Why Do I Keep Seeing “young!ditzy!reader” Or “trophywife!reader” Or Stupid Shit Like That Where

reminder that now more than ever, participating in small scale acts of community aid and activism is extremely important. there is a lot you can still do despite shifts in government figures. people feel defeated when certain laws and bills are passed, and certain politicians shuffle in and out of office. it's okay to feel this way, but there is so much we can still do to help each other that isn't illegal and/or you will not be stopped or killed for

participating in food distributions is vital. check to see how your local food bank/s distribute food and how you can help. many churches have food and resource distributions, as well as libraries. libraries in general have amazing resources on top of the books they provide and i highly recommend volunteering at a library when and where possible. it's vital for helping people get resources and apply for government aid when and where possible

see if you can get involved with local groups like Food Not Bombs who distribute free, generally vegan or vegetarian, hot meals to anyone who shows up who is not a cop. preparing meals is easy when a lot of people are participating. you don't have to be able to donate food in order to help with distributing it

check to see if there are safe injection sites in your area. check to see if there are any programs to help homeless substance users get clean needles and sharps disposals. check to see if there are harm reduction events and other outreach programs that provide narcan and other important life saving medications and information

contact your local homeless shelters and see what you can do to get involved with homeless outreach programs for all kinds of people, especially those that fall through the cracks of common programs. see if you can provide or run crowdfunding events for heaters, blankets, food, socks, jackets, hygiene products and other necessities to homeless people in your area.

check to see if there are lgbt spaces in your area and if they need volunteers or anyone to help them. you may be able to help run groups for specific queer groups or attend them and help boost numbers to get those programs more funding. see if you can help give information to queer folk in your community who need resources including but not limited to trans friendly primary care providers, OBGYN services, HRT, surgery, hair removal procedures, and so on. see if it's possible to arrange programs for queer people who need safe transportation

there are a lot more options but if you're feeling down about how things are currently, there are a lot of ways you can help your community with minimal effort much of the time. it doesn't take much at all to help your local community. you'll get help in return by gaining exposure to new resources you weren't familiar with previously. there's a lot we can do for each other

Compass

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

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Word count: 5.2k

Summary: where Simon finally gets it.

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, fluff

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

Staring straight at the screen won’t make that form fill in, yet it’s all you’ve been doing. 

The office is cold. Freezing. Your fingers are stiff when you punch the keys, rough skin tight at each knuckle. 

Price has asked you to do it. He’s tired and needs to lean on you for a moment. You know how hard it must’ve been for such a proud man to ask for help, so you don’t have the heart to refuse him. Even if you’re just as exhausted, just as worried, because the op went tits up so quickly and suddenly that you’re still recovering from it.

Faulty intel. Ambush. Tactically placed C4 blew the place up into smithereens. Mayhem ensued—you all lost sight of each other and then met again. 

The ringing in your ear still sounds fresh. A new cut on your brow your new shiny scar, the crescent of speckled mauves under your eye yet another reason for the brass to come and shower you with meaningless praise so you’d keep up with this unforgiving job without rest.

Chest candy as a prize. As if you care.

Your eyes burn. They squint at the unforgivingly bright screen; bloodshot sclera and a healing bruise, cheekbone swollen and tender.

Casualties And Damage Assessment. 

The cursor on the document blinks right next to it. 

Write above the dotted line. Do it. It’s there. It’s not hard, it’s just a name—a name among thousands. You could be typing John Doe, and it should feel the same.

So do it, love.

Type it in.

Type “Simon Riley”.

You feel your eyes sting wet. 

Johnny is still out there, searching for his whereabouts. Kyle’s with him, probably trying to be the voice of reason—the only one with a head still on his shoulders. The one who grabbed you and handed you to Price so he could slam you in the helo for takeoff. It left without Gaz and Soap in it.

Without Simon.

Crystal clear is the memory of Price’s finger pointed at your face as you huddled your knees to your chest—glossy, bloodshot eyes seemingly lost as they looked back at him, trying to find a compass to guide you through this dreadful darkness, through ice cold fear.

Instead, you found a scowl that struggled to mask a quiet threat beneath it, something you knew he’d been almost impatient to tell you.

Something you knew he knew.

You should’ve known better than to bring feelings into the job. I trusted you and your judgment and you failed me. You failed us.

But now all that feels so unimportant. Price’s disappointment is only another notch to your belt of failures, and you know it’s gonna get even thicker and tangled if you don’t type that name into that form.

If you don't prove to him and everyone else, yourself included, that you’re still somewhat sane. That you didn't lose your marbles on that day, only a chunk of your heart.

Nails tap nervously on your desk. The clock ticks out of beat. Your eye twitches restlessly, but you punch the keys. 

Simon Riley — MIA

A weary breath escapes you. 

Good girl. 

And the leftovers of your heart crack something vicious, a perpetual hairline fracture that will not go away. Your molars grind until your head hurts. Your eyes water, because it’s all happened so rapidly, that you don’t think you’ve had the time to metabolize it.

S’alright. S’alright. You did right.

You sniffle. Wet your lips. Your face screws up to keep it all inside because you can’t have him see you like this—he’s not here, and yet he might as well be, with how clear his voice is echoing in your head. 

Why shouldn’t it be? Your last talk was barely a week ago. Your last kiss not even ten days prior. 

Softer than the ones he’d given you before. Wet lips stealing your breath, big hands holding you tight by the waist.

The slow, purposeful drag of his cock inside of you as he flattened his chest to yours. The wordless whispers tumbling out of his mouth—uncontrolled, reverent of you. 

His lips on your skin, both selfish and selfless: descending to your throat, where the taste of you intoxicated him—and where you shivered, moaned, sunk your fingernails into his back, painting it red.

Your brows pull tight, but you can’t stand it a moment more, as that name typed black on white looks at you expectantly, like you could pull it out of there and bring it in your arms.

Don’t, sergeant. Need you sharp.

You cry, because logic is knocked back into you, and there is no Simon Riley if not the memories rushing in your head.

If not the weariness with which he’d invited to his flat for the first time. Burnt the eggs he cooked for you the next morning, as you slept soundly in his bed. Asked you to stay, even if you were as cautious as can be—a gazelle in the lion’s den. 

“Not fuckin’ it up, this time,” he’d told you. 

And even in your caution, you could recognize that silent pleading—that almost a year without you has taught him the pains he would endure to not go through it again.

It didn’t soothe your worries, but it did smooth down the line carved between your brows. 

You slump back on the chair and think of the times he’s told you there were no strings attached between you two, and how those strings inevitably formed.

How he’s annealed them, as time passed, going against everything he’s ever vouched for.

How he watched you snoop around his bedroom, allowing you to study his home and his habits—voluntarily and without an ounce of reluctance in him.

Sobs wreck you as you recall that night: you hadn’t even bothered wearing something, just tiptoed around naked the way you left the bed. 

You tinkered with the few framed photos he had on the shelves, recognizing the people in them: the team, your face squinting at the sun while wearing khakis, and the family he told you about as the muscles of his jaw jumped with tension.

How you scoured through his books, giddy when you double-tapped those you’d read too. 

Or how you smiled when you found the wrinkly receipt of that drive-through, dated on that day, being used as a bookmark in the novel you’d recommended him ages ago. 

You glanced his way every once in a while, just to make sure he was still asleep. Instead, you found a man bathed in moonlight and lazily wrapped in wrinkled sheets—a knowing smirk on his lips, one that made warmth bloom on your chest, all the way to your cheeks. 

He’d patted the spot next to him on the bed, inviting you back beside him. 

That was the first night you held each other for no other reason than the pleasure of being close.

In the days that came after, there were countless nights just like it.

And now, drowning in your own tears and snot, you don’t know if there will be more.

If you’d feel his thumb run along your jaw again, his fingers brushing down your spine—or pinching your cheeks to make you take a breath when you rambled on. 

If you’d feel his lips on yours, tasting you and your voice, with the veiled excuse to make you quiet. 

Wondering if he’ll ever smear greasepaint on your brow, if he’ll ever fix the straps of your vest.

Each tear that falls now is chock full of memories, old and lost. The ones you could’ve had but you’re not sure they’ll ever be. You cry, as you hold yourself together—arms around your chest, nails digging into your biceps, painful enough to anchor you back to earth.

You cry until your throat burns, until your eyes yield, and you fall asleep; the document blank on the screen, only his name as the blatant proof of your failures.

A hand rests on your shoulder. 

It’s soft at first, a thumb brushing against your collarbone. When you only shift, the grip gently tightens in a brief shake.

“Sergeant,” you hear.

Your eyes blink open, then, struggle against the crust formed between your lashes. They focus on an equally as tired pair of blues, a mouth that breathes some relief in your weary bones.

“John,” you croak, stretching your limbs behind your head until you hear a sequence of pops in your spine. 

You look around to assess where you are. The sunlight, dimming behind the windowpane, tells you that you’ve slept on your chair for half of the day.

Your neck tingles as it wakes, aching from the awkward position in which you fell asleep.

Blinking away the drowsiness, your eyes land on the document plastered on the screen. 

Your stomach turns into a boulder once again.

“What is it?” You say, returning your focus to Price standing next to your chair. You press your thumb between your brows to dispel a migraine sure to fall upon you. “Almost done with the report, gimme a few more ho—”

“He’s back, darling.” 

Your body deflates pitifully. Dread clogs your throat with ice, because Simon being back doesn’t necessarily mean he’s back alive. 

Your hands tremble as they land limp on your thighs, and you don’t care if you’re giving too much away; John already knows, after all, doesn’t he?

And he senses it: the gnawing fear, the supplication in your eyes.

“He’s in the med bay, overall lookin’ fine.”

You stand up so quickly that the chair is knocked back. 

Your vision gets spotty, and suddenly the poor nutrition of the past days rears its ugly head in the form of low blood sugar.

John senses it and places a hand on your bicep when you wobble on your feet.

“Bit dehydrated, few scraps here and there, but eh—" A tired smile stretches his lips as he squeezes your shoulder. “We both know it takes a lot more to bring down tha’ bastard.”

John can’t even finish his sentence that you’re curled on your laptop, typing something he can’t see. You stand upright, and with a rush of thank yous that barely make sense, you bolt out of the door.

The captain huffs and rubs his face in exhaustion, before his eyes swivel to the screen.

Casualties And Damage Assessment. 

Simon Riley — MIA & found

He sits there, hunched on the gurney like he’s too big to fit on it. His uniform has taken a lighter hue because of sunlight and dust from the unforgiving desert. A nurse is fumbling with a tube on his arm, a needle already inserted in the crook of his elbow for rapid hydration. There are two crumpled bottles of water on the shelf right next to the gurney, and even though Simon's still hiding under the mask, you're sure he's just finished chugging on both.

Johnny stands by his side, arms crossed and a lazy smile on his face. Sunburnt cheeks and a dusting of freckles on his nose. 

Kyle talks to a doctor, fiddling with his cap in hand—you catch words like “bruised ribs” and “sunstroke” and something about his ankle but you’re not sure. They get lost in the chatter surrounding you when Simon lifts his head and clocks you at the door.

You stare at each other for what feels like centuries, his eyes always sharp as those of a hawk—yet a little more tired, this time. A little more rough.

When the nurse moves away to tinker with the IV bag, Simon’s hand on his thigh twitches, and he subtly beckons two fingers at you. 

It’s all you need.

You beeline your way through passing doctors and nurses alike, until you come to stand in front of him, long legs dangling off the gurney. He’s subtly parted them for you, but Johnny has noticed it and he’s sporting a smarmy grin because of it.

You decide he can have it for today. 

Jaw clenched, you swallow before you speak. “Gave us a scare, yeah?” 

He doesn’t answer, because his eyes are locked to the thin white bandages taped to your brow. His focus shifts to your cheekbone, then, and the mauve shade it’s taken after the bombs went off out of the blue.

“Quite the shiner you got.” He drawls.

His voice is raspier from disuse, almost a croak. It makes your heart soar and your spine shiver, because it feels like years since he’s gone radio silent. 

You gesture vaguely at it, a slight shrug of your shoulder as you try to hide how tight your throat has gone at the realization that he’s alive and kicking, and not an unnamed corpse under some rubble.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Shrapnels—uh, something hit me when those things went off. Just a bruise.”

A sentence he’s heard more times than he cares to count, but he seems unfazed by it this time around. Maybe the relief of being safe has finally set his priorities straight.

You smile wearily, uncharacteristically quiet even as you try to make light of it. “Reckon purple’s my colour, eh?”

He nudges an admonishing foot to your knee. You lose your balance for a moment and blink back at him with a frown.

“Reckon it ain’t.” He grunts with a pointed look, as if you said something unbelievably stupid. But then his voice softens. “But it’s hard for things to look bad on ya, eh?” 

His eyes are crinkled at the corners. Simon smiles through them at you. “Still, tha’ bruise ain't it, if ya ask me.”

You huff.

“Flatterer.”

“Thought we’d established flattery worked jus’ fine with ya, mh?” 

You choke on a laugh, running the back of your fingers to your lips.

“Yeah, yeah.” You clear your throat, trying to dissipate the warmth in your cheeks. "Got it."

If you two weren’t so lost in this conversation, you wouldn’t have missed the baffled look Johnny was giving you both, talking like he wasn’t there to witness it all. 

But now Simon looks at you with such an intensity that Johnny’s behavior falls into the background.

There is no discovering Simon Riley, today; he’s taken the toll of discovering you, because while you’ve always cared and he’s always known, your eyes are telling him that there’s something he’s yet to find.

Or perhaps he’s found it already, ages back, when you called his name in his sheets, when you bit a promise on his fingers, when he coloured your skin with his own—kisses and sweat and grease.

When you left, and he inevitably drifted—a demagnetized compass that couldn’t find its north again, and you were just as adrift.

Good luck, you’d said. And fucking hell he’s needed plenty of it—found it too, it seems, since he’s back where he’s safe. Where he’s home.

“You alrigh’, yeah?” You ask, causing his mind to flounder back to earth.

His throat bobs.

Simon nods stiffly but doesn’t speak. 

Johnny sighs heavily and takes the burden from his shoulder instead. 

“Aye, he’s a big lad, hen.” He rumbles from your side, and you turn your body to him to give him your attention—wide-eyed like you’d forgotten he was there at all. 

Johnny snorts.

He starts to ramble on, and you listen intently to how they found Simon crawling blindly towards them, as he and Kyle ran in his direction.

Simon’s eyes, however, are on you. 

And so are his fingers. 

Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and starts tracing subtle patterns on the back of your thigh. 

A tickle that would normally make your knees jerk, but you push through and stay still—because what if he stops, then. What if he believes you don’t want him to touch you, after almost a week with no clue about his well-being.

God forbid he pulls away. 

God forbid he thinks you don’t want his hands all over once again, and from this day on.

As Johnny tries to fit some light in the dusk of your eyes, Simon discretely hooks one of his fingers in the pocket of your fatigues and doesn’t let go—holding onto you as much as you are to him. In fact, one of your hands lands on his knuckles, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of his wrist.

“Doc said you can go rest in your room for tonight,” Kyle’s voice pitches in. “Just come back tomorrow for a checkup.”

Johnny beams at that. The world weighing on your shoulders suddenly lifts an inch, and you manage to take a breath. 

“No injuries, then?” You ask, turning between Simon’s parted legs. 

His forefinger stays hooked at the hem of your pocket even when you do.

“Nope.” Kyle smiles. “A concussion, maybe, since he’s not being chatty—oh, wait.”

Simon grunts. “Piss off.”

It’s only when he's done with the IV bag that you’re finally helping him carry his things to his quarters. 

Johnny and Kyle don’t bat an eye when you offer to take the lead, and you stop wondering whether they’re aware of your and Simon’s thing the moment Johnny gives you a glaringly obvious wink.

Simon tries to hide a limp as you walk through the hallway, and you’d love to keep his stupid pride intact for his sake, but yours has gone and drowned in the shitter the moment you broke down into sobs in front of Price. 

So, you don’t see why his can’t be a little bruised too, tonight.

You hook your arm around his waist, mindful of those eventual bruised ribs you heard the doctor talk about with Kyle. Simon only looks down at you but doesn’t put up a fight—instead, he leans into you and unexpectedly accepts your help.

When he hands you his key, you try to fit it in the keyhole and fail a few times, until you force your hand to stop shaking and the lock clicks. You two stumble inside, as the heavy door closes with a loud thud. 

His backpack is dropped carelessly, key on the floor next to it.

“Easy, there.” You whisper, noticing how he almost tumbles onto the mattress. 

A deep, drawn-out sigh escapes him as his whole body deflates now that he’s sitting somewhere comfortable.

You crouch in front of him. 

No words are exchanged as your fingers work with the straps of his vest on each side. Simon carefully lifts his arms to help you help him, and it’s the first time in years of camaraderie in which he’s actually cooperating. 

Vest on the floor. Gloves off. His tac belt is carelessly tossed behind you, as you unlace his boots with his eyes burning holes down at you.

“You need a shower,” you mumble as you slide one boot off his foot. “And then I’ll check those bruises myself, see if I can help somehow.”

Simon is deadly silent. 

Or maybe it’s you who can’t quite catch any sound, as the blood rushes in your ears, your heart a violent drum.

“Gonna take a look at your leg too.” You go on, relentless, as your voice cracks unbidden. “It’s probably just a sprained ankle, but it’s better to ma—”

His hand cups your jaw, then, stopping your endless ramble. 

You stain the cracked skin of his palm with tears you didn’t know were falling. Simon holds your face until you find it in yourself to look up at him. 

He peers down at you through the eyehole of the balaclava, ripped and singed in various spots as a testament to his survival.

He presses a thumb against the corner of your mouth, forcing it into a plastic smile. But those teardrops are still regrettably streaking your cheeks, your lips still trembling in a fruitless attempt to keep quiet.

His other hand comes to grab your bicep to help you up. 

You’re on shaky legs, probably worse than the stagger he had when walking down the hallways. You come to a stand right between his thighs nonetheless, pressing your palms on his shoulders for balance.

Simon doesn’t speak as he looks up at you—doesn’t have the strength to do it, nor does he know what to say when you look so vulnerably lost. 

He uses actions, instead. 

Languidly, he slides the balaclava off his head, showing the cuts on his skin that match the rips on his mask. His forehead is ruddy and chapped, flaky skin peels off the bridge of his nose right where it gets redder and inflamed. His lips look thinner and pale, like he hasn’t had a good gulp of water in a while.

Your brows pinch and you instinctively lean forward until your noses brush. 

Simon takes a generous look at you, taking note of all the things left unsaid that are so clearly etched into the fine lines of your face. 

He nods softly, like he knows you need him to give you the green light.

And so, you kiss him right then, not wasting a moment longer. You both don’t bother to pretend to build up the tension when the rubber band has obviously already snapped. He parts his mouth for you and tilts his head until you can only breathe him in.

You taste the salt of your own tears, and his acetone breath of days spent without having a bite. You reckon yours isn’t much different—fear and hunger your only companions in his absence. Similar desperation in his hands running up your spine, in the panting of his breath, clogging your lungs already filled with a cocktail of dread and relief—poisonous, yet so comforting.

His arms are sore, muscles taut, but he uses them anyway to wrap around your thighs, bringing you in. 

But it’s then that you stop: when your knees dig into the mattress on each side of his hips—your hands softly pressed to his chest to push him away. 

His eyes land on your lips, already swollen and glossy after he’s kissed them to bits. He watches them move when you speak, entranced, as tears trail into the corners of your mouth.

You think he’s a bit lost in that moment, possibly not entirely listening to what you’re saying, yet that doesn’t stop you from rambling like time is running out.

“You have to shower and rest; we can’t be doing this now.” You’re stumbling over your words. “What if you got a broken rib that might puncture your lung, I gotta be careful.”

He blinks, snapping out of his head. Brows tight in a frown, he lifts his arm and grabs the nape of your neck, pulling you in.

“No, you gotta come 'ere.”

Your lips crash onto his. 

The salt of your tears stings your tongues, dancing together just because your mouth is already open, busy mumbling something under your breath.

“Simon,” you’re saying, but not in the way he likes. “Listen—”

He stops. Sighs like the world has been dropped on his shoulders, breath heavy in your mouth.

His eyes shut close, lips to lips ready to ravage yet both stand still and anticipating. His fingers flex at the back of your neck, others dimple the fat of your thigh through your trousers. 

Anxiety has your stomach in a clutch, and you fear he knows because he can read you like a book, easy as anything, like he’s taken notes through your pages firsthand.

When Simon gazes back at you, his eyes are close enough for you to distinguish the bloodshot whites, the enlarged pupils eating at the chestnut irises. You don’t look at his lips, but you feel with yours how he tentatively opens his mouth a few times, as if he wants to say something but thinks back on it every time.

Until he speaks.

“Please.” 

You want to give in. Have him show you he’s still alive in the only way he knows: with the touch of his hands, the flawless glide of his body with yours.

But you’re relentless, and you mimic him—if not even more desperately. “Please.”

He sighs, completely disarmed.

Both his hands come to cradle your jaw, then. He starts tracing a path with his lips—kisses so tender you can barely feel them, landing blindly on your cheeks.

“Just a few days out there, just—” he murmurs, voice low and breathy. “Fuckin’ sweltered all day, then soon as the sun fucked off—cold as a witch’s tit.”

He breathes a hoarse chuckle, such a weak one that instead of stealing a smile it pulls and knots at your heartstrings.

You gulp. It’s fruitless, there’s something lodged in your throat so thick you abandon any effort to identify it. Fear peaks, however. Cold as the harshest of winters.

You stay silent. You listen. No questions asked, no interjections of any kind. A dance you’ve learned over time, from past mistakes you promised to never make again.

“Been through worse, y’know?” he mutters to your skin, words interrupted only by his own kisses on your cheeks. “Much bloody worse—an' this? This was nothin’. Part an' parcel of the job, love, bound to happen sooner or later.”

He pulls back, his gaze meeting yours as though he could show you what he’s endured, like snapshots unfolding in a reel of film.

Your fingers lace through his hair, and specks of sand and grime settle under your fingernails as you scratch his scalp. Slowly, you lean in, and press a kiss to his forehead.

Simon imperceptibly softens against you, like his body wants to but his head won’t allow him. The muscles in his shoulder are taut but the ones in his neck are loose and flaccid, head bowed to your lips.

“But fuck—” he breathes. “Never been so bloody scared.”

When he takes his hands away from your face to wrap his arms around your waist, you know better than to move—as if the ghost of his fingers still lingers at your jaw. 

He holds you closer. Fists your shirt between his fingers until it’s pulled tight around your middle. 

Seconds pass, in which you do nothing but wait with bated breath for him to elaborate further.

“But not f’ me.” He sighs. “Don’t care if I live or die, yeah?”

It’s not a surprising statement. It doesn’t leave you as floored as it should’ve. 

It’s one you’ve internalized so long ago, even before you two engaged with this nonsense of a thing that only ended up hurting you both.

When you first got to know him, it fell upon you not slowly like a setting sun, but more so like a comet crossing the sky—quick and sharp. Burnt itself into your bones, in the crevices of your heart: that in front of you was a man who didn’t care for his life. A ticking time bomb bound to blow up.

And this knowledge properly slapped you when he went MIA. 

A handful of days of nausea and shaking limbs.

Days in which you bit your nails until they bled, refusing to mourn a dead body you couldn’t see.  

“You listenin’?” He asks hoarsely.

Gingerly, you nod. Your lips brush his forehead. They’re wet. Tears are falling again, salt as needles puncturing the cracks of your lips. 

“You get it, yeah?” He murmurs, and this time it’s him who guides your eyes back to his. They’re dark and heavy with sorrow and, for once, not chained shut.

Days in which you didn’t know where he was—if he was at all. 

His eyes search for yours. Palms to your cheeks like you’re made of glass and might shatter if he holds you too tight.

“You get it?” He asks again, low and breathless.

Days in which he didn’t know where you were—if you were at all, too.

“I do,” you croak.

There's a sense of grounding, then—tectonic plaques settling back after the earthquake. The needle of your compass locks back into place, finally pointing North—no longer caught in an erratic spin.

And it’s so quiet after that. 

Two words that hang in the air and cut the tension in half, until it finally dissipates when he brushes the hair off your forehead.

Simon holds your eyes for a moment more before he brings your lips to his own. 

He kisses you slowly like he doesn’t know the way you like it, like he’s doing it for the first time. 

And maybe, he is.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you. 

He’s naked, just out of the shower you helped him take. He sits at the edge of the bed, fists curled around the blanket haphazardly thrown over it, towel crumpled at his feet. 

His skin is damp, glistening under the low lights—gentle highlight of scars you’ve traced, and newer ones. The knotted lines and the inflamed cuts. The pale stretches of skin interrupted by speckled purples, greens, yellows—entire galaxies blooming on his shoulder, on his ribs, on his abdomen and on his thighs.

If that isn’t enough to make your knees buckle, enough to make your heart crack, it’s his request that does it.

“Stay,” he croaks.

That’s just how he says it, blunt as ever—gritted through his teeth, still coarse in the attempt at tenderness. Trying to fit in a role he’s never thought he’d get the chance to play; where he's not a killer, only a man.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you, no.

Simon holds you to his side, deaf to your protests when he guides you to lean your cheek to his heart—all the be careful’s stumbling out of your lips tossed out the window by the very man they were meant for.

Still, he brushes your hair, fingers gently lacing through it. His hand faintly trembles—discomfort in the unfamiliar, you think. 

However, even in their uncertainty, the gesture’s enough to make you fall asleep, lulled by the warmth of his body tucked under the duvet with you. Pine needles of his body wash, vestiges of tobacco, antiseptic you smeared on his cuts—the strange familiarity of it, the comfort you hope he's found too.

And maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s the delirium — the adrenaline crash, the hunger, the sleepless nights. Or maybe it’s just the overwhelming relief of having him here, real and warm, alive with blood that still runs.

You feel it rumble in his chest first, before it properly travels to your ears.

A curse. Drawn out, rouged with tender resignation, with honeyed surrender. A beautifully dreadful feeling, conveniently compacted into a single, wretched word. 

Wet lips touch your forehead. They brush left and right but never press in a proper kiss.

“You get it, uh?”

A sigh, then. Or a hoarse chuckle, maybe—you’re not sure. Warm breath grazes your forehead, tickles your scalp until shivers tiptoe gently down your spine and you unconsciously huddle closer.

Simon only holds you more thoroughly.

“Can't fuckin' believe it,” he whispers. 

There's something feather-light in his voice that betrays a hint of careful awe—jarring, misplaced, especially after days scraping by on the very edge of life.

Something akin to hope.

A lot from a man who insists he doesn't care if he lives or dies.

Still, Simon doesn’t bother to conceal it—perhaps because he thinks you're long asleep, perhaps because he doesn't care about hiding at all, not anymore. It curls into his vowels, bleeds golden into his tongue clicking at each t.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Kisses your forehead. “Now I get it too.”

I do appreciate people willing to be educated on creating characters who are Muslim and wanting to be respectful but there is a whole lot of nuance in Muslims and different interpretations of beliefs that people need to understand.

The main one I’ve seen a lot is “here is how to correctly have a hijabi character” and it’s usually a headscarf covering all of the hair and modest, which is good, this is a good representation of a Muslim, but on the flip side, there are so many different interpretations of veiling among Muslims that saying only one is correct just seeks to enforce a sort of homogeneity among Muslims that disregards our own cultural traditions all over the world. Not all of us wear hijab or veil in the same way, not all of us have the same interpretations. As much as people try to understand that Islam is a religion, there are many who treat being Muslim as if its the equivalent of an ethnicity.

Not to say veiling is exclusively Islamic either, plenty of cultures and religions other than Islam veil/practice modesty, what I’m mainly trying to say is that different cultures have different cultural traditions surrounding modesty/veiling/hijab within Islam. In different cultures around the world there are also different terms for the type of hijab/veil they wear as well. Hijab will look different wherever you are looking, and the type of hijab style your character might wear may pertain to which culture they may come from. It’s important to keep this in mind while also being aware of inter-communal nuance.

(This is coming from a Muslim from cultures where people did not used to veil as many deem ‘acceptable’ now)

Just for example: both of these women are Muslim, they both wear a scarf, and neither is more Muslim than the other bc one has visible hair. Nobody has the right to determine who is a better Muslim or not for how they chose to cover, and I don’t think folks who aren’t Muslim should be upholding this kind of belief either, even if their intentions are in the right place.

This is also not to say “hey just slap a scarf on ur Muslim character bam it’s a hijab” when a lot of the posts about creating characters who are Muslims, especially hijabis, came from a place of people not understanding the hijab or it’s intention, it also comes from a fear of portraying more modest/religious Muslims which is rooted in Islamophobia - since the hijabi on the left would probably be better liked by audiences who aren’t Muslim bc some of her hair is shown (*cough* Netflix *cough*). So, there is a lot of nuance here.

Ofc not everyone is going to agree with this and there is plenty, and i mean plenty, of contested sources and voices about this all throughout the Muslim community, this is my opinion because quite frankly I’m tired of this belittling of different type of veiling because it doesn’t fit people’s view of hijab (from both Muslims and those who aren’t).

Writing Romance: Courting

Prior to the 20th century, most couples engaged in courting politics to find their partners, and there were a lot of rules about how to properly court your intended partner. So I figured I’d put out a guide to proper romancing etiquette for those setting their stories in more antiquated settings. But a lot of these courtship practices don’t work as well for same-sex relationships. So, I’ll go through some of the rules for courtship that apply to any story that wants to use courting romances, then I’ll explore ways this could work for a queer couple.

Gender Dynamics in Queer Courtships

Gender is a HUGE aspect of courtship, as the expectations of men and women were starkly different. This leaves queer couples with two choices: either conform to the gender roles, or make the roles more generalized that both parties are expected to uphold. Whichever route you take, be consistent. Not just with queer couples but heterosexual ones as well. If a lesbian barmaid can chase skirts, why can’t a heterosexual seamstress chase chaps?

If you choose to lean into gender roles and active vs passive roles in courtship, I believe it is best to leave it that the one of higher social status takes on the role of the female, as it would be uncouth for a Duke to be chasing lowly Viscounts. Those looking for a higher status husband should be the one working to win the Duke’s affections. While one could argue that the one of higher status should be the active pursuer, the thought of a queen chasing skirts simply fails to capture the regal dignity of the position when we think on it. It seems more in line with the properness and decorum of the era to have the elite have the suitors come to them.

Even if you do away with the gender roles in favor of gender equality in relationships, social status and rank would still be enough to impact the active vs passive roles. A prince looking for a spouse will always be more passive, while his knights, dukes, and counts vie for his affections. Meanwhile, a lowly Baron will almost always be in pursuit of a match. This follows the Order of Precedence, a real life rule of etiquette  that states that those of lower status are the ones introduced to someone of higher status. So before a Baron can speak freely with a Prince, someone must introduce the Baron to the Prince and never the other way around. If the Baron is being introduced to a group, they will be introduced in ascending order of rank. The Baron will first be introduced to the Count, then the Duke, and then the Prince. This is why in many court scenes, someone will introduce a character to the king before they speak to one another.

But what if they’re of equal status? What happens when a prince is seeking another prince to be his husband? While they have equal titles, a prince of a tiny, less powerful kingdom is more likely be the pursuer to the prince of a bigger, wealthier kingdom. It’s also unlikely for a prince who is 1st in line to inherit his throne would marry a prince who is also the heir apparent to his own kingdom, unless they were looking to combine their countries into a new alliance. Otherwise, a first born prince is more likely to be chased by a second born prince who won’t inherit his kingdom. Likewise, in a relationship between two Dukes, the one who is higher in the line of succession to the crown would be the one to be pursued by the one lower down the line of succession. TL;DR: Whoever has the bigger house is the one getting pursued by suitors. However, do keep in mind that admittance to the royal palace is strictly by invitation only, so that does make things tricky. But visiting royalty often do have an open invitation to the royal palace. So while a Duke courting a prince would need an invitation to call on the prince for his hand in marriage, the Prince of Belgium would likely be just down the hall from the Prince of France’s quarters, giving him much easier access to court the Prince du Sang of France.

Presenting at Court

When a young gentleman or lady had come of courting and marrying age, their parents would petition to have them present at court, though people could also be recommended by other nobility. This was an effective way for some to social climb, being recommended by someone of much higher status and impeccable reputation can skyrocket their child into an advantageous position. These events would be held at the palace multiple times per year, and were invite only. The Lord Chamberlain was in charge of going over the guest list with the utmost scrutiny, and nobody would be permitted who did not have a pristine and stainless record.

Men of good social standing would present at court at formal events called Levées. They would present before the King or Prince. In the event that there were two queens or otherwise no living males of the royal family, they might present before the highest ranking male in the line of succession, or otherwise just present before the Queen. In the Victorian Era, men wore buckled shoes and swords to both a Levée and a Presentation. They had to wear either court dress or a uniform. So, if he was a soldier, he might present at court wearing his finest military dress uniform.

Presenting at court for girls were much less imaginative, only being called a Presentation. They were expected to drag long trains behind them, to bow and address the queen flawlessly, and then leave the room without fumbling over her dress or shoes. Like with the Levées for the gentlemen, these events would be held multiple times per year, and multiple girls would present on the same day, meaning that all of the girls would be compared. The better she performs, the more desirable she will be. Some men might be charmed by a little clumsiness, but it was generally seen as extremely important for a girl to make a great first impression on the court as a lady of courting and marrying age. This is also why the presentation itself is rather short. There’s a lot of girls to get through, and the queen’s a busy lady.

Someone who was already of marrying age but marries into higher status would be expected to present at court after the wedding. As a king and queen had the power to bestow titles on people at their leisure, it was not impossible for an older married woman to be made a high enough status to make her formal debut at court, and older women had different expectations when making their debut, such as styling themselves differently, and wearing different colors. Thus if, for example, a lowly washer woman saved a nobleman’s son from drowning, she might be rewarded by being recommended for a title like Lady or Baroness and being allowed to present at court. Regardless of age, the presentation mostly serves as an introduction of a new face at court to the rest of high society.

The Rules for Men

Men were encouraged not to flirt with everyone they found attractive, as being too friendly might earn them a reputation that hurts their social image. Guidelines to courtship from the Victorian Era makes it clear to young men that not every girl will be interested in his pursuit of her, and that he should take a lack of positive response to any advances as his cue to move on, lest he embarrass himself or his family.

Never allow a woman to be uncertain of your feelings and intentions. Women were permitted some leeway with acting coy, but for a man to toy with a woman’s affections was seen as improper. Once a man is aware a woman mistakes his attention for affection, he is to quickly, yet politely, lay bare his true feelings. In a similar vein, a man should never make any declaration in jest, whether expressing love or proposing marriage, any attempt to make such grand declarations as a jest does grave disservice to the woman, and will earn him great dissent and contempt from those of good breeding and high social standing. This second rule also extends to the fairer sex, and is just universally sound advice when navigating romantic entanglements.

A man must put out his cigar in the company of women, which also meant that if a woman approaches him to engage him in conversation, he must discard it, regardless of how expensive it was.

When greeting a woman in public, a man should tip his cap in a polite manner, though if she stops to talk to him, she will extend her hand to him. In this case, he must remove his hat with the hand farthest from her, and take her extended hand with the one closest to her. If they are well acquainted, he might bestow the back of her hand with a quick kiss before letting go of her hand. He would then be expected to walk with her as they converse. If he has somewhere to be or the conversation has reached a natural ending, he should politely excuse himself, and wait for her to say her farewells before he leaves her company. If he simply cannot stop to talk, he should make his urgency clear, and apologize before carrying on, still being sure to tip his hat in a show of politeness.

The Rules for Women

Accepting gifts from a suitor is dangerous. If a suitor brings you a gift and you accept it, it indicates that you are interested in their advances. Being too accepting can also cause a man to continue to shower you with gifts, which could be seen as greedy. If disinterested in the suitor, it is advised to decline his gift. However, it’s best to try and decline his gift in a courteous manner, as a calous decline will earn you a reputation for a foul temperament, which may discourage other suitors.

An unmarried woman should never be outside alone. She should always be in the company of a companion, chaperone, parent, or legal guardian. This is a means of protecting women from being set upon by unscrupulous men.

Even while courting one another, an unmarried woman should never be alone in the company of a man outside of her immediate family. This usually meant that any sort of date the pair might go on will always be supervised from afar by a parent or chaperone, such as a lady-in-waiting or a governess. The young couple would usually be left some leeway to conversate privately, so long as they were within clear eyesight of the woman’s caretakers, and close enough for them to step in should the man act dishonorably toward her.

A man will come to call upon a woman he is interested in pursuing, meaning that he will come to her house in order to pitch woo or charm her. This is to ensure she is in the safety and protection of her family, so as to prevent her from being done ill by the man where her family cannot protect her. As such, a woman would never call upon a man or go to his residence. In a queer relationship, this is simply swapped to the one of lower status coming to the house of the one of higher status. Although, due to the role of status, the suitor will require an invitation (either specific or open) to come a-courting on the object of their affections.

Women would often have a dance card which indicated who she intended to dance with at an upcoming ball. She’d save a dance for the host, and likely also her suitor. Any special guest of the ball would likely also be afforded a dance. If she has multiple suitors, she would be expected to dance with all of them, and not to spend her entire evening doting on only one of them. It was also seen as improper for her to dance too often with the same partner, regardless of whether she was looking for a spouse or not. If she was the guest of honor, it might be expected for her to share more than one dance with the host, possibly sharing the first and/or last dance with him to start or close out the night. Sometimes at dances, the guests would know the music selection and dances ahead of time, and women would have the music or dances on their dance cards. While I don’t know if it was done historically, I don’t think it would be too unorthodox for a man to write a woman ahead of a ball (assuming he’s familiar enough for such audacity) and request that she save a specific kind of dance for him. If his Waltz is shabby, but he does a marvelous Minuet, he’d want to be sure his dance with a possible match would be a dance he’s more proficient with. A lady might fill up her entire dance card ahead of time, but she’d more often than not leave a spot or two open to allow for more spontaneity. As dance cards were only used by women, I don’t know if they’d be used by gay men in courtship or not. Queer people at a ball however might wear something to indicate their preference in dance partner. A visual cue to let the gentlemen know that the Baroness of Arendale doesn’t have much interest in dancing with men.

Courting in Public

Courtship, especially among the upper class, was predominantly undergone during the Social Season, which in the UK ran from March until September, and included a wide variety of events and activities including balls, picnics, dinner parties, and sporting events. During the social season, every personage of noble blood would gather in a central location, usually the capital. These were not the only times during the year when people courted, it was more akin to a feeding frenzy for eligible bachelors, largely due to all of their marital options being assembled for the season, making it much easier to find someone to his liking.

It was wildly scandalous to show public displays of affection. That was to be reserved for private life. As such, suitors would instead exchange gifts, photographs or locks of hair instead of kissing or holding hands. For a queer relationship, it might be allowable for suitors to give one another their clothing, jewelry, weapons, or armor, either in their entirety or a particular piece of it. However the intimacy of sharing garments would likely be reserved for couples that have been courting for some time, and would be ill-advised as a first gift to one’s admirer.

At a ball or other such party, if someone catches your fancy but you’ve never met them before, it is impolite to speak to them until the host or hostess has formally introduced you to one another. Even if you dance with them, it is ill-mannered to speak to them during and after the dance if neither of you have been introduced to one another.

If someone insults your suitor, a gentleman should be ready to act the part of a knight and defend his lover’s honor. If his partner initiated the conflict, it is advised for a gentleman to apologize on their behalf, though not so meekly as to offend their lover or besmirch their honor. If another man is looking to start a quarrel, a gentleman should not return his hostilities, as a foul temper and lack of self-control is an indication of ill manners and poor breeding, bringing you down to the other man’s level.

A gentleman should always carry his lady’s luggage, and on the sidewalk, takes the side closest to the street to keep his lady’s dress from being splashed with mud or water, or to keep her safe should a wayward horse, carriage, or car veer off the street, it is more likely to strike him than her.

A couple talking in public must speak succinctly, poignantly, and softly. Long drawn-out conversations were best for private, whereas in public, it was unwise to spend one’s entire evening conversing with a single person, unless it is well-known the severity of their entanglement. It was considered ill-manner to speak excessively or too loudly as to disturb others.

Matchmaking and Gold-Digging

Due to eldest sons getting the entire inheritance of his father, women seeking to court would seek out eldest sons who would be coming into their family fortune, while sons left out of the inheritance would be more willing to marry below their station in pursuit of rich heiresses whose wealth would keep them in the lifestyle to which they have grown accustomed. Likewise in a queer relationship, wealth and power would likely effect the interests of relationships, and differences in inheritance laws might also change the power dynamics in courtships. If a daughter can inherit the full control of her father’s mercantile empire, she’s going to be fighting off second-born suitors with a stick, regardless of gender.

I mentioned above the Levées and Presentations that young nobles would go through when entering the public sphere of the court. Parents of other noble families would often be in attendance of these parties, and if a presenter impressed them, they may approach the parents and suggest a courtship between their children. This is less of an arranged marriage, and more the parents steering their children to give each other a chance. It’s much closer to playing matchmaker than paying 5 cows and a corn mill for someone’s daughter. The children could still decline the courtship out of lack of interest or an absence of chemistry, so long as they settled things politely. 

Watch Bridgerton

While Bridgerton is by no means a perfect replica of historical courtship, as its Diamond of the Fresh Water is largely a creation of the show, things such as the calling of suitors, the responsibility of first-borns compared to second-born and third-born sons, marital entrapment, and elevating one’s status is very well executed. If you want to write period romance, Bridgerton is an excellent resource to take inspiration from. It’s a great way to see these mechanics in action and hopefully watching it will spark something in your own imagination.

While that was a lot of information, I do hope it is something you found helpful. Most of the rules are much harsher on upper class characters, but most people who write historical romances are more interested in the romance between the countess and the duke, rather than the washer woman and the fisherman. I will also admit this is not a flawless breakdown, as I could have easily missed something. Still, as someone who loves period dramas and historical costume, I couldn’t leave such a tantalizing topic untouched.

All of the Prehistoric Pride guys in one collective post to celebrate pride month. Choose your fighter and have an awesome time :D

More suggestions are always welcome, I sadly was not able to cover everyone, but I will do more of these in the future!

I am going to add more and more to the collection as I get them done :D

If you would like to support my silly little dinosaur art, then you can buy any of these Prideaurs as stickers from my Etsy shop, which I just set up recently. I am pretty new to this entire business side of art things, but I am trying my best :D so a like or a reblog would go a long way. Thank you guys so much for all your kind words and support!

My father was right. I’d waited here to kill him. But my father was also wrong. About pretty much everything else.

Devotional Acts

For love or beauty deities

Skin care

Make up (or embrace your natural beauty)

Dress up a little

Paint your nails

Love letters

Self /love/ iykyk

Change your bed sheets/clean up your room/space

Listen to love songs/songs about sex/loving yourself

You know that trend of people, typically women, painting a canvas black and then painting their legs/ass/hands/boobs and making a form of silhouette art for their partners?

Read romance novels

Play Interactive romance novels/romance games (stardew valley, dream daddy, The Arcana, etc)

For war deities

Listen to angry music

Advocate for yourself

Reinforce your boundaries

Cut out the negative people in your life

Feel your anger, recognize your anger, don't force it down, but don't lash out to others. "I am angry. This thing made me angry. It's okay that I am angry, it is not okay to cause harm to those who do not deserve it." Etc etc

Read biographies or accounts of war, or dystopian novels (accounts of war like Night by Elie Weisel, dystopian like Divergent or Hunger Games)

Learn self defense

Learn about how your area was used in past wars.

Play fighting games (call of duty, mortal combat, etc)

For music/art deities

Create! Learn an instrument

Write a song

Paint for them

Listen to experimental or storytelling music. All music is art, so find a vibe for your deity.

Take pictures of nature, art is everywhere in nature, from the paintings on butterfly wings to the sunset

Read/write poetry

Read poetry books, or books about music or art (think biographies from musicians/artists, or books like Guitar Notes by Mary Amato or such) (guitar notes is a midgrade book but it's the only one I could think of the name of)

Visit galleries or local shows, support local artists

For wisdom deities

Read books, any type, but mostly classics like Sherlock Holmes or Jane Austen

Watch documentaries

Take free online courses on subjects that interest you

Visit and support your local libraries and independently owned bookstores

Find old unloved books at thrift stores

Learn a new skill

Listen to music from different time periods

Visit museums

Play strategy games (chess, supreme commander, etc)

Do puzzles

For nature deities

Raise a plant, or a garden

Listen to nature sounds, or music with nature sounds

Observe nature persevering, vines crawling up a building, dandelions in cracks in the pavement.

Read wilderness guides

Learn about your area's native flora and fauna

Visit local parks

Open windows and let the fresh air in

Scavenge/forage (in safe areas)

Play cozy games (animal crossing, etc)

For death deities

Visit local graveyards/cemeteries (don't forget to be mindful and conscious of others and the spirits there)

Listen to music by artists who have passed on, or music about death

Learn about different cultures' funeral practices

Safely move roadkill out of the road, leave a small offering if possible (again, do so SAFELY)

Read books that have death themes (like Edgar Allen Poe, Wuthering Heights, or They Both Die In The End)

Think about how you want your body to be treated in death. Do you want to be buried? Cremated?

For home/hearth deities

Read cozy books

Play cozy games (sims, animal crossing)

Make your house seem warm and inviting to visitors

Learn how to bake, either from scratch or a box, both are acceptable

Learn how to sew or knit or crochet.

Watch cozy movies

Light candles if you don't have a fireplace

Listen to soft music

Visit your friends or family and bring them baked goods

For strong parental deities

Take care of your friends

Make sure your friends eat and are drinking water, do the same for yourself

Tell the people in your life you love them, you're proud of them, they're doing a good job

Read books about found family, self help books

Listen to music that makes you feel safe and loved

Carry a figure that represents them

Take care of yourself the way that they would take care of you.

Cook for yourself. Make yourself feel safe and loved

For health deities

Carry bandaids and Tylenol and extra pads/tampons for people who may need them

Learn about the human body and how it works

Take your meds

Make art out of old pill bottles for them

Know and respect your limits

Watch documentaries about doctors or health sciences

Research holistic remedies and see if any might be of use to you (DO NOT SUBSTITUTE THEM FOR MODERN MEDICINE) be careful of misinformation, and any interactions that certain things might have with your meds

For sea/ocean/water deities

Have a small fountain in your home (you can find them at some dollar stores, or if you're mechanically savvy, make your own)

Salts in your baths

Visit local streams, creeks, rivers, or beaches.

Read about marine life / river life

Read about your local water sources, learn about the water cycle

Collect rain water

Stand in the rain, feel it on you, let it ground you

Listen to music about water/with water sounds/the ocean/the beach

Have pictures in your home/space of the ocean

If you visit the ocean, collect some water and sand and seashells (make sure you follow your own personal gratitude system) to have in your home

Don't fret if you're landlocked, you're practice is valid, you don't need to be at the ocean all the time to feel it's presence. The rain clouds blow in from hundreds of miles away. The ocean is always with you.

Drink water

Carry a small vial of water with you (could be ocean water, river water, or tap water with or without salt in it) you can keep it in your car, in your pocket, or wear it as a necklace

Carry a small vial of salt with you (could be hand harvested from the ocean, table salt, or any kind of off the shelf salt)

For sky/wind/air deities

Let the air in, open windows when possible

Let yourself be free.

Sit outside for a few minutes a day, or longer.

For traveler deities

Pick something up for them on your travels, could be a rock, could be a souvenir

Put a symbol of them in your car

Wear shoes that are good for walking

Drive/walk around to explore new places (you don't even have to leave your town)

Take backroads

Be a (respectful) tourist in every new place that you visit, don't be afraid of looking stupid.

For queer deities

Educate yourself on queer history

Express yourself truthfully

Listen to queer music

Read queer books

Embrace your identity

Read queer poetry, like that of Sappho

Keep yourself safe in spaces that are less open to identities.

Support local queer owned businesses or artists.

Queer art

Love yourself and take care of yourself.

Go to drag shows

Relish in the fact that queerness has been around since the very first civilizations

For Inventive Deities

Do a metal puzzle

Learn metalworking, or just read about it

As always, please feel free to add on, I only work with one deity so please tell me if anything is incorrect or confusing.

Blessed be <3

Romance Attraction Spell Jar

1. Get your jar

2. Cleans your jar

3. Add your ingredients (I used these, but you can add, take out what feels right to you)

Jasmine flowers

Rose buds

Lavender

Dill

Rose quartz

Lemon balm

Cinnamon

White Willow bark

Sage

Lemongrass

Sigil for love

4. Seal with red and pink wax while repeating the phrase “I attract healthy romance” or whatever phrase feels right to you

then you’re done!

Happy witching!!

Memory/help with exams spell jar 💜

Intended to soothe the mind and help the user recall information during finals/midterms

I made a small spell jar to carry around but this would also work with other containers (small tin, pouch, etc. - reuse things!)

Materials:

Container

Preferred method of cleansing (incense, sound, etc.)

Lavender

Salt (i used pink salt)

Yarrow

Elderflower

3 cloves

1 bay leaf

Amethyst

Quartz

Citrine

Pen/pencil/etc.

Purple, white, grey, or bronze wax to seal container

Step 1:

Cleanse your materials and place them either on your altar or study space

Step 2:

Create a sigil and write it on the bay leaf. You can derive sigils from words/phrases like "knowledge" "memory" "good grades" or really anything. Break the bay leaf into bits and set it aside.

Step 3:

Add herbs and crystals in this order:

Salt

Crushed bay leaf

Amethyst

Yarrow

Elderflower

Lavender

Citrine

Cloves

Step 4:

Close the container and seal it with wax. If the container is a pouch, make a little wax medallion by dripping it on a smooth surface such as a mirror.

Step 5:

Charge it by keeping it near you while you study. Cleanse with moonlight or blowing on it.

Good luck!

Words for Skin Tone | How to Describe Skin Color

We discussed the issues describing People of Color by means of food in Part I of this guide, which brought rise to even more questions, mostly along the lines of “So, if food’s not an option, what can I use?” Well, I was just getting to that!

This final portion focuses on describing skin tone, with photo and passage examples provided throughout. I hope to cover everything from the use of straight-forward description to the more creatively-inclined, keeping in mind the questions we’ve received on this topic.

Standard Description

Basic Colors

Pictured above: Black, Brown, Beige, White, Pink.

“She had brown skin.”

This is a perfectly fine description that, while not providing the most detail, works well and will never become cliché.

Describing characters’ skin as simply brown or beige works on its own, though it’s not particularly telling just from the range in brown alone.

Complex Colors

These are more rarely used words that actually “mean” their color. Some of these have multiple meanings, so you’ll want to look into those to determine what other associations a word might have.

Pictured above: Umber, Sepia, Ochre, Russet, Terra-cotta, Gold, Tawny, Taupe, Khaki, Fawn.

Complex colors work well alone, though often pair well with a basic color in regards to narrowing down shade/tone.

For example: Golden brown, russet brown, tawny beige…

As some of these are on the “rare” side, sliding in a definition of the word within the sentence itself may help readers who are unfamiliar with the term visualize the color without seeking a dictionary.

“He was tall and slim, his skin a russet, reddish-brown.”

Comparisons to familiar colors or visuals are also helpful:

“His skin was an ochre color, much like the mellow-brown light that bathed the forest.”

Modifiers

Modifiers, often adjectives, make partial changes to a word.The following words are descriptors in reference to skin tone.

Dark - Deep - Rich - Cool

Warm - Medium - Tan

Fair - Light - Pale

Rich Black, Dark brown, Warm beige, Pale pink…

If you’re looking to get more specific than “brown,” modifiers narrow down shade further.

Keep in mind that these modifiers are not exactly colors.

As an already brown-skinned person, I get tan from a lot of sun and resultingly become a darker, deeper brown. I turn a pale, more yellow-brown in the winter.

While best used in combination with a color, I suppose words like “tan” “fair” and “light” do work alone; just note that tan is less likely to be taken for “naturally tan” and much more likely a tanned White person.

Calling someone “dark” as description on its own is offensive to some and also ambiguous. (See: Describing Skin as Dark)

Undertones

Undertones are the colors beneath the skin, seeing as skin isn’t just one even color but has more subdued tones within the dominating palette.

pictured above: warm / earth undertones: yellow, golden, copper, olive, bronze, orange, orange-red, coral | cool / jewel undertones: pink, red, blue, blue-red, rose, magenta, sapphire, silver. 

Mentioning the undertones within a character’s skin is an even more precise way to denote skin tone.

As shown, there’s a difference between say, brown skin with warm orange-red undertones (Kelly Rowland) and brown skin with cool, jewel undertones (Rutina Wesley).

“A dazzling smile revealed the bronze glow at her cheeks.”

“He always looked as if he’d ran a mile, a constant tinge of pink under his tawny skin.”

Standard Description Passage

“Farah’s skin, always fawn, had burned and freckled under the summer’s sun. Even at the cusp of autumn, an uneven tan clung to her skin like burrs. So unlike the smooth, red-brown ochre of her mother, which the sun had richened to a blessing.”

-From my story “Where Summer Ends” featured in Strange Little Girls

Here the state of skin also gives insight on character.

Note my use of “fawn” in regards to multiple meaning and association. While fawn is a color, it’s also a small, timid deer, which describes this very traumatized character of mine perfectly.

Though I use standard descriptions of skin tone more in my writing, at the same time I’m no stranger to creative descriptions, and do enjoy the occasional artsy detail of a character.

Creative Description

Whether compared to night-cast rivers or day’s first light…I actually enjoy seeing Characters of Colors dressed in artful detail.

I’ve read loads of descriptions in my day of white characters and their “smooth rose-tinged ivory skin”, while the PoC, if there, are reduced to something from a candy bowl or a Starbucks drink, so to actually read of PoC described in lavish detail can be somewhat of a treat.

Still, be mindful when you get creative with your character descriptions. Too many frills can become purple-prose-like, so do what feels right for your writing when and where. Not every character or scene warrants a creative description, either. Especially if they’re not even a secondary character.

Using a combination of color descriptions from standard to creative is probably a better method than straight creative. But again, do what’s good for your tale.

Natural Settings - Sky

Pictured above: Harvest Moon -Twilight, Fall/Autumn Leaves, Clay, Desert/Sahara, Sunlight - Sunrise - Sunset - Afterglow - Dawn- Day- Daybreak, Field - Prairie - Wheat, Mountain/Cliff, Beach/Sand/Straw/Hay.

Now before you run off to compare your heroine’s skin to the harvest moon or a cliff side, think about the associations to your words.

When I think cliff, I think of jagged, perilous, rough. I hear sand and picture grainy, yet smooth. Calm. mellow.

So consider your character and what you see fit to compare them to.

Also consider whose perspective you’re describing them from. Someone describing a person they revere or admire may have a more pleasant, loftier description than someone who can’t stand the person.

“Her face was like the fire-gold glow of dawn, lifting my gaze, drawing me in.”

“She had a sandy complexion, smooth and tawny.”

Even creative descriptions tend to draw help from your standard words.

Flowers

Pictured above: Calla lilies, Western Coneflower, Hazel Fay, Hibiscus, Freesia, Rose

It was a bit difficult to find flowers to my liking that didn’t have a 20 character name or wasn’t called something like “chocolate silk” so these are the finalists. 

You’ll definitely want to avoid purple-prose here.

Also be aware of flowers that most might’ve never heard of. Roses are easy, as most know the look and coloring(s) of this plant. But Western coneflowers? Calla lilies? Maybe not so much.

“He entered the cottage in a huff, cheeks a blushing brown like the flowers Nana planted right under my window. Hazel Fay she called them, was it?”

Assorted Plants & Nature

Pictured above: Cattails, Seashell, Driftwood, Pinecone, Acorn, Amber

These ones are kinda odd. Perhaps because I’ve never seen these in comparison to skin tone, With the exception of amber.

At least they’re common enough that most may have an idea what you’re talking about at the mention of “pinecone.“ 

I suggest reading out your sentences aloud to get a better feel of how it’ll sounds.

“Auburn hair swept past pointed ears, set around a face like an acorn both in shape and shade.”

I pictured some tree-dwelling being or person from a fantasy world in this example, which makes the comparison more appropriate.

I don’t suggest using a comparison just “cuz you can” but actually being thoughtful about what you’re comparing your character to and how it applies to your character and/or setting.

Wood

Pictured above: Mahogany, Walnut, Chestnut, Golden Oak, Ash

Wood can be an iffy description for skin tone. Not only due to several of them having “foody” terminology within their names, but again, associations.

Some people would prefer not to compare/be compared to wood at all, so get opinions, try it aloud, and make sure it’s appropriate to the character if you do use it.

“The old warlock’s skin was a deep shade of mahogany, his stare serious and firm as it held mine.”

Metals

Pictured above: Platinum, Copper, Brass, Gold, Bronze

Copper skin, brass-colored skin, golden skin…

I’ve even heard variations of these used before by comparison to an object of the same properties/coloring, such as penny for copper.

These also work well with modifiers.

“The dress of fine white silks popped against the deep bronze of her skin.”

Gemstones - Minerals

Pictured above: Onyx, Obsidian, Sard, Topaz, Carnelian, Smoky Quartz, Rutile, Pyrite, Citrine, Gypsum

These are trickier to use. As with some complex colors, the writer will have to get us to understand what most of these look like.

If you use these, or any more rare description, consider if it actually “fits” the book or scene.

Even if you’re able to get us to picture what “rutile” looks like, why are you using this description as opposed to something else? Have that answer for yourself.

“His skin reminded her of the topaz ring her father wore at his finger, a gleaming stone of brown, mellow facades.” 

Physical Description

Physical character description can be more than skin tone.

Show us hair, eyes, noses, mouth, hands…body posture, body shape, skin texture… though not necessarily all of those nor at once.

Describing features also helps indicate race, especially if your character has some traits common within the race they are, such as afro hair to a Black character.

How comprehensive you decide to get is up to you. I wouldn’t overdo it and get specific to every mole and birthmark. Noting defining characteristics is good, though, like slightly spaced front teeth, curls that stay flopping in their face, hands freckled with sunspots…

General Tips

Indicate Race Early: I suggest indicators of race be made at the earliest convenience within the writing, with more hints threaded throughout here and there.

Get Creative On Your Own: Obviously, I couldn’t cover every proper color or comparison in which has been “approved” to use for your characters’ skin color, so it’s up to you to use discretion when seeking other ways and shades to describe skin tone.

Skin Color May Not Be Enough: Describing skin tone isn’t always enough to indicate someone’s ethnicity. As timeless cases with readers equating brown to “dark white” or something, more indicators of race may be needed.

Describe White characters and PoC Alike: You should describe the race and/or skin tone of your white characters just as you do your Characters of Color. If you don’t, you risk implying that White is the default human being and PoC are the “Other”).

PSA: Don’t use “Colored.” Based on some asks we’ve received using this word, I’d like to say that unless you or your character is a racist grandmama from the 1960s, do not call People of Color “colored” please. 

Not Sure Where to Start? You really can’t go wrong using basic colors for your skin descriptions. It’s actually what many people prefer and works best for most writing. Personally, I tend to describe my characters using a combo of basic colors + modifiers, with mentions of undertones at times. I do like to veer into more creative descriptions on occasion.

Want some alternatives to “skin” or “skin color”? Try: Appearance, blend, blush, cast, coloring, complexion, flush, glow, hue, overtone, palette, pigmentation, rinse, shade, sheen, spectrum, tinge, tint, tone, undertone, value, wash.

Skin Tone Resources

List of Color Names

The Color Thesaurus

Skin Undertone & Color Matching

Tips and Words on Describing Skin

Photos: Undertones Described (Modifiers included)

Online Thesaurus (try colors, such as “red” & “brown”)

Don’t Call me Pastries: Creative Skin Tones w/ pics I 

Writing & Description Guides

WWC Featured Description Posts

WWC Guide: Words to Describe Hair

Writing with Color: Description & Skin Color Tags

7 Offensive Mistakes Well-intentioned Writers Make

I tried to be as comprehensive as possible with this guide, but if you have a question regarding describing skin color that hasn’t been answered within part I or II of this guide, or have more questions after reading this post, feel free to ask!

~ Mod Colette