo hums.

“Can do, cowboy,” Mary chuckles. “Let me get my hat and we can go.”

Mary brushes off the hay from her skirt, gives one last caring look over all the horses, and sets her brown hat firmly on her head. Then, she grabs Jo’s hand and marches them back out into the staunch heat of the unbroken street.

“You know what I fancy, in this shitty weather?” Mary asks loosely as they wander up the road. Past Rufus’ grocers on one side, past the doctor’s office Garth runs on the other.

Jo shrugs, always happy just to let Mary chat on in her own conversation. Contrary to what her mother might think, Jo doesn’t always need to be talking. She’s more of the quiet type, really. It’s easier to hear more about others, that way. And perhaps to hide more of yourself.

Then they’re along past the Sheriff’s office, where posters with crudely drawn pictures scream ‘WANTED’ for a Nick, a Uriel, a Ruby. Sheriff Jody and Deputy Donna wave from inside, friendly-like, as Jo and Mary pass by.

“Now, you mayn’t like me for this but I think it’s an awful good idea,” Mary stipulates, and Jo begins to see where they’re headed, and feels the excitement drain from her bones.

“Come on,” Jo moans, feet still moving weakly towards the top of the street.

“More than anything in the whole world, what I want right now is a drink,” Mary says triumphantly, pointing towards the beaten up, almost knocked down sign reading Roadhouse Saloon.

Jo sighs. Her breath comes out lukewarm, and the heat suddenly turns her stomach more towards apathy than any romantic notion.

“I’ve just spent the whole day in that saloon, I don’t want to go back,” she huffs, pushing her weight against the direction Mary is still towing her in.

“Think of it - a nice cold beer at the end of a working day-”

“Think of it,” Jo lays out clearly. “My mother.”

“Just imagine her as a coyote, she won’t attack you as long as you don’t provoke her,” Mary assures her. She gives Jo’s hand another encouraging pull. “Come on, please.”

Jo shakes her head with a definite grump, but there’s a smile growing on her face, and she knows she’ll probably give in.

“Come on, Josephine,” Mary laughs, dragging her towards the Roadhouse. “Let’s have a bit of fun.”

Jo halts at that, though. The name that slipped through Mary’s mouth oh so easily.

“My name ain’t Josephine,” she says, tugging her hand free from Mary’s. She stops in the street, still, a few feet from where Mary now stands. All trace of amiableness gone, Jo scuffs the dust with the toe of her boots.

Mary turns to face her. Her hat has fallen from her head and so rests at the back of her hair, caught on the string around her neck. The ashy strands of her bangs glint in the dry sun. Her smile hasn’t faded; “yeah, I know, you’re just Jo-”

“No,” Jo says. “I mean, my name ain’t Josephine. It’s Joanna.” She heaves a sigh. “Joanna-Beth.”

Mary’s mouth forms the ‘oh’ before Jo hears it. It’s frustrating, that even like this, when Jo has this restless anger shifting about in her, Mary still looks so downright kissable. She stands a little awkwardly, like she wants to close the distance between them but doesn’t know how to. “Sorry, I didn’t know. I just kinda assumed…”

“I know,” Jo shrugs simply. And just like that, the anger dissipates again, like there was no reason for the itch ever to be there. “I didn’t tell you. But now I have.”

The street is empty around them. A part of Jo’s brain cries out that this feels somewhat like a shootout; Mary shot first, and she hit the heart now bleeding on Jo’s sleeve. But why her name is causing this consternation, Jo isn’t really sure.

“‘S not really a big deal,” she says, stepping forward to be closer to Mary again. “I’m still just Jo, really.”

Mary hesitates, for a frightening second, like she has something more to say on the matter. And maybe she should. Almost a year they’ve known each other, and only now does she know Jo’s full name.

But then her face curves back upwards into a smile. “Yeah, you’re just Jo. And as it happens, I like Jo quite a damn bit.” She leans in conspiratorially. “So it works out.”

Jo feels a fresh blush ignite her cheeks, and Mary offers out her hand. Under the sun, her pale palm seems to radiate its own light. Mary wiggles her fingers tantalizingly. Broken, but exquisite. Just-Jo takes her partner's hand, and lets her drag them both into the saloon.

A week later, Jo and Mary are collapsed under a tree, nestled in a dell between the swathes of long grass. The day is hot again, but not like before, not unbearable. Just managing to err on pleasant: in the shade the yellowing tree is casting, it’s particularly nice.

Their horses are grazing in the field nearby. They’d ridden out of Saint William until it was nothing but a blur on the horizon, flickering feverishly in the warm air. Now, it’s one of those days which are completely spontaneous and entirely planned all at the same time - like neither of them knew it would happen beforehand, but once it did, there was never another option.

Mary is slumped against the trunk of the tree, wide brim of her hat pulled low over her head. The slight wind plays mildly with her short hair. She hasn’t bothered to put it up, what with the ride being easy and the day not being wildly hot.

The deft waving of the sun-bleached strands are somewhat hypnotic to Jo, as she lays perpendicular to Mary, with her head in her lap. Staring up at her from below, Jo is blearily reminded of the globe in the table of the town’s’ schoolroom. When she was young, she’d sit by it on the floor in class and gaze up at the countries no one properly saw from above. Antarctica, Australia. And now, looking up at Mary, she feels equally let in on a secret. It’s like Mary becomes the whole world.

“I have a question for you,” Mary says, breaking open a very comfortable silence. Apart from their voices, the only other sounds are the occasional snorts of Blade and Baby; a swish of their tails as the flies get too close.

Mary’s been running her fingers through Jo’s hair, just softly, molding little rivers of hair over Jo’s forehead and brushing them aside. With her other hand, she’s working her way leisurely through an apple, and the faint tang of the fruit wafts in the air around them.

“Sure,” Jo says, rising a little from the half-doze that Mary’s gentle brushing of her hair had instilled in her. “Ask away.”

“You haven’t got to answer it,” Mary assures her, and for the first time Jo realizes that Mary is unsure about whatever it is she wants to say. Her hat casts a long, steady shadow over her face so that Jo can’t quite see the detail of her eyes. If she could, she isn’t sure what she’d see.

Jo props herself up on her elbows and tilts her head up towards Mary’s. Mary pulls her hand away from Jo’s hair, and leaves it hovering in the air beside them. Like static - Jo doesn’t have to see it to know it’s still there. Closer to her face, Jo can feel the heat radiating off Mary’s cheeks.

“Okay,” she murmurs. Her voice comes out a little lower than the intended, and maybe she just wants to but she feels Mary shiver a little with it. “What’s the question?”

“Why do you want everyone to call you Jo? I know it ain’t up to me, but. Joanna-Beth is such a pretty name.”

Jo nods. She hums, to buy time with an answer more than anything, and settles back down in Mary’s lap. Mary’s hand hovers over her head, as if she’s unsure she can touch her again. Jo finds Mary’s gaze in the cool wash of the shade and shoots her a smile. With the brim of her hat all around her head, Mary looks like she has a halo. But not one made of light, one made of chestnut felt. A cowgirl angel. Mary places her hand back along Jo’s parting, running her fingers lightly against her hair again.

“Do you like the name Mary?” Jo asks. It’s not in lieu of an answer: she’s building up to it. Mary, as she understands almost everything, seems to understand this.

“Well I guess I don’t mind it,” Mary answers fairly. “I don’t know- it’s a common name, easily. A lot of girls in this town are called Mary. Makes me feel a little plain. But then again, it’s never really been a problem for me. My name was just something given to me, and I never thought about not taking it.”

Jo hums again. With one of her hands, she searches in the grass around her for a second to find what she wants. When she curls her hand around a blade good enough, she gives it a sharp tug and brings it to her mouth, letting her jaw work around it. Something to do while she thinks of what to say.

Mary knows this all, knows she hasn’t got to go on to fill the silence, but she does. “I guess, now, if there’s one thing I don’t like about it, it’s about how Mary is a mother’s name. Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ, all that. Now I love Christ as much as the next woman, don’t get me wrong-”

Jo huffs a laugh.

“-but I don’t want to be giving birth to him. I don’t want to be a mother like that. And when you’re called Mary- why, feels like that’s what you were put on this earth to do, I guess.”

“I don’t think you were put on this earth for that at all,” Jo intercepts, finding her voice again. She’s well aware it’s a weakness, but she can always find her voice when she’s not talking about herself. “I think you were put on this earth to ride horses and leave this town and settle on a nice ranch and watch the sun go down over the mountains.”

She should’ve really said ‘you were put on this earth to do whatever you want to do,’ because that’s what she means. But she knows Mary enough to know that everything she just listed is what Mary wants to do. Lord knows Jo just wants Mary to want her by her side for all of it too.

“Thanks, Jo,” Mary murmurs. Her fingers are constant along Jo’s hairline again, but the rhythm seems to change, now. Becomes a thank you as much as a you are loved.

“And to answer your question myself,” Jo begins, because she believes in fair play, even if it does take her a while to get there. “I’ve never liked Joanna-Beth. It’s just never felt right. My mother always calls me that - ‘specially when she’s angry with me. She’s always been proud of calling me it, though, ‘cause she thought of the name herself. Loves it. Took her a long time to call me Jo.”

Jo takes a breath then, reading herself for the monologue. Sometimes, she gets the feeling she’s just a body built of dams, waiting to burst. Every joint is a blockade, and every day she’s trying to keep every one of them closed. But sometimes, when someone asks the right question, it’s hard to keep even one of them shut. That’s why she talks so little, and then all the time. She never could do anything by halves.

“But my daddy, ‘fore he died- he loved calling me Jo. Always said I should be whatever I wanted to be. Lookin’ back, though, maybe he just wanted a son. Maybe I want to be his son, I don’t know. But I can remember him saying it. I can remember his voice saying ‘Jo’, and not much else of him. So maybe it’s a way to keep him alive.”

Mary sighs darkly. “I know that feeling,” she says. “My name is the only thing my parents gave me that I have left.”

Jo reaches her hand out and grasps Mary’s, giving it a tight squeeze. The loss is fresher for her still than it is for Jo - it’s been over a decade since Bill Harvelle died. It’s been not even two years since the Campbells were murdered.

They stay like that for a while, Jo’s hand locked around Mary’s. A sign of sympathy and empathy and all that’s between. Jo’s still got the straw in her mouth, and she chews it, roughly and repeatedly while she thinks of her own question she maybe shouldn’t ask. It’s an odd one, she knows that. But if Mary doesn’t want to be a mother, maybe she’s more like Jo than Jo could’ve previously hoped.

Jo coughs, roughly. The words are scratchy in her throat, like she’s forcing them out. “Did you ever want to be a son, rather than a daughter?” Jo asks. She’s trying not to think about how hard that was to say.

Mary pauses, resettles herself against the tree. “What do you mean?”

Jo can sense her face flushing red under Mary’s question. But now the words are in the air with the scents of grass and apple and she can’t take them back.

“I don’t really…” she trails off. Are there even the words in her to be found to explain what she means? “I don’t think I’ll be able to say it right. But I mean- do you sometimes think you like girls more than you want to be one?”

It’s Mary’s turn to hum, now, as she works the question over in her mind. Jo picks at the stubs of her nails while Mary does so; for all that Mary’s patient with Jo’s silence, Jo can never quite repay her with the same grace.

“I think being a girl in a place like this is hard,” Mary says, eventually, carefully. “There’s aplenty of times when I’ve wished I were a fella just to get by a little easier, or so another girl would want me how I want them. But I don’t know if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t think I know either,” Jo sighs, restless. “It’s hard to tell the difference.”

“To tell the difference between what?”

“Well, between wanting to be with a woman, wishing I could do what a man does, and being seen as a man myself, I guess.”

Mary places her apple on the ground, and presses her fingers purposefully to her own lips, and then to Jo’s. Jo can taste the bittery sweetness of the apple’s flesh even as Mary’s fingers leave her mouth.

“What were that for?” Jo asks, helplessly falling into a smile

“‘Cause I see you got a lot happening in your mind, and I want you to know I love you for all of it.”

The words find residency in Jo’s heart and sit there, twinkling, making her feel a way she could never quite dream of describing. “Oh,” she smiles breathlessly. “Thanks.”

Mary is gazing fondly down at her, her own cheeks dimpled. She takes a breath, and twists a strand of Jo’s hair around her finger. Whether to fiddle or to keep Jo close, Jo isn’t sure. “Listen, I don’t know if this will help or not,” Mary begins. Maybe Jo would follow Mary through the darkest mine and deepest ocean, or maybe Jo just believes whatever Mary says will help. “But bein’ with you… makes me want to be a woman more than anytime else. I love loving you like this. And if you feel like you need people to see you a certain way- well I see you an’ I think you’re perfectly lovely.”

Something seems to slot into place, then, like the out of tune piano at the Roadhouse finally hitting the right chord. The words resonate, bringing the world out into a harmony which rings, rises, and then falls quietly back, like nothing has changed at all. But Jo knows it has - and she also knows the flush on her cheeks is reaching a furious red. “I didn’t just say all this to get complimented.”

“I know,” Mary laughs, and it sounds like singing. Her siren song. “But it’s true. If Joanna-Beth is strictly off limits, then I’ll call you Jo ‘til we’re sat watching the sun go down over those mountains.”

Jo furrows her eyebrows. “Well, it’s just… everybody calls me Jo,” she says, worrying at her lip. But then she thinks of that perfect chord resonating out across the long grass which Mary’s words caused. In that moment, she didn’t mind how long her hair was, because it was Mary working her fingers all the way through it. And she stares back up at Mary’s face, where the whole world is haloed by her chestnut hat. “But you ain’t everybody.”

Mary grins. “No?”

“No,” Jo replies firmly. “You call me whatever you see fit.”

She gets up properly, then, pulls the straw from her mouth with abandon and threads her fingers through the hand Mary had been carding through her hair. On her knees, Jo crawls to where Mary has her back against the tree. Mary peels herself forward, tugging Jo in with gravity until they’re both closer and closest to one another’s faces.

When their threaded hands move tenderly towards each other’s cheeks, Jo cannot tell which of them is leading the movement. They’ve merged, become one, the gossamer strands of blonde hair fluttering between them belonging to either of them.

“Just call me-” Jo pants, losing her voice as her longing overcomes her.

“What?” Mary asks. Her breath is hot and palpable against Jo’s wet lips.

Jo swallows. “Just call me yours.”

There’s a moment of just looking, where their gazes are shared with such intensity it’s like the air is honey between them. Then, they crush together, the honey dissolving as their lips meet one another’s with all the urgency of a world on fire.

Or maybe a world in flood, as everything else falls away, is carried away around Jo as she melts entirely into Mary’s desire. Mary’s hat is knocked aside with the force of their kisses, and she drags her hands up and away to throw it plain off her head before rushing her crooked fingers right back to tug on Jo’s hair, caress her cheeks.

The world is thrown open in bright sunlight - now, Mary casts no shade. The light blossoms in Jo’s eyes with the sudden change and the world is rendered white. White for bliss, white for desire, white for absolute stone-sure adoration. The shade was comfortable but this, oh this. This is a perilous serenity.

“Mine,” Mary whispers. She dips her head to press her lips to Jo’s neck and draws a sweet nectared whine from Jo’s throat. God, let her leave bruises. “Cowgirl, you’re all mine.”

#i am SO SO BEYOND EXCITED TO POST THIS #hello it's here!!!!!!!!#and genuinely it wouldn't be here without cawis everyone say THANK YOU CAWIS otherwise this would never have gotten finished #so so proud of this one #jo and mary have deep talks about names and gender and being in earth shattering lesbian love. what more could you want #and all for jo's birthday !!!!!#HAPPY BDAY JO #jo harvelle #mary winchester #mary campbell #jomary #maryjo #sapphicnatural #cowboynatural #cowgirlnatural #josjoyousbday #spn fic #ola writes

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beanghostprincess · 3 months

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If nobody is going to fill the Hibari/Koby/Helmeppo tag on Ao3 I guess I have work to do

#i've always shipped them but last episode made me go insane #it's the way they love koby and koby loves them both so much it's crazy guys PLEASE #one piece #kobybari #kobymeppo #kobybarimeppo #great ship name i just made up bc otherwise i wouldn't have a tag for them

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teatitty · 6 months

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If I was an immortal being who got super attached to one specific family I too would end up committing unspeakable crimes and going against god himself to keep at least one of them alive

#kuroshitsuji #undertaker kuroshitsuji #the only reason I have to add the butler tag after his name is so he doesn't clog up the wrestling fans' undertaker tag #otherwise I wouldn't be putting that much effort into his tag #the things I do for the men I love

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the-hilda-librarians-wife · 7 months

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I've come to the conclusion that when it comes to new characters I have the same attitude as a poorly socialized dog. I swear every time new content comes around and we get the news of new characters my instant reaction is to just. Dislike them. Hope they have little to no importance in the plot. Even when the design looks nice and the characters seem interesting. They're taking screen time away from my faves and my heart tells me to Bite

#this isnt even about the Thing. Its about Astrid #that cool and interesting looking old lady #(im assuming thats her name its what ive seen people use)#Im pretty sure there's something ot be said about my autism here #i dont want things to change. I dont want to risk the show taking a turn for the worse and becoming Insane #if it were up to me #s2 would have just been a reprise of s2 while focusing on different things #and s3 would be a reprise of s2 #which means ofc that the show wouldn't be nearly as compelling as it is. that' why i trust the writers #but at the same time I HAAAAAATE CHANGE #I think the longer hiatuses contribute to this. I am given time to adjust to what can be considered canon and then BOOM #rug pulled from under me with only like 2 months of antecedence.#and I have to be prepared to let go of my headcanons and my current views of this world and its characters #and to accept that these new faces they're throwing at us will be just as important as the ones I already know and love #like I WANT to be spoiler free but at the same time I gotta prepare myself for what's coming #bc otherwise I'm gonna get the air knoked out of me fr #cons of letting a show take over 60% of your brain #turns to the other 40%: at least I've got you. you'll never change or abandon me #*the Cells look at me uninpressed and tell me to get a job*#hilda the series #hilda s3

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fourteenthz · 3 months

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I finally decided on the official™ outfit I want for thancred in the strays!au and ........... hear me OUT

#i swear i can be normal abt this man I can do it.#I've been going a bit feral with gposing and like i dont like ANY of the ones I took but idk maybe I'll post some later idk #also rethinking thesa's bc i want her in the viera outfit most of the time bc shes JUST out of the village #so like this au is mostly so they can do crimes and some fun stuff but ALSO it's for the arms and legs enjoyers ig...#viera legs? good. thancred's arms? good. everybody wins really.#i need a plot for this au besides “THEY ARE STEALING FROM THE RICH” but honestly... they truly are.#ofc there's a bit of plot otherwise I wouldn't go with strays for the name but idk i have to write it down ig. I've been just messing with #gpose so far bc hehehe glam :) i put thesa on the dancer outfit yesterday for “undercover purposes” and MAN....#it really isn't her style like canon!thesa dies without some level of armor HOWEVER. SHE LOOKS JUST SO GOOD. passing out #im normal abt her too in case u havent noticed. anyway.#strays!au #kelly says #wol posting

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rwbytales · 9 months

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RWBY Search & Rescue: Island Maturin

RWBY Tabletop RPG Homebrew Story

OK so there were a few people who liked or commented on that post i made so i figured I would put it here so i dont have to do everything seperately persay, and tag everyone who said something!!!!

Plus I really like this so I'd love to properly have it down somewhere to go back and reference or if anyone else is interested in something or using stuff or anything!

I'm super excited and I'm gonna start with the premise of it and stuff and like if yall wanna hear more or the details up to what i have or have questions id love to know cause it'd probably help me. Eitherway this was a lot so ima put the deets under readmore!!!!

@eviltomb @caeruleum-feniks @utallige @a-d-h-dragons

So to start, I came across this Unnofficial RWBY TTRPG Rulebook Some things I either didn't agree with and wanted to change, or wanted to make certain things easier to find for player reference/ character creation, of which is outlined here if you're interested in seeing. (This was also a character sheet i found i had them use for reference to make the character) Most of it is changes to dust, potential for Team Attacks to do better and deal more damage, as well as a Team Leader for flavour who gets bonus Initiative and can give a small bonus call for a full team attack.

I also worked with each person to create a custom Semblance based on what type of skill or power they wanted to have, and adjust aura capacity and semblance use to actually require aura as well.

I did basically give them unlimited ammo, they just needed to reload as needed, and only had limited # of dust colors available to use based on what could reasonable be used by them and their backstory, so I made sure they would have to manage some sort of resource in someway, which did work out in my favour in the end.

(I recorded all(my 1 shot was 6 sessions so i called it a chapter instead) of them since it was my first time DMing a tabletop game and wanted to be able to reference it. and I want to transcribe them eventually into more of a story format)

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So for premise(this was not created this way but ended up during/after creation of the story because my team wanted to continue and was interested in playing more)

But I settled on a timeline because I dont want to have anything to do with current RWBY really, so some thigns have taken liberty and there may have been minor adjustments to events in the timeline, granted we never got exact dated anyway, just general timeframes.

So basically, this first story takes place after the party team has graduated. I'm imagining Hunstmen Academy is basically 4 years of school, the last 2 years could be... kind of part time? Because you are more so in the field than in school itself, sometimes going to other continents/schools or extended missions with veteran huntsmen or something meaning you would be gone for quite a while as well, you're just below freely licensed hunstmen, and often are treated as real huntsmen, especially when accompanied with veteran huntsmen, whether that treatment be good or bad.

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One of my favourite things abouyt RWBY is how everything is pretty much based off mythology, fairytales, or just fiction media in general, so I wanted to try to add in as much of that as I could to my story.

The first Piece I want to give is this

Search and Rescue: Mission Log

It was what the player characters would know about the mission and situation going on, basically this would be the reference they can look at at any time IC to check whats up or whatever.

_________________________

BASICALLY before Into too much detail the overall thing for it

________________________

An island suddenly shows up near the shores of Anima, near the kingdom of Mistral, mysterious disappearances near the beach just days before the island showed up. Numbers of grimm increasing, causing more unrest in the nearby towns.

There are near forgotten fairytales of islands that disappear and reappear, that move and then never seen again. This island though, has been there for 7 days, through the fog and storm. Unmoving, unchanging.

They've sent curious hunters, team SIOC(Sirocco) out the day it arrived to investigate, but 3 days after have lost all contact with them.

Now 7 days after the island appeared, and 4 days after contact has been lost, missions have been revised and they've called for a search and rescue on the island.

Players team, PMAV(Primavera), then accepts the mission and is flown almost an hours time to the island where they have to realize they should have thought about a landing stratagy if they haven't already and get yeeted out of the airship.

If you can't tell by the name, the island itself is actually a giant grimm tortoise, this thing is huge, it is ancient, and has a grimm forest on its back. Looking at it, you can't tell really. There is a heavy dark mist that surrounds the thick forest once you get close enough to see, and once in the forest, the canopy is so thick between that and the mist, you can't hardly tell night from day.

There are pools of grimm on it's back, causing new grimm to be birthed from them constantly, meaning there is always a threat, and many new grimm that they come in contact with. ( I found cool looking oc grimm on deviant art or made stuff up for them to make it different, but also had known rwby grimm as well)

The mysterious island, while also being a world turtle, (this being named for Stephen Kings work), it's also going to double as the Black Forest, where many fairytales were said to take place.

To allude to this more, I did decide to add in a.. rendition of Salem, obviously taking the place as the witch, as she has been called many times. I did kind of reuse the thought of Hansel and Gretel, because I most of the cast of RWBY seems based off stories in the black forest and didn't want to reuse any of those.

So I have, Cwrell & Margarite Katad, twins that take their place in this sense.

(Gretel means Pearl, Margarite also shares that name meaning, with Cwrell meaning Coral, thus giving the twins names that have relations to eachother, while still being able to allude in someway to their OG tale and bring colors to mind. Then their last name Katad, meaning animal skin/leather, pulling from the last name commonly associated with Hansel& Gretel, Leiderhosen which are a type of leather garments.

Pearl, actually has the ability to create physical illusions pretty much, which are more stable if they are placed over a physical object(disguising an object as something is more stable), thus allowing her to make a tent look like an oddly placed cottage in this oddly placed island.

Cwrell,has the ability to track via semblance/aura use. So they can see remnants of colored aura left behind in locations where it was lost or used, and can use it to track where to go/where others are.

They are clearly, instead of working against the witch, are working as the witch direct underlings. I have ideas for backstory thoughts on the Katad twins but idk if itd been too much or something

Eventually, while they are on the island for a few days searching and such, they do come across the twins, who try to trick and attack them as they seem to be getting too close, or causing too much of a ruckus for Salem's liking.

But upon finding human remains and such scattered around and questionable abandoned tents and such, they end up finding out via a lost scroll they hacked into, that there seems to be a reason people were being taken and not just killed. It's hard to tell because presumably the scroll belonged to a member of team SIOC, and the notes and such are scattered and don't make sense. Like someone was scared, they didn't know what was happening, they were in a rush. Without more information, the most that can be gathered is that people were being experimented on, and newer grimm were more focused on taking people as opposed to just killing them. The experiments done looked gruesome, and there was mention how they could hear the pain and screaming at night and during the day echoing through the trees.

Eventually, in the end, they came across a claring with many grimm pools, flashes of bright silver light flashing and screaming almost in unison with it and all. They see a woman they never heard of, who we know as Salem.

An encounter starts as the team doesn't seem the woman is up to any good, which doesn't work out well as she just.. stands back up and continues, a large Praying Mantis-eque grimm, that towers nearly twice as tall as the people, the shape of its head and the main part of its body looks very earily human, moreso than any other grimm seen before., basically a fight ensues between the grimm, with salem there, and basically salem/her grimm pet kill the players at that point, in the spirit of teams unknowingly going against a big bad evil immortal lady that cant be killed and being killed because they didn't know

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Basically, Salem was trying to create Grimm experiments using humans and such, all of them being horrendously failed experiments of varying degrees and such. None of them worked, but all seemed very very painful and brutal and inhumane. All done in different ways dependant on what hasn't worked before.

The sucessful experiment that the players come across, is a very special one for 1 reason that seperates it from every other one.

She used the Silver-Eyed huntress from team SIOC as the base this time, and something about that specific trait meant she was able to succeed at creating a grimm hybrid. This basically serves as the Prototype of The Hound, that we met in Volume 8 of RWBY.

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