#⋆｡°✩ Bleeding Ink

[fox-buried-in-maple-leaves]

Tw: suicide is the theme of this fic.

He said words he wished he heard.

“I'll never leave you. I'll always be there to catch you.”

And he meant it. When it became too much and he faced the ledge a second time, Alee was there, Alee pulled him back. He had help, of course. But he convinced him that living was braver, more courageous. Anything to get him off the ledge.

The third time, Alee's second, he was driven to the ledge by an outside force. A curse words alone couldn't break. But they made a promise. And so they both went off the ledge. The push he needed to snap out of it, to crave the air he didn't need, the love he'd gained. It hurt. But he wasn't gone, and neither were they, secure and safe in his arms.

Alee knew what it was like to face the ledge. The only difference between him and Mieran; they could never die. But he could. He did, but Alee refused to let him be erased. Refused to let him die that second death, they'd pull him back from the ledge every time.

He'd sat on that ledge himself so many times, but it looked different. Hands bleeding, tear streaked cheeks, sitting in front of crystals and a summoning circle talking to the unfeeling thing that was Death. Reapers who refused his release. He'd seen that ledge, but he'd been denied it. At least he could say what he needed to hear back then.

“I know it's overwhelming.” They breathed. “I know you're scared. But think of what you leave behind. The legacy you haven't completed. Think about the courage it takes, Mieran. Think about how courageous you are.” Alee stepped closer to the ledge, carefully. Practised. If there was one thing he was good at it? It was saving anyone, everyone, but himself.

Mieran's tears dried to his skin as the wind whipped around him, but he could hear Alee's calm words in his ears, his confidence, they believed what they said. How could he not believe them then? Mieran stepped back, tripping some, but Alee caught him, held him tightly.

“You're the bravest man I know.” Alee promised, holding the sobbing reaper. Alee looked at the ledge as he held Mieran, looked out at the city. They remembered the times they'd thrown themself off high rises just to feel something. Just to die, for a moment. Some sort of peace, some quiet from the voices. Even now, so loud in his head. Even as he kept their reaper going. He was his reaper, not the Fates.

“Let's go home, okay?”

“Yes.. Home..” Mieran nuzzled his face and Alee carefully picked him up, holding him groom style. No matter what. Alee would always bring him back from the ledge. He'd always be there. It gave him purpose.

[camilleflyingrotten]

The invisible and unbreakable-

[inkly-heart]

[deceasedpoet]

You know the film is good when it made you go question about yourself as a person

[yourlocalbadgerscales]

James Potter not being able to hide his bewilderment when he sees that baby Harry has inherited his mother’s green eyes… James Potter skipping around the house, his and Sirius’s voices draining each other as they stand together looking down at the new member of the Potter family sleeping tightly, their eyes shining and mouths running….

James Potter, who never lived long enough to learn that Harry also inherited his mother’s sarcasm, her humour…

Harry James Potter, who inherited Lily’s gaze, that look in his eyes… like he was older than his age… Harry Potter, who inherited Lily’s desperate need to prove herself, Lily’s posture, the way Lily wrote her g’s… Harry, who inherited not only traits from his mother, but also traits from his father.

Harry with his father’s messy hair, Harry who bounces his leg when he’s stressed and ruffles his hair when he’s nervous, unlike his father who ruffled it to impress girls. Harry with a glimpse of his father’s mischievousness in his Lily eyes. Harry who talks in his sleep like his father, Harry with dimples like his father, Harry with poor eyesight like his father.

It’s all a mess of Lily (can’t function properly under stress), James (showers in cold water)… and Harry himself (short temper). Because if it’s something so many people seem to forget about him, which always pisses him off, is that Harry is his own person too.

He loves Treacle Tart, he has his own awkward little laugh, he can’t control his face, he bites his nails when studying, he loves strong smells, and that’s all him. Just… him.

And what Sirius never got to tell him, is that: if people would try to look past the way his parents are still with him in his eyes, behind his smile and in his heart… they would see a wonderful young boy. So much more than what his parents ever made him. Harry raised himself. Harry grew up to be his own.

But Sirius never got to tell him that, just like he never got to tell him that he had Remus’s awkward flush, Sirius’s shit-eating grin, Dorcas’s frustrated resting face, Regulus’s unbothered expression when he was locked into his own little shell… traits that were Mary’s, Marlene’s, James’s, Lily’s, and most importantly Harry’s own.

Sirius never even learnt if these were things Harry would have liked to hear.

[omegasamart]

[Bleeding Red Broadcast]

I've had the inks for this artwork sitting around for quite a while (about 6 months or so) and finally decided to add color to it. I did a digital mock up, so originally the red was supposed to be more opaque. I do like the original ink work showing underneath now, though I just wish I painted it better.

[soupdwelling]

a memory

[duckdodger]

drew Raph and Donnie too :3

[awerzo]

he's right behind me isn't he

[binary-bird]

using the ol' 9 panel grid for dave sadek's timeline! so he might have been experimented on at some point and came back kinda weird BUT he's still in one piece so it's all good 👍

[fox-buried-in-maple-leaves]

To Be Loved, Is To Be Changed

Also known as, Alee Destan's personal notes.

taglist: @cerasus--flores

To be loved is to be changed.

Guarded. He was always guarded. Even those he trusted the most, he barely trusted. He feared them in a way. Feared the vulnerability they presented to him. Like showing someone a wound they couldn't have otherwise seen and wondering if they had put it there.

That made sense to him, at least, that analogy. 

But being loved. It meant changing.

He always got up, in the middle of the night, slid from their arms. At his place, he could sleep on the tiny sofa tucked amongst his books, tail too large to fit, brushing against the floor. At their place, he took up residence in the bathtub. Some part of him told him it was safer.

He wasn't sure when he stopped doing that. Wasn't sure when he could curl up in their arms and feel safe. But he felt safe. He felt so safe. He'd never felt this way. He didn't feel like he needed to turn to the drugs hidden in his bookcase, or the bottle of alcohol in the kitchen. He felt.. Okay. In their arms.

To be loved is to be changed.

He watched them bag everything. The powders, the needles, the pills. "I'm proud of you." They said and he nodded, rubbing his arms wordlessly as they threw it in the garbage bag. He stayed in the kitchen as they went to place the garbage bag in the trash bin outside. Change. Change could be good.

He looked down at the rings around his finger. Thumb playing with the back of the bands. He was caught off guard by arms wrapping around his waist, being pulled into a warm chest. "I love you, my dear husband." They whispered, face pressing against the space between his ears. He wanted to cry. Maybe he did cry. He wasn't sure, shaky arms coming around them. 

"I love you too."

Yeah. He's changed. He knew that a long time ago. He knew that when he started feeling safe, stopped pushing them away, stopped fighting and accepted the feelings he had. Their eyes met his and they beamed at him. He tilted his head at them, his smile remained. They stood, kissing his cheek before going to wash their hands. 

His heart felt soft, warm. It was so domestic as they helped him chop the celery and the peppers. Spinning him when the music changed to something more upbeat. He laughed as they tilted him, giggled into their kiss. He loved them. More than anything. It was such a strange thing. His heart swelled as they pulled him straight, pulled him into their arms. 

To love is to change.

To be loved, is to be changed.

He reminded himself as he felt something familiar stir in his heart. He couldn't place it, it was similar, but different. He felt wrong for it, felt wrong for imagining what it'd be like to be held by both of them. Would his lover mind? Probably not. But it was new to him, uncharted territory he didn't understand. A new feeling.

They supported him. He learned that quickly. And eventually things had fallen into place. It worked out. The strangeness became something else, a tenderness he couldn't explain. He was growing soft, two kids, two lovers. His hardened heart, however, remained protected in layers of cast. Yes, being loved was changing him, but it scared him.

His love lingered on the tip of his tongue, it was so hard to say. He wished he could just say it. Wished he could just open his heart, display it raw for the reaper. But he couldn’t, it sat inside a guarded chest. He brushed through his hair, watched him sleep with eyes that shone in the dark, and even here, it lingered, so close to the surface, but his heart it squeezed and his throat it tightened.

He was petrified to tell his children he loved them, how could he say those words to another? Oh, it scared him so deeply. There were days he was sure he didn’t have the capacity for it, days he was sure this was all some ploy he’d managed. A cleverly crafted lie, a perfect manipulation. He was a poison, or maybe his mind was, he wasn’t sure.

To be loved is to be changed.

And he wished his insecurities didn’t eat away at him, collar tied tight around his throat, sleeves long. But they did. They did. And still, he changed. With the love of another, he changed, almost impossibly so. And maybe, it wasn’t as obvious as the way he’d changed for them, the way he’d changed upon his second truest love. 

But he changed, nonetheless. A heart like his, guarded, forced to be cold because the warmth was a weakness. It was something he all too easily recognised. He brushed his thumbs over the eternal tear tracks, holding his face gently in his hands. If anybody saw him in this park, he’d be holding nothing.

But to him? He was holding something with more meaning than he could ever word. 

“Someone might see.”

“Let them.” 

Because this love made him love recklessly. This love, no longer bound by a violence he once held, this love was reckless and raw. And he kissed death with a softness known only to the clouds of earth. A kiss wet with tears, a kiss warm with the future, smothering the cold of the past. A kiss so filled with life that even death faltered.

To be loved is to be changed.

It had taken him so long to understand safety, to understand living was more than just survival. It was an understanding he wove into every interaction with him. He wasn’t alive anymore. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t get to live. It seemed counteractive, in a way. But he didn’t care, not as he dragged the reaper along, bribing him with museum trips and dinner and things he didn’t get to do before.

And maybe that was the way he had changed.

It wasn’t about protecting himself anymore, at least, not always. And he could live with not always.

To love is to change.

It wasn’t how he usually convinced himself of things. No, he always convinced himself that being changed was a sure sign of love. And it was! But, changing another.. That counted too. That counted, to him. He hadn’t done most of the work, he could barely take any credit. But he witnessed it, heard stories, saw it firsthand. And he understood.

His actions were far less grand than that, humble, he supposed. He sat on the counter beside the washing machine as he went over the appropriate settings for the various types of laundry he did during the week. Lights, darks, intimates, bedding, different fabrics. The temperatures, the cycles, the right amount of detergent. 

They stood straight after shutting the washing machine door, pressing a kiss to his lips, one that was quick, but it made him smile. He slid the detergent jug to them, instructing them on how much to fill the cup and where to place it in the machine. Once they were done, he slid off the counter, arms wrapping around their waist.

“We’ll make a house spouse out of you yet!”

“That’ll be the day..”

To love is to change.

He watched as they managed to not burn the pancake this time, flipping it onto the plate with an all too proud smile on their face. He clapped for them, their pride was important to him, it made his heart swell. Who knew he had the capacity for this? For so much. He grabbed the toast from the toaster, placing the slices on a plate. 

“You have..” They giggled as he moved by them, head tilting to look up at them. “Did you get into the syrup? Again.” His cheeks flushed at their accusation, averting his red gaze from theirs. They leaned down, kissing the corner of his mouth. He squeaked when their tongue darted out, licking up the maple syrup he had indeed gotten into.

But, to be loved, is to be changed, too.

He spoke not of his hurt, spoke not of what ailed him in the night, what haunted him in nightmares, and flooded his waking thoughts. He couldn’t. He devoted his time to others, to his lovers, his children. But he couldn’t confront the pain he’d endured, not in any way that was meaningful. Until they sat beside him, and offered to listen. A shot through the heart, an unexpected turn of events that left him shaken to his core. 

That left him changed. 

“I don’t want to be pitied or told I should move on.” 

“I’ll only listen.”

And for a life spent unheard, he felt heard. He changed again when he felt listened to, when he felt believed, vindicated for the pain he so thoroughly felt. When he wasn’t meant to feel guilt for a long standing hurt that hadn’t left him. He changed when it finally allowed him to say those words he always struggled to say. He changed when being heard allowed him to better hear others.

To be loved is to be changed.

An unspoken understanding of emotional misunderstanding. To give and explain when the other fell behind, someone to always fill the gaps. He wasn’t the monster he’d always felt that he was. They allowed him to see that, and he allowed them to understand that better about themself, too. He was thankful, he wasn’t alone in his emotional confusion. 

Love is change.

It is a give and a take.

An understanding he’d finally reached. And one he allowed them to see.

To be loved is to be changed. 

But he was too scared to change. He was so afraid. He had gotten a home in this man's apartment, Cirino seemed nice. He was kind, helped him out, fed him, clothed him, bought him anything he needed. But he was still so afraid of the man. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how kind the older man was, he still waited for him to take advantage.

He was vulnerable in this position, hiding from his past, doing his best to run away from it. He was vulnerable and afraid. And he hated himself for his thoughts. Hated that he was so afraid this man who'd done nothing but help him would for some reason hurt him. He was afraid. He knew he had reason to be, the scars, so many of them were fresh. But Cirino had done nothing wrong to him. Love had changed him for the worse.

To be loved, is to be changed.

He couldn't sleep again. The nightmares kept waking him, her body in his arms, the reaper's partially covered expression solemn, the look on Sam's face when he got home, the pain of the aftermath. He died, and died again. No, he couldn't sleep. He couldn't sleep.

He knocked at the door, he didn't want to be alone. He waited, it was late, the man had a job. But he heard creaking inside, and the bedroom door opened. Cirino towered over him, long brown and red hair even more of a mess than usual, his green eyes weren't quite as tired as he thought they'd be. "Hey. What's up?" He questioned, voice somewhat strained. Alee hesitated, clutching the blanket he'd bought him. "Another nightmare?"

Alee nodded slowly. Cirino looked over his shoulder into the dark room, and then stepped into the hall. "Okay, come on." He shut his door behind him and Alee quickly became aware he had somebody over. But he still escorted the younger man to his bedroom, he kept the door open, and brought Alee over to the bed. He pulled the comforter back and Alee laid down, wiggling to the edge so that Cirino could lay down too.

With the pillow he was holding between them and their heads on separate pillows, they stared at each other. Alee hated sharing his bed. And yet he sought him out. Every time. Was he hoping for validation for his fears? That was sick of him if that was the case. But what was he if he wasn't being used? "Are you okay?" Cirino asked in a quiet voice, a frown on his face as he stared at the man.

"I'll be okay."

"Okay."

To be loved is to be changed.

He stopped being so afraid at least. He understood what it meant to have a friend who cared about him and only cared about him, who didn't want anything else. Maybe he was being changed. Maybe it was okay he was being changed. Maybe it was alright. He was still somewhat afraid though. So scared that he'd lose him too. He was immortal, but that didn't mean he wouldn't lose him.

He opened up, told him about the man hunting him down. That was change. 

He opened up, told him about his fears about what would happen. That was change.

He allowed him to get closer to him, physically and emotional. That was change.

He let him touch him, hold him, give him things, hung out with him. That was change.

Some would say it was minimal. But it meant so much to him. It opened so many doors for him.

To be loved is to be changed.

He reminded himself as his bitterness ate at his heart, his own hopelessness clouded his mind. He was angry at his feelings, how upsetting. How upsetting it was, to survive in anger, to live in anger, in regrets and pain. Only to suddenly start to forgive. Only to suddenly get too tired to rely on that anger.

Love, it was changing him. Being loved, being cared for. Loving others, caring for others. It was terribly changing him. He wanted to be angry, wanted to be hateful, spiteful. But he couldn’t. The pain that was left in his heart wasn’t their fault. And he knew that. He lived that, breathed it. But it was all he had, for so long, it was all he had.

But Deven’s insistence had begun to change his outlook, change his world view. A separate type of love, the type of love born from a child with no home. It felt like falling through a frozen lake, crashing through ice and drowning in the frigid waters. He hated it, hated this sense of change. He never wanted to be soft!

To be loved is to be changed.

Sometimes, that change wasn’t welcomed. But he couldn’t help his heart, as bleeding and raw as it was. He’d grown soft, he’d certainly grown soft if he was considering accepting them into his heart. The hole wasn’t gone, filled up only with guilt and pain. But it was a step, forgiveness was a step.

Each flower picked carefully, a meaning twisted into every single petal. Every letter penned with his lover aiding him, careful meaning hidden between prose and beautiful words. He always was a bit of a coward, then, he’d always seen them as a coward too. Maybe it was the fitting end. This disgusting forgiveness.

To be loved is to be changed.

The sincerity with which they smiled at him near broke his heart. He didn’t deserve that kindness. And suddenly he had to wonder when the hell he cared about that? He’d always hated them, wanted them dead. He’d tried to kill them, sort of. And suddenly his heart raced and his face flushed and they were beautiful in the lighting.

What was love doing to him? Making him soft, forgiving, now weak? His tail swished and their hand in his felt right, another stupid gala, another stupid spin. He hated them, only showed his face for his duty. But pulled close to their chest as they swayed him to the music and he found himself hating the moment a little bit less.

He felt conflicted, felt scared, his stomach turned as he looked up at them. Orange eyes never left his. They’d never been so close to him, he realised, at least not for this long. “Are you enjoying yourself?” They were so sincere, he didn’t deserve sincerity. He was a monster, he tried to kill them! Did they even know? No. No they didn’t even know.

“I am, thanks to you.”

What was he becoming?

To be loved is to be changed.

Dark fingers ran through his hair, soft lips pressed against where the skin faded to purple. A soft chuckle, bright eyes, dark cheeks. He hated it. They were gorgeous and kind and blunt and their heart bled more than his. And he found himself wanting to be better again. Found himself wanting to do better. For them, for his family.

“I love you.” Slipped passed those same soft lips, despite the pain associated, despite the hole in his heart. The hole they knew all too well. One day he would have to own up to his mistakes, to the pain he’d caused, the things he’d done. And he would have to risk their view of him changing, he would have to risk losing. But it was a risk he was suddenly willing to take.

He was changing. He couldn’t stop it. Did he even want to stop it? He wanted to be better.

[creek-ink]

2nd page spread in the new sketchbook

.

for @soup-world ;)

[inkly-heart]

[deceasedpoet]

What could this nerd be thinkin about?

[yourlocalbadgerscales]

Imagine Remus Lupin has a scar that goes straight through his lips. His upper lip is constantly all swollen and damaged. It makes him so extremely insecure of himself to know that this scar will forever be present on his face. Whatever beauty he had before he got this scar is now all gone, taken away from him, according to himself. He tries not to bother too much…

The first time Sirius kisses him on the lips he almost cries when it over, because how can’t he? Someone loves him enough to kiss the lips he find disgusting and horrible over and over, like it’s easier than breathing.

[hellenhighwater]

Hmm....how hard can large scale mosaic possibly be? I feel like my plans for the room I'm working on could use something really shiny and impactful and maybe I want to make a fold-down cutting table and maybe I want to do it out of mosaic, even though that will be ungodly heavy.

It's a fun idea. I'm not sure if it's a good idea.

I haven't done mosaic since a one-off high school art class but I feel like the component skills are ones I already have, sooooo....

I have been keeping to a blue and gold celestial theme for both my guest room and my art workspaces, because if and when I move those spaces are likely to be combined. Cutting table, even though it would be for a different room, falls in the same vein, so I'm thinking something with a nice dark night sky and maybe some branches or leaves...