#always thought you could tell when artists pour their whole soul in a piece and idek it just feels good when they're that happy too ;w;

[dirtyoldmanhole]

the decision of craftily hitting up old gunter fans for commissions was the best idea ever b/c

a) you can tell it makes their entire week to revisit an old beloved blorbo

b) it makes MY entire day

c) more gunter art!!!! by fans who appreciate him. <3

[theredsuzuran]

Hello! Could I request Douma with a s/o who enjoys art? For instance, painting or drawing then placing their artworks around the paradise cult? They could be demon / human but preferably aware about the whole eating cult members thing? Me being me I would be fine knowing that lol. Sorry if this is too specific but thank you in advance!

Thank you so much for this request, I hope its upto your liking and I apologize if I have messed up🥺

Douma x Reader ~

The warm rays of the sun glistened your skin with a golden hue as you stood there on the long wide corridors holding the remaining pieces of arts that you were pasting on the walls of the busy temple, gazing at the distant sky with full concentration succumbing deep into the abyss of its aesthetics. So much so that you failed to notice your fellow cult members reaching out until someone pat your shoulder startling you suddenly.

"Oh" a soft sigh escape from your mouth as you to snapped out of your thoughts, looking directly at them with eyes still dreaming.

"We have been calling you for so long (y/n) san~ aren't you gonna tell your friends about him?"

"Do you think its going to rain anytime soon?"

"Are you even listening to what am saying?"

Averting your gaze from them you lifted your head upward at the direction of the tremendous vast expanse paying no attention to them while drifting away in your own world.

"If it rains will I see that again?" spacing out yet again but this time evoking vivid memories of a man finding your desolated body covered with blood and mud, drenched under the heavy downpour.

"What?" One or them inquired both curious and annoyed at the same time.

"I told you! (y/n) is weird just leave them alone its fruitless to strike any conversation at all, Lord douma probably shows his pity being a man of virtue" one of them whispered so that you don't hear them badmouthing you.

"Right who cares about those stupid paintings" the other giggled at your face then turned away leaving you behind in the now empty hallway.

All of them associate with you because of the favour you get from Douma, the supreme head of the eternal paradise cult. You have merely smiled knowing that they have always belittle your precious artworks crushing your fragile confidence into pieces although let's say you would never encounter them again and that's a different story, still they were unable to break your devotion. Every painting you made were nurtured and cared with great affection as you put your heart and soul into it. Most importantly there was the charming leader himself who encouraged you rather than making fun of it. That's the exact reason why douma was your savior.

Even though you knew the heinous crimes he have committed, the cannibalistic practices that occurs during midnight inside the temple complex, yes it terrifies you but still you cannot find in your heart to hate him, you wish demons could co exist together alongside mortals although it sounds absurd as predators can never befriend their natural prey but you were an artist who saw the world with a different perspective instead of blaming demons you felt sympathy. Since they were humans too once and due to unavoidable circumstances they are now suffering this fate. Making you wonder what was his story?

However you are quite mad lately since It has been days you last saw your beloved cult leader, afterall he has things to do and you seem to grow lonelier each day due to the lack of his presence. The way he caressed your cheeks and smiled ever so lovingly at you made your heart flutter with ecstacy. Art therefore have always been your escape as your days passes drawing sketches of him. You sat on the wooden engawa, with papers and colours scattered all over the floor holding your brush in hopes of completing his perfect image but your mind wandered to the eromous clouds engulfing the sky above. When suddenly you caught glimpse of a familiar sitting right next you.

"I thought I would wait since you were busy admiring the beautiful nature"

"Douma" a sudden rush of emotions came pouring down, the storm seem to have calm down by the heavy rain. However it was hard for poor (y/n) to decide whether to jump with pure happiness or to just sit and cry for leaving them astray.

"There there my little dove, am here" he replied smiling charmingly engulfing you in a tight embrace.

The two sat on top of the wooden floor. Once again letting the silence to develop, this time droplets of water accompanied the tranquil atmosphere with its drizzling sound.

"Are you hanging your paintings on the walls?" Douma asked enthusiastically breaking the previous calm.

"Yes" you replied politely

"good good" reaching his arms to pat you gently, he praised.

"Douma, where have you been?" You questioned Finally letting those words escape from your quivering lips which you were desperately trying to swallow inside this entire time and regretting because you are afraid of what might happen next for asking such an outrageous question ruining the blissful aura.

"Aww did (y/n) miss me?" Douma answered still maintaining his lively composure. Although there was sudden shift in the atmosphere as it grew a bit tense.

"What if I say I did?" You murmured under your breath blushing slightly to which his eyes widened for he have awaited long for something like this to happen.

"I have some orders to fulfill for that man" the douma chuckled slightly as he began speaking again "and probably he did not like it a bit that I failed to accomplish my mission" when you notice one of his beautiful multicolored orb a little swallowen as if someone have pierced his eyeballs out. You were aware of his supernatural existence and strength because he was not some ordinary demon but witnessing such injury made your heart drop.

"Now (y/n)~ show me what you are drawing" his face gleaming with excitement as he clapped his hands.

"It's not yet completed"

"Don't be like that show me" he made a puppy face.

"Noooo" you cried in protest trying your best to restrain him but failed miserably, since he was faster than you and upon seeing the drawing the sheet of paper he stopped responding. Been living for a century having money, status and almost a perfect immortal body, he still felt hollow. People stand in line for hours to worship him in order to achieve their own desires, to gift him valuable fortunes, antiques, exclusive garments and all sorts of expensive merchandise and sometimes in hope of wooing him but never in his life he felt so content by a simple piece of art made with such adoration. Overwhelming a ruthless uppermoon like him with strong emotions.

"I know it's not that good" you bit your lips in embarrassment but you were taken aback when you felt a pair of muscular arms wrapping your waist resting his head on your lean shoulders. Returning his gesture you smiled and closed your eyes running your hands in his platinum blonde hair in an attempt to soothe him.

"Douma do you remember the time we met?" douma hummed in response.

"Its because of you that am still alive and I can't show my gratitude enough, I have sworn to the art I love I will never break my loyalty towards you", douma looked at you this time when you suddenly reached your arms to cup his face amusing a bit in the process.

"Back when I was a child, I saw a beautiful arc covering the blue sky displaying a wide range of bright colours taking my breath away for I was mesmerized, and I hope I could see that again as I was laying down on the ground reminding the jovial moments of life before my demise, admist the rain I saw a shilloute of a man approaching me- that's when I saw that again in your eyes instilling hope within me, its a monochromatic world when you are not around"

That's when he took your hands into his large ones gently, giving the most lovable expression he could ever make, something so genuine for someone like him. He did not know why he was so attracted to a human like you. Moving his fingers on your lips caressing it softly smudging the colour you have applied before as he leaned closer and closer making your eyes shut tight too flustered to even look. Your face heating up on his cold touch, as you felt a his lips pressed softly onto your nose.

Opening your eyes slightly you found him grinning at your beet red face.

"Let's put that painting on my wall then!"

[depressedacadamia]

Drunken Dares

Prompt + paring: Tattoo Parlour au, ‘night’ + Solangelo 

A/N:  Hellooo- i had the choice between a tattoo parlour au or a flowershop au but I'm already writing a pjo flowershop au so I thought I'd spice it up with a tattoo parlour au! I kinda wanted there to be a part two becuase I wanted a bit of bonding between the two so maybe if i remember, that may happen? Anyway- enjoy  <3 from phi phi!

Read on A03         Writersmonth 2021       Masterlist

“Do I really have to do this?” Will groaned slightly. It was late at night and here Meg was, pushing him in a tattoo parlour.

“Yep!” She hummed as she pushed him forward.He tripped over his own foot as he flung through the double doors. He was about to continue reluctantly before realising the short minion who had forced him here was no longer by his side.

He turned around and frowned. “ Meg? Why aren’t you coming in?”

“I’m underage,” She hummed.

“You know you can just stand to the side?” Will asked, a slightly desperate undettone to his statement which Meg noticed. He was begging her not to leave him in the scary dark tattoo parlour which was full of buff, scary people.

“Sorry- but I must not break the law!”

“Last week you happily started trying to drive my car!” Will yelled at the glass doors. Alas, his yells were ignored as Meg blissfully ignored him as she continued her walk home, leaving William Andrew Solace in a tattoo parlour.

What was he meant to do?Walk up to the guy at the counter and tell him that he wanted a tattoo? He should have never gotten drunk and played truth or dare- he should have known that the first thing Leo would dare him would be to taint his beautiful freckled skin. The worst part ultimately was the fact that he had to get it on his chest.

Perhaps the gods above saw Will’s freak out or perhaps Leo was simply being extra nice when he saw Will in the middle of the parlour looking so out of place it was painful but either way, the next thing Will knew, he was being taken by the wrist towards the counter by none other than Leonidas Valdez; the very bastard who had gotten him into this mess.

“I’m surprised you actually came,” Leo commented.

“Meg forced me,” Will grunted.

“So,” Leo sighed as he tapped at the cigarette in between his fingers, “ Do you know what you’re getting?”

“Uhh… no, not really., How does this work? You tell them what you want and then they stab at your body with a needle?”

Leo let out a small scoff which had smoke billowing out of his lips and nose as if he was a chimney. “ No, darling- they shave, sanitise and then they stab at your body with a needle.”

“That made me feel so much better.”

Ignoring the evident sarcasm, Leo simply smiled. “ You’re welcome, blondie.”

Wil, ruffling at his hair, mumbled, “Shut up.”

Leo, who was significantly enjoying teasing Will, was cut off by Piper- one of the last people Will expected to see at the tattoo parlor. But on a second look, the tattoos on her abdomen spiraling up to her breasts and arms made Will wonder why he never noticed them.

“Oh Will- you’re actually here?” Piper's surprised voice rang out.

“Unfortunately.”

“Well the artist is ready for you,” Piper ushered him towards the dark room, only illuminated by the UV lights.

Will visibly gulped. Leo and Piper couldn’t help but interlock eyes and snort a little- after all, it was simply adorable at how nervous this newbire was.

Will took small steps and the second he passed the door, it slammed shut.

What the fuck- do the doors here have a mind of their own?

“Come in- take a seat,” A voice commanded. Will, who didn’t really have any choice but to listen to what he was being told, fumbled around, trying to figure out where he was meant to be going. It seemed that Will, in his internal chaos, did not notice the tattoo artist's leg propped up to the side and therefore, when Will finally did notice the leg- it had been the hard way.

He tripped and the next thing he knew, his wrist had made a new best friend. Bruised and swollen, Will’s wrist heavily ached- forcing him to let out a small groan of pain.

“Fuck, are you okay?” the voice rang out. Will heard a relative amount of fumbling and heavy footsteps and suddenly the room was flooded with light.

The face that he was met with was not one he was expecting. The boy had mid length hair- while it wasn’t really long, it was flowing over the nape of his neck slightly and it looked like it really got in the way of his eyes. He watched as the boy seperated the pieces of hair covering his eyes, creating an effortless look.

His face radiated an emotion that Will couldn’t describe- sadness? Or was it simply the face of someone who was content with little?

“Are you okay?” The man asked. Will watched- he had never seen such dynamic expressions and the way this man's face morphed into an expression of concern had him wrapt with all.

Will could only nod stupidly, his hand still clutching at his bruised wrist.

“Dya mind if I have a look at that anyway?” The artist insisted as he grabbed a med kit and sat on his spinning chair before wheeling himself towards Will who now sat on the chair that he was originally appointed.

He gently cradled Will’s wrist between his fingers, turning it round and round. His face contorted between emotion of worry and concern.

“It’s okay,” Will re-assured . “ It’s not sprained or broken, just a bit of bruising and swelling. Should be gone by tomorrow morning.”

“You sure?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Ah,” He smiled slightly. “ I shouldn’t question you, Dr..?”

“Solace- but Will is fine. How about you?”

“Nico- Now let's have a look at what you want huh?” He closed the notebook he had been creating designs in before Will walked in and pulled out a collection of the most popular designs so far.

“These are the trending ones currently but I can always pull out something else if you want. Or if you have your own design that you wanted, I can try with it,” Nico offered. He pulled out a cigarette and flicked his lighter.- once, twice and a third time before grunting and pulling out a different one. Will watched, hypnotized, as Nico lit the cigarette.

Nico looked up and caught Will staring and shyly asked. “ You don’t mind do you?”

“No… but you should try and refrain from smoking. It’s really, really bad for you and I say this as a doctor.”

“You’re the 4th person today who has said that.”

“I’m alarmed that you managed to smoke that many times today,” Will said with concern.

Ignoring what Will had said, Nico continued. “Anyway, have you chosen anything yet?”

Will let out a heavy breath. “ Ah, no. My friends kinda forced me here but nothing here really matches… me.”

“What about this flower? Or the skull? “

Will shrugged. “ I don't think I’d want those on my skin permanently”

Nico nodded and continued smoking, while Will flipped through the latest designs. Nothing seemed to catch his eye as much as something he could have sworn he saw earlier. It was a stylised sun tatoo- nothing necessarily special but it reminded him of his mum- and his home.

“Excuse me,” Wil started, causing Nico to put his cigarette down in the ashtray, “ I was just wondering if the designs in that were available?”

Will pointed to the notebook That Nico had closed earlier. He watched as Nico hesitated. His face seemed to be stuck between wanting to let Will sneak a peek but it also seemed to want to tell him to stop.

However, his hand simply made up his mind and shoved the book across the table in Will’s direction.

Daintily, with the utmost care, Will opened the first page and his eyes almost watered at the immense detail and beauty poured into these designs. It looked like the heart and soul of the artist had been etched into every little petal, every small ray and eventually after gaping at each page he found the design he had spotted earlier.

The sun wasn’t special but it held Will’s eyes so much that Nico told him, “ Close your mouth. You’re practically drooling.”

“This one,” Will pointed to the stylised sun, “ I want this one.”

Nico scanned his eyes over it before humming and nodding. He put out his cigarette and got up.

“Where d'ya want it?”

“Chest- left side,” Will blurted out. He didn’t know why he wanted it there- perhaps because he wanted the thing that reminded him of his mother to be as close to his heart as possible.

Nico nodded as he prepared everything. Then he turned to Will. “ You realise you’ll need to take off your shirt?”

Will blushed and looked away as he started unbuttoning the top of his shirt. Meg had dragged him out of the hospital as soon as his shift had ended and thrown him into the tattoo parlour and therefore he was still wearing a crisp white shirt.

“Do I need to take off the whole thing?”

Nico took a quick look at Will. The sight that met his eyes was surprising- he used to seeing the chest of his clients but for some reason the sight of a very attractive and intelligent young man before him was very different. He seemed to be looking away as a blush graced his cheeks and ears. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough for Nico to see Will’s muscled chest.

How did a doctor have enough time to work out like that?

“Uh... just a bit more, I don’t want the needle to catch on the side of your shirt.” Nico reiterated, even though he was lying.

“Okay, so now, I'm just going to clean the area and then I’ll trace the sketch before tattooing it on. Do you want red or black?”

“Uh- you can choose,” Will sighed, desperate to get it done and over with.

Nico nodded. He slipped on some gloves and wiped at Will’s chest with an antiseptic. Will flinched at the cold wipe and the soft touch of the artist before him .

“Sorry,” Will murmured, “ It’s cold.”

Nico simply nodded as he began sketching the outline of the tattoo. Will tipped his head back, unable to meet the eyes of Nico ro even look at what was happening. He could feel the tickly touch of the pen on his skin and the soft brush of Nico’s glove on his skin every once in a while.

“All done. Now for the painful part. You may feel like you’re getting stung by a bee a lot,” Nico warned. “Try not move a lot, it will make it harder for me.”

Will, who couldn’t formulate words at this point, simply nodded. “I’d let you squeeze my hand, but unfortunately- I need both,” Nico smiled as reassurance.

He heard the buzzing of the gun and braced himself. The needle poked and prodded as he expected and at times he did wish he had stolen some morphine from the hospital beforehand but all in all, he managed to get the tattoo without bursting into tears and without ruining hids tattoo.

“All done,'' Nico said as he covered the tattoo.

“When do I get to see it?” Will asked, curiously, happier that it was over.

“In a few days- it just needs to sink in.”

Wil sat there, unsure of what to do next. He had paid and was now just sitting in an empty room with his tattoo artist. Was he meant to just say goodbye? Wasn't that kind of harsh?

But Will realised, had this been anybody else or any other appointment- he wouldn't want to be staying for any extra time. Did he want to be friends with this guy? Maybe it was that- yes, it would be that. As someone who was socially awkward, Will knew that he liked hanging out with people; he simply wasn't very good at it

Just as he was going to ask for his number, Nico passed him a slip of paper. “ Here’s my number. Call me when you’re free.”

With that and a wink, Will was left in the empty tattoo room.

[theimprobabledreamersworld]

Don’t Let Them Hurt You- Ao3

It took a lot longer that planned, but this Pintroverts one shot is complete! :D

The plot around this one is based on Nico getting an anon hate message on song lyrics he posted online, and Thomas then comforts him and helps him see past it... It was something I had sitting in my WIP folder for a while but initially I was struggling with writing it. So I delved into the realm of personal experience for the hurt and the comfort parts ☺️

I hope you enjoy reading it! <3

General writing taglist: @psychedelicships @jwillowwolf @lost-in-thought-20 @writerwithtoomanyships @red-imeanblue (If you’d like to be added/removed let me know!)

Read on Ao3!

Don’t Let Them Hurt You.

Pintroverts. Hurt/Comfort/Fluff

Warnings: Upset moments, anon hate message, self-deprication.

Nico scribbled furiously, his pen refusing to leave the crumpled piece of paper he found in his bag. The song lyrics raced into his mind while he was out with Thomas an hour ago. He smiled as he thought about his new boyfriend. It was like a breath of fresh air, a clarity in his clouded over world, the writer’s block he had been struggling with for months went away almost instantly after they met in that food court as few months ago. Before, he would stare at his laptop willing words to appear, but his mind wasn’t in it and his fingers wouldn’t type. As the days ticked on and not even a single word appeared on the screen, the lack of motivation set in, and he almost gave up on his newest project… but Thomas crashed his way into Nico’s life and stopped that from happening. In fact, he had already set up several more documents with song ideas in them ready to write as soon as he could, and he couldn’t wait to share them with the people who followed his blog.

Nico’s little following were always so kind and supportive, they were the main reason he kept going with writing songs. People have asked if they can perform his lyrics and he was always blown away by the sheer talent of some of his followers. How he got so lucky, he would never know, but Nico valued every single of them. He finally reached the end of the page, and as the pen fell to the paper with a satisfied clatter, he took a deep breath and pushed the chair away from the desk. He sighed and stretched his arms above his head.

He was never one to speak very positively about himself, but he had a feeling that this was his best song yet. All he needed to do was look it over, type it up and publish it. He hoped that his followers would feel the same. He felt like he should wait for Thomas to come back from getting take-out so he could be the first one to see it, he was the inspiration for it after all. However, the excitement got the better of him, and he remembered that Thomas has notifications on for his blog, so he would be one of the first people to see it. His mind was made up and Nico raced off to get the lyrics typed up.

The word document was opened with lightning speed. The blank space was suddenly being filled with words and emotions at a rapid pace, it was becoming a tapestry right before his eyes and he began to realise just how much he had missed writing. Sooner rather than later, he was finished. He started at his finished work and then opened his blog. Should he really post this? It was his most emotive song yet, and it definitely makes it clear that there is someone in his life now. He couldn’t be happier. How someone as amazing as Thomas wants to be a part of his life, he’ll never work out, but he wasn’t complaining. He took a deep breath before opening his blog and creating a post. He fingers shook a little as he typed out his usual message that he puts at the end of all of his posts.

‘Hey everyone! Just wanted to thank you all once again for your support and patience while I took a while to come up with some new song lyrics! I owe this one to someone incredibly special who crashed into my life recently, and I hope it comes across in this song <3 I genuinely don’t feel like I deserve the support you give me but know that I value you all with my heart and soul. Nico <3’

The overwhelming sense of pride as he hit ‘post’ made his heart beat agonizingly fast, but he couldn’t keep the blog open otherwise he would start to worry about what people think. So he texted Thomas instead checking in to find out what time he’d be coming over. The reply came through almost instantly, 20 minutes, only 20 minutes he had to wait. As Thomas signed off with the signature purple heart, he smiled and held his phone close to his chest. Nico felt his pulse continue to race, he had never felt this for anyone else before and it was unusual, but in the best way possible.

His laptop began to ping with notifications and even though he tried to ignore them, he caved and opened his blog up. To say that Nico was blown away by the response would have been the biggest understatement of the century. He smiled widely as more comments and reactions poured in, at least other people liked the song lyrics as much as he did. He felt on top of the world, until one more comment popped up and it felt like the world was crashing down around him in a matter of seconds.

‘It's true that creators aren't entitled to support, but you. You don't deserve anywhere near as much support as you're getting. There are so many creators out there that are much better than you and they don't get recognition. What you post is nothing special, so how about you stop and let people get support who actually deserve it, you're not worth the time of day.’

Nico stared at the comment until he could almost burn a hole through his laptop screen. He’d never had a hate comment before, and he didn’t know how to take it. He was being so dramatic, it was one hate comment, but that was enough to knock him for six. His heart hurt; his mind was fighting the thoughts racing around. He backed away from his laptop until he hit the wall and he slowly slumped down it, holding his crumpled paper copy of the lyrics tightly in his hand. Is this what people really thought of him?

Well, they were right. He always said that he never deserved the support he was given. Why should he have anyone reading his work when there are other creators that are exponentially better than him? He was a nobody who wrote songs, what was that really? It’s not as if he was a singer, or an artist… someone of worth. He shouldn’t stand in the way of others, what was so special about him? That commenter was just bold enough to say what everyone was clearly thinking behind their screens. Of course it wasn’t real. People can say what they want when no one will ever work out who they are. He laughed bitterly as the tears fell down his face. How could he have been so stupid? No one likes what he does, of course they wouldn’t. He slumped his head on his legs and held his breath until he couldn’t contain his sadness anymore.

The doorbell rang, and he sighed. Of course, Thomas was going to see him like this… that’s going to scare him off. He got up, hesitantly walking to front door and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. God, he was a mess. His eyes were red raw from crying, and his hair was a mess where he clawed at it. He let one person get to him, one anonymous person hiding behind a screen, and he hated himself for it. As the front door opened, Thomas was putting something in his pocket while holding a bag of Chinese food.

“Hey! I saw your song! Nico, it’s incredible- hell, you’re incredible!” Thomas beamed but when he looked up, his smile dropped, and worry clouded over his eyes in an instant. Nico must have looked a mess, he was expecting Thomas to drop the food and run, he wouldn’t blame him.

“Nico? What’s wrong? Hey, hey, hey. Come on, let’s get inside.” As soon as Thomas asked what was wrong, he broke again. The tears began to cascade, and Nico hid his face behind his hands, he felt a hand wrap around his waist and gently bring him back into the apartment. As he was guided to the sofa, he heard Thomas scurrying around the kitchen putting the bag down then coming in to sit next to Nico. He rubbed his hand gently up and down Nico’s back, whispering that everything was okay. The tears began to subside, and he leaned into Thomas’ touch who happily reciprocated. He felt a kiss on his forehead, and he wiped his face of the residual tears off his face.

“So… can you tell me what has got the literal embodiment of sunshine this upset?” Nico smiled slightly and Thomas played with his hair, feeling himself instantly relax at the touch.

“I don’t know if I can… but… just look at my laptop. It should be there.” Thomas looked a little worried before heading over to the desk and reading the words on the screen. Nico saw Thomas’ hands clench until his knuckles turned white and saw how his breathing became slightly labored. The only comforting thing he could think of was, at least he didn’t imagine the whole thing. Thomas marched back over to the sofa and took Nico’s head in his hands before kissing him gently and he pressed their foreheads together.

“Now, you, Nico Flores need to listen to me. You are amazing, you are fantastic and so damn talented that it makes my head spin. The fact that one person is saying something horrendous while hiding behind a screen, it doesn’t take anything away from you. I mean, look at all of these amazing people supporting you and sending you love for your latest song!” Thomas went to the laptop and brought it over to Nico, the comments underneath the hate were flooded with positivity and love, he beamed when he scrolled though, seeing people defend him made his heart feel full.

“Everyone else feels the same way I do about you. You have a phenomenal way with words, they way you write is captivating and you’ve inspired me more than you know. You’ve inspired countless others too. Your posts are special, you’re unique in your own way… let some jealous nobody stay just that… a nobody. Don’t let them hurt you, hun. You deserve all the love in the world, and I will give you all I can! If anything, I don’t deserve someone as incredible as you. You give so much kindness, so much happiness to others… you’ve gotta save some of that for yourself too.” Nico smiled and looked down at the floor, everything Thomas said was true. He could feel all of his sadness and pain melt away so he wrapped his arms around Thomas, hoping he could say thank you without words, otherwise he’d start crying for a different reason this time.

“Right, okay. Let’s reheat the food and we’re just going to watch trashy tv until I have to go home. Sound good?” He nodded eagerly as Thomas stood up holding his hand out for Nico to take, and they talked in the kitchen until the microwave made its call. As they sat together arm in arm until late into the evening laughing at a comedy show re-run, Nico thanked his lucky stars that Thomas crashed into his life. When Thomas had let him know that he was home safe, Nico fell asleep smiling and forgetting the events of the day.

His alarm blared out across his bedroom and Nico rubbed his bleary eyes, attempting to find his glasses to turn off his phone. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realised it wasn’t an alarm, it was a series of text notifications. He stared as he noticed the time, it was rare that he slept in till 1pm but last night was the exception. Nico unlocked his phone and read the stream of texts from his favourite person.

‘Hey! Good morning, Sunshine! I hope you’re feeling better today <3’

‘You are amazing and fantastic; I can’t imagine my world without you in it <3’

‘Anywaaay, I’m rambling now haha. You have that effect on me ;) <3’

‘So, I know you're probably still resting, you had a rough day yesterday! But, when you wake up… go look at my YouTube channel okay? I’ve got a surprise for you <3’

Nico smiled as he read through the texts, and then he immediately went onto YouTube where a new video from Thomas immediately sat at the top of the page. He clicked on it and turned the volume all the way up, he heard music begin and Thomas was standing in the middle of his apartment singing. Nico stared in awe at how amazing his voice was, he’s heard him multiple times, but he was always blown away every time. It wasn’t until he started singing a particular part that Nico gasped and put a hand over his mouth.

‘If my arms were on a clock, I'd stop the time to be with you. Eternity I'd stop, just to be with you.’

These were his song lyrics from yesterday. He couldn’t believe how perfectly Thomas had captured the song, the emotions he was trying to express. It was a complicated symphony but sung with a perfect simplicity that made the words more powerful. He felt tears welling up in his eyes once again, he couldn’t believe that Thomas would do this for him and as the screen faded to black, he went to text Thomas but then he saw him pop back up on the screen.

“Hey guys! So, it’s been a little while since I’ve posted any music covers on here. I really, really hope you love this song as much as I do! The lyrics were written by my wonderful boyfriend, Nico. As soon as I read the lyrics, I knew I had to arrange and perform this song with the help of some brilliant friends who came together very last minute to help me out. I just… wanted to show the guy that I adore that he is amazing, and the words that he writes have the power the make the world a brighter place. So, Nico. This is all for you. Thank you to all my friends who came together to help, their links are in the description below. Thank you to Nico for inspiring me, his song blog is linked below. Thank you to all of you for watching, and until next time… Take it easy, guys, gals and non-binary pals. Peace out!”

Nico smiled proudly as he watched Thomas smile his trademark goofy smile as the video faded to black for the final time. He went back to the beginning and played the video again as he grabbed he phone and text Thomas.

‘Thank you for everything you did for me yesterday. The song and the video are incredible, you should share some of that talent Mr. Sanders ;) Seriously Thomas, I’m the luckiest man in the world to be with you <3’

He sent the text, and then the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Nico looked at the front door suspiciously, he wasn’t expecting anyone. He crept over and peered through the looking glass then opened it as fast as possible. Thomas was holding a large bouquet of flowers and a speaker. He smiled and kissed Thomas on the cheek before taking the flowers out of Thomas’ hands and smelling the delicate scent. Brightly coloured Roses, Chrysanthemums, Delphiniums, and Irises. They were simply perfect, just like the man in front of him.

“I needed to see you, and I thought I could give you a live performance of the song?” Thomas smiled holding the speaker up in air, Nico invited him in and quickly put the flowers into a vase he kept for ornamental purposes. They were truly beautiful, and he was impressed that Thomas remembered what his favourite flowers were after talking about it on the first date. When he turned around, music was almost swirling around them, and Thomas was standing in the middle of the room. He reached out for Nico’s hand, as their hands touched, Thomas pulled him in close and they slow danced while Thomas sang. As the song drew to a close, they came to a stop and this time, Nico pulled Thomas in for a kiss. When they parted, they couldn’t keep their eyes off each other.

“You’re my entire world now, Mr. Sanders.”

“And you are mine, Mr. Flores.”

[jawritter]

Scars

Summary: The truth can be ugly, scars go deeper than superficial wounds, somethings we will always carry. Can you handle the ugly truth, and still see the love of your life in the same light? 

Rating: Explicit 

Warnings: DARK FIC! Mentions of past injuries, Dean’s physically not so pretty in this one, so if that kind of thing bothers you be warned. Language, smut, unfeeling smut, angst, there’s hardly no fluff in this one. unprotected smut, years of hurt feelings and resentment. Issues from growing up in the life. I think that’s about it.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2713

This fic created for:@spndarkbingo! 

Square Field: Resentment.

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons! Thanks so much love! 

A/N: The artwork featured in the banner is not my own, and all rights belong to the artist, whom I was unable to pin down. Please do not copy my work! I hope you all enjoy this one!

Want More? Check out my MASTERLIST. Still want more? BECOME A PATREON!

Fuck if it didn’t all happen so fucking fast. One minute, you were  running behind Dean up the stairs of the old victorian style manner, chasing a witch with guns drawn, witch killing bullets cocked and loaded into the chamber. Then boom, the bitch appeared out of nowhere and now you  all three of you were pressed against one of the mold-covered walls in what you assume used to be a bedroom by an invisible force. She stalked back and forth in front of the three of you like a tiger about to pounce. 

“So, this is the great Dean and Sam Winchester,” she taunts as she continues to pace in front of  you. “You know, I honestly thought that you would be smart enough to not come in guns blazing. The only backup you bring is your pathetic little girlfriend against a witch that is over 400 years old!”

You watched as Dean’s jaw worked and his eyes narrowed in frustration. If looks could kill, she would have died on the spot. 

“How do you know this she my only backup?” Dean mocked, sneering at her as she took a step closer to him. “How do you know I don’t have someone on their way here right now to put a bullet through your skull?” 

The humorless laugh that belted from the witch as she threw her head back in a whole-body laugh fully intending to mock your hunter boyfriend, made your skin crawl and your blood run cold. 

It wasn’t entirely untrue. Cas and Jack were on their way here right now, and when they got here, she was going to meet her long-overdue end. Jack may not be able to use his powers right now in order to keep Chuck from finding out of his return, but Cas was fully capable of shooting a gun, and that’s all you needed right now. Just one good shot.

“Oh don’t play with me Dean.You were always  such a flirt, weren’t you?” She says in a seductive tone that makes bile rise in your throat. She takes a step closer and runs her long finger index finger down Dean’s chest. He tries to squirm away from her but to no avail. 

You wanted to scream at her to leave him alone, but there was something holding your jaws closed that you couldn’t see, and no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t make a sound. A quick panicked look over to Sam told you he was in the same boat, struggling against the invisible bonds that held you all down.His eyes locked on his older brother. 

“You know , that was always something I hated about you,” she said, taking a step back and looking Dean over from head to toe as if he was a piece of meat at a steakhouse she was looking to take home. 

“You always were nothing but a flirt. A worthless, oversexed, daddy favored sack of shit that relyed on good looks and a fuck-all attitude to get you out of sticky situations.”

She cackled as she turned her back on the three of you as she made her way over to the center of the floor, taking you all in  with a satisfied smirk on her face. 

“In fact,” she continued, “I’m going to do you a favor Dean. I’m going to show you the Dean Winchester I can see. The one that hasn’t had all his scars and ugly places covered up by his angel buddy. The one that is disfigured and wretched as the man you feel inside when you look in the mirror.”

Her eyes drifted to you as you struggled against the restraints you couldn’t see. 

“Bet that little bitch of yours won’t find you so attractive then will she Dean? The big strong hunter, the handsome hero, all bravado and chivalry, always the ladies man, revealed for what he really is. Ugly and twisted.”

Before anyone could even blink, the witch pointed her boney fingers at Dean, and twisted her hand in the air. Dean let loose a scream that made your heart standstill in your chest, and a loud shot rang through the air. The witch’s body crumpled to the floor as the three of you fell from your place on the wall, and everything faded to black as your head came into contact with the hard floor.

You came back to reality with a groan as you sat up slowly, your stomach churning in protest with the evident concussion that throbbed at the side of your head. None of that mattered though.The first thought that rolled through your mind was the last thing you heard before the gunshot . Dean screaming. 

You scrambled to your feet as your mobility returned, Sam doing the same on the other side of the room, and both of you hurried to where Cas was kneeling next to Dean’s body that was curled in on itself as if he were a small child, hiding from the monster under the bed. 

“Dean!” Sam yelled, coming to a sliding stop on his knees next to his brother’s body, looking up at the Angel  with utter horror on his face that was enough to stop you in your tracks. “Can you fix it?” he questioned, but the Angel just shook his head as he stood slowly. 

“Not here. We need to get him back to the bunker. From there, I’m sure we can find the resources we need to reverse the spell.” 

You dropped to your knees next to your trembling boyfriend, and tried to move his arms away from his face, earning a yell that made everyone in the room stand still for a moment. 

“NO! Don’t look at me!” he yelled at you, curling more into himself in an attempt to hide from your view.

“Dean, please, let us help you,” you plead with him, but Dean was ever the stubborn  man he always was, and refused to move. 

You give Sam and Cas a look that screamed help. They exchanged a worried look as Sam stripped his jacket from his shoulders, and dropped it over Dean’s face for him to hide into, before Cas and Sam stood him to his feet. 

“Come on Dean, let’s get home, and we can fix this okay,” Sam attempted to console his brother as they made the slow, unstable trip to the Impala that waited out front. Dean was a shaking mess, as Sam lowered him into the back seat, still hiding in Sam’s jacket from view. 

He curled himself up in a ball in the backseat, and Sam motioned for you to get into the front of the car, stopping you from getting into the back with Dean. 

“How bad is it?” you asked him before he opened the door for you. The way he was being,  was something you had never seen before, so afraid, so vulnerable, and it was horrifying. You could tell by the way Sam was acting it wasn’t something he’d seen all that often either. 

“It’s bad,” was all he’d tell you, before motioning you to take a seat. 

You watched the ball that was Dean in the backseat the whole hours drive back to the bunker, and he never moved, never lifted the jacket from his head. 

When the car was put in park, Dean moved again, jerking the car door open to make a hurried retreat to his room with Sam hot on his heels. Cas’s old truck pulled up next to where you were left standing with Jack in tow. 

You didn’t  say a word as they watched you make your way down the hall of the bunker towards Dean’s room. You weren’t going to rest until he let you see him. Not because you cared how the witch had disfigured him. It didn’t alter your feelings for him in the slightest. You wanted him to know that. 

To your surprise, Dean had left the door unlocked to his room in his hurry to get inside the safety of his own space, and when you pushed the door open the sight that greeted you took every bit of resolve you carried to not scream. 

Dean stood looking in the now shattered mirror that hung on the wall above an old sink, both hands on either side of the porcelain bowl, his shoulders slumped slightly as he looked up to see your reflection in the mirror staring back at him. From his one remaining eye, a large tear rolled down his disfigured face, the terror and resentment he held there pouring from his soul, and out into the surrounding air between you as you closed the door slowly behind you.

If you didn’t know who he was, you probably wouldn’t  have  recognized him. Aside from the eye that looked as if it had been scored from it’s socket, deep, long gashes that would have been almost mortal injuries when they were fresh drove deep white lines into his skin that looked more like crevasses  than scars. 

They went from his forehead, all the way to where his eye used to be, and then across his nose and cheek. There were chunks and bits missing from his ears. One of his hands looked like it had been badly burned on the top of his wrist, and the other was missing more than one finger. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t hold some sort of horrific scar. 

He turned to slowly face you, his arms wrapping around his chest as if it could help make him look as small as he felt, his gaze cast down to his feet. He was still covered in mud and dirt from the hunt. Your heart was broken for him. The brave, cocky hunter you fell in love with was broken, and the self hate was radiating off of him in almost tangible waves. 

You made a slow step towards him, a hand outreached to touch the side of his face that wore the most scars, and he jumped back away from you like you had burned him. 

“Dean,” you tried as he shook his head and backed further away from you. “Please Dean, let me…”

“No,” he mumbled, shaking his head in disapproval. “No, you can’t, you can’t fix me this time Y/N. She did exactly what she said she was going to do. She turned me into the hideous monster that exists on the inside. The part of me that I can’t run or hide from, it’s open now, and there’s no taking it back.”

Shaking your own head in disbelief of what you were hearing, you made a step closer to him, definitely placing your hand against the rough, uneven skin on his mangled cheek. 

“No Dean, you're not a monster. You’re a hero, a strong brave hunter. You're not damaged and ruined. Even if we never find a way to fix this, it doesn’t matter to me, because you can’t see what I see.”

Dean’s gaze met yours and you swore you could see the hate radiating off of his hard stare. 

“When I sold my soul to save Sammy, I started to have nightmares about what was going to happen to me when I got to hell, what I was going to become. The demon version of myself told me that it knew how much I looked in the mirror, and hated what I saw there.”

Side stepping you, Dean started to strip the clothing from his body, revealing more scars with every new inch of skin that came into view. Even the deep handprint on his shoulders.

“Every mark, every scar on me is a sign of failure,” he said, his voice hard and full of disgust in himself as his hand fumbled with his belt, and his pants dropped to the ground around his ankles. Deep burns on his legs and feet met  in a purple scar, and you had to repress a shudder of horror at the pain he surely felt when these injuries occurred. 

“I lost my eye when I lost a bunch of kids to a Werewolf while in a hunt in Delaware, the same hunt that disfigured my face. Cas fixed it,” he said, still the same air of resentment and disgust. 

“These burns on my legs? They came from hell. The fire’s real Y/N, it’s very real, and it burns clean to your soul.” 

The horror must have been shown in your eyes as he continued to recount each scar as if it was burned into his memory, and by the time he was done, it was evident that even  the scars had been hidden from view, he still carried everyone with him every day, every loss, every failure, everything that he couldn’t fix. He resented himself so much, that you had no real way of knowing when it started, because he had carried it so long that it had become a part of him, of who he was. 

When he finally moved towards you, it shook you so much that you had to visibly blink away the blinding tears that were falling down your cheeks uncensored. 

“So, you still want to be with me now, baby girl, cause I don’t even want to be with me. I’m just as bad as the shit we hunt, I’m just as hideous, and just as fucking ugly as they are.”

You don’t know what made you move. If it was sheer fucking grit, or the fact that words weren’t good enough in that moment, but in  three strides, you closed the distance between yourself, and the man you loved, capturing his mangled lips in a heated kiss that was all tongue and teeth. 

Barely parting, the two of you moved together in the direction of the bed in the center of the room. Dean dropped his clothing as you went with your assistance. There were no sensual touches, no sweet sentiments, no gentle gestures as he used his sheer body weight to push you down on the bed completely bare before him, slotting himself between your legs, nipping and sucking his way from you ear to your pulsepoint, biting down hard enough to leave his mark as his thick length entered your waiting heat. 

There were no loving words as he relentlessly pounded into your body, and the shiver than ran down your spine when your fingertips felt the deep scars running down his back in the form of claw marks left by something that you would probably never see or face, would have been mistaken for pleasure by a bystander. In truth, it was the deep fear that these scars were always there, and you never knew. 

His body, even mangled and battered, drove you higher until you were both a screaming, panting mess. Your orgams washed over you in an unexpected rush, and with two more heavy, deep thrusts, Dean was spilling himself deep inside of you. 

Neither of you bothered to move. Dean just threw the covers over your bare forms as Cas entered the room, pressing his fingers to Dean’s forehead as Sam also came  into the room with a bowl that you could only assume contained a spell. You weren’t paying attention to the details. All you knew was that even though the scars were disappearing in a blinding light, and your Dean, then man you knew so well, down to the last freckle was taking his place, in your mind, you could still see them.

The deep, ugly truth in the form of scars carried more undying inner hate that once you saw, you could never unsee. A brokenness that you could never fix. No matter how they covered it up, they would always be there. Some things just would never heal, and the way Dean resented and hated the man he’d become would never change. The twisted and broken soul that you loved was barely human, and even though you’d never say it outloud, you will never be able to come to grips with the truth. Not because it was ugly and hard to swallow, but because Dean deserved better, but would never get it. That’s uglier than any scar he’d ever carry.

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[anartisticexpression]

Mystery Skulls -The Future

Alright, now that I’ve watched “Mystery Skulls Animated -The Future” and am now done screaming into a pillow because I never could have predicted THAT ending in a million years, let me get some initial thoughts down…

*Whenever I listen to “Enemy” I always think how perfectly this fits with not only Arthur and Lewis’s situation but Mystery and Shiromori’s as well so cue a pleased, “Oh!” from me that a snippet of “Enemy” made its way into the beginning of this video. Very nice!

*I’ve completely been expecting for two years that, as soon as doubt crept over Lewis’s skull, that the cave would disappear and Arthur would simply land back in the truck unharmed so that wasn’t a surprise. What WAS a surprise is that, I admit, I had fully convinced myself that the gunshot sound at the end of “Hellbent” was Lance shooting Shiromori so the reveal that it was Lewis all along that was the target really made me dramatically gasp!

*Gunshots obviously don’t affect a ghost… except for the one that went through Lewis’s chest aka his death wound which is one of those details that make you go, “Actually that DOES make a kind of sense. Ghosts WOULD be sensitive in the area that killed them.”

It also shows that Lewis isn’t entirely in control of his actions. Ghosts are beings of pure emotion and it doesn’t take much for him to go right back to irrational anger and rough up Lance which is… not cool, man. He’s going to be sorry later when he can think straight!

*The bit with the changing photograph… At this moment in time, my early thoughts are that with the first photo being only of Lewis and Vivi, it symbolises that Lewis has kept only Vivi in his heart.

Arthur is a green-eyed demon who Lewis must get Vivi away from before it is too late and Mystery is just a dog. He’s irrelevant.

However, when Arthur touches the locket, it reactivates another memory, one in which they were all a solid group and that they were happy. Lewis is clearly shocked to see this new image and when focus is also brought to Lewis’ eye(s) being visible in this photo (I’m going to set aside that they were visible in “Ghost” as well until the photo was redrawn for “Freaking Out” as I think this is pretty much a last minute idea in-between videos) it also serves to remind him of who he used to be. Eyes are a window to the soul after all and I think a small truth just broke through Lewis’ anger there enough to make him drop to his knees and weep black tears. Very effective especially when this is paired with the line, “I’m worried ‘bout the future… and fucking with the past.”

And then of course the truck blows up before they can dwell on this any longer! I love Arthur and Lewis’ dazed, “What just happened?” faces!

*Vivi takes the fact that her dog is actually a fox very well but then again she also has a ghost, a plant lady and her own ancestor connecting with her across the centuries to mentally process as well so that’s understandable.

She’s also a surprisingly effective badass (granted she is getting some help from Mushi) which was brilliantly displayed in the animation, the camera movement, the angles, the special effects… everything on screen! Not bad for someone who has spent most of this series either running from things or being unconscious! A certain Vine though, wouldn’t get out of my head -“Don’t fuck with me! I have the power of God AND anime on my side!!”

*Heh. Shiromori had a manicure in-between videos. ;)

*I really didn’t have any solid ideas as to how the Shiromori problem would be resolved but I still wasn’t expecting that! I actually shrieked out loud and I’m usually so quiet on first viewings! The horror and regret over both her and Mystery’s faces though (those are definitely, -“I didn’t want things to end like this”- tears in Shiro’s eyes) tell me that she doesn’t deserve this. She’s just a plant that let jealousy and a blood-addiction get out of control!

The only thing that gives me hope is that her heart wasn’t actually destroyed; it’s just flown off somewhere across the parking lot. She can still be regrown and start anew!

*The ending. The very definition of a, “Well, I didn’t see THAT one coming!” ending. I guess that confirms a thought that the Green Spirit can only really possess a heart that is in turmoil, one that has its guard down so to speak.

I presume it’s easy for it to grab onto “simple things” such as small animals and severed arms but when it comes to complicated living humans and magical creatures it has to wait for the right circumstances and Mystery’s heart breaking over Shiromori’s fate is just what it was looking for.

Of course there is still the question of why it is doing this. Yes, Mystery is the biggest threat so it’s taking him out of the equation but is its murderous target the whole of Mystery Skulls or just Lewis? The fact that Lewis is adopted and doesn’t know where he came from is really significant to me. It raises the possibility that the Green Spirit killed Lewis as part of a blood vendetta against his birth family that he is not even aware of. I’ll have to wait and see whether the Green Spirit and Lewis’ true backstory is even something that can be told in music video form but I really don’t think it’s causing all this death and chaos simply because it’s bored and doing this would be funny.

*I do notice that Mystery has two plasters on his heart which have to refer to his two missing tails that the Ancestor has to be responsible for. They both appear to grow back though, both as a reaction to Vivi and Shiromori getting really hurt and to the Green Spirit’s possession; it’s not only taking him over but restoring him back to his prime… just with some added decoration (love the collar changing from a ‘?’ to a ‘!?’).

I’m not sure what to think that Vivi’s shade of blue and Shiromori’s white comes pouring out of the plastered areas when they are injured nor of all the liquid seeping out of Mystery’s heart that matches several characters’ colour scheme…  and then his mouth turns green… Possibly it is just meant to represent all the different thoughts and feelings that Mystery is going through right now; all the emotions concerning everyone in his life and the mistakes he’s made with them that the Green Spirit is able to latch on to and corrupt from within.

Possibly when Mystery removed the Green Spirit in the first place, a piece of it remained inside him that the arm can connect with… because I don’t think a zombified arm literally crawled inside Mystery’s wounds and grabbed his heart at the end there!

*For most of the video, I was gasping, shrieking and letting off the occasional distressed whimper… but I really had to clap a hand over my mouth hard to stop myself from screaming with laughter at the end credit scene! Vivi and Arthur just spoke for us all, didn’t they…!?

*Final thoughts: I’ve been really hoping that the song “Magic” will be picked for the last part; it just sounds like a finale song, it speaks to me of happy endings and I have seen posts by Mystery Ben from a few years ago that he would really like to use “Magic” at some point in this story… but with this cliff-hanger, I’m having a hard time picturing the finale going cheerfully right into this peppy tune!

They could of course begin with a sample of a completely different darker song at first and then go into “Magic” but still! I’m not sure now… Wait… a few years ago, an artist named Yuramec posted an animatic of “Magic” on Youtube featuring their own character, Leopold being chased by a demonic spirit (that also has three eyes!) until the spirit is battered down with good magic and turns back into an innocent little ghost girl. Mystery Ben made a comment (Which must be on his Tumblr as I can’t find it on YouTube but I KNOW I’m not making this up!) saying that it was a funny coincidence that this video contains some ideas that he also wanted to implement for MSA but of course, he couldn’t say which ideas due to spoilers… Baring in mind as to what has happened to Mystery and his corruption, is this… is this what Ben was talking about…?

[the1918]

‘video’

Part 1/6 in the series entitled: 

“Lynne Finds Her 2005 Bandslash Livejournal and Changes All The Names to ‘Steve’ and ‘Bucky,’ With Little to No Additional Editing and it Actually Almost Works...?”

Title: “Video” (2.4k Words)

Fandom: MCR MCU

Pairing: Frank/Gerard + voyeur!Bob Steve/Bucky + voyeur!Tony

Rating: NC-17  E (Explicit) - because we go by Ao3 ratings nowadays

Disclaimer: I don't claim to own the members of My Chemical Romance. This never happened. Thank you, Ao3, for existing so that I no longer need to make these statements.

Tags: Top Bucky, Bottom Steve, voyeurism, sex tapes, anal sex, oral sex (blowjobs and rimming), throat fucking, some possible polyamory vibes at the end (that honestly did not translate well from the original bandom text, but I’m keeping it for ~artistic purity~)

Summary: Frank's email has a video attachment.  Bucky’s text has a video.

[A/N: As the series name suggests, I copied my own My Chemical Romance fanfiction from the mid-00′s and changed all the names. For the sake of purity for this little blogging performance piece, I changed little to no additional details, refused beta, and I made almost no adjustments for characterization except where the original details made absolutely no sense. Enjoy—I know 17-year old Lynne certainly did.]

***

When Tony plops down at the desk in his workshop after a long day and opens the text from Barnes, he doesn’t exactly know what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not this.

It’s a video message. Barnes has sent videos before. Usually they contain footage of his cat—Tony thinks its name is ‘Albert’ or something equally as atrocious—or maybe hidden footage of Banner picking his nose when he thinks no one’s looking.

This is not one of those videos.

Initially, it’s nothing hugely alarming. Unusual, yes, but at first he’s just watching Steve sitting on the edge of what Tony recognizes as one of the beds in the tower—probably Barnes’ bed, if the literal rack of combat knives in the background is anything to go on—and Steve’s looking at the camera with some combination of a beet-red face and an expression like he’s trying not to smile.

Tony hears Bucky’s voice for the first time, apparently from behind the camera (phone, tablet, whatever). It’s low, scratchy, and it does not match the expression on Steve’s flushed and jittery face one bit.

“Tell Tony why you’re here, baby—“

“—You know he’s going to delete this the second he gets it—”

“—Tell him.”

Steve’s huffs and rolls his eyes, but then he’s straightening his face and actually looking at the camera. It’s kind of deadly, actually.

“I’m here because Bucky wants you to see me get fucked.”

He holds Tony’s gaze through the lens, three seconds of bright blue.

The screen goes black.

There isn’t much time for Tony to relearn how to take a proper breath.

When the image returns, it’s not just Steve on the edge of the bed anymore. It’s Steve’s bare back, long and muscular and broad across the shoulders with that unfairly small waist, and then Barnes moves back with the camera and makes sure Tony can see Steve’s full glory on his knees with his hands on the headboard.

Barnes is breathing heavy; Tony can tell. Barnes is making sure to let Tony see every inch of Steve’s skin as he begins running his own hands along it, finally coming to his ass. It’s so small that it’s almost cute, but it’s firm and round like Tony always thought it looked through Steve’s ugly chinos. Barnes suddenly grabs the left cheek roughly, and a moan catches in Steve’s throat.

At this point, Tony’s brain can finally process that he’s watching a sex tape. His cock is way ahead of him, already fighting against the fabric of his sweatpants.

Barnes spends a moment caressing the smooth curves of his husband’s hips, and then rearranges himself and the camera so Tony is staring directly at Steve from behind. His legs are spread, cock hanging between them, full and ready and taut. He can see Steve’s head resting on his forearms, burying his face in his own skin.

Barnes slides a finger down the crack of Steve’s ass, applying pressure to the rose-colored pucker he finds. Tony knows now that Steve is familiar with Brazilian waxing.

“You wouldn’t believe how tight this is, Stark.”

His hand moves to cup Steve’s balls lightly, eliciting a whimper from Steve’s and a twitch from Tony’s own dick.

“He’s so fucking good, especially like this, all spread out so you can see him.”

Tony is helpless but to agree.

At first, he doesn’t comprehend the video switching again, but he sees a flicker and the lighting change that inevitably comes with homemade pornography before he notices the slick look of Barnes’ vibranium fingers as he goes to slide one into Steve’s ass.

Steve keens, moving his hips to take more in.

“Yeah, fuck. Just like that, baby.”

Fuck it, Tony thinks. He begins palming his cock through the restriction of his pants, feeling only vaguely guilty about it at this point.

The movement of Barnes’ finger in and out of Steve is easy and wet and completely obscene. He takes a second one without any struggle, a third with a little whimpering but even more encouragement.

Steve loosens under Barnes’ ministrations. The fingers inside him are crooked to tease but not to satisfy, and Tony is starting to think that he could really fucking get into this when the scene changes—again.

Barnes is holding his own cock in his free hand, which, hey, appears to be about as thick and beefy as his Hydra lab-rat body. Tony is both jealous and wildly turned on at this discovery.

Steve’s head suddenly appears in the frame, upside down for a reason Tony can’t quite determine until he realizes he’s hanging it off the edge of the bed. He looks up at Barnes’ camera, smiles a very secret upside down smile, like he and Tony are the only people that know about it.

“He likes this. Watch.”

Like I could look away, Tony thinks as he fucking finally lets himself touch his cock without any fabric to come between.

Steve wets his own lips and Barnes moves forward, tucking himself down into Steve’s mouth. Tony has never seen it done like this in professional porn, not quite as this angle, and shit.

His mouth is vivid red and stretched beautifully around Barnes as the man holding the camera begins thrusting slow, his cock disappearing and reappearing, going a little bit deeper each time. Steve’s eyes are closed, and the sounds he’s making are enough to make Tony wonder who the one getting their rocks off here.

“He’s always asking me to fuck him like this, too. Wants me in him however he can get me. He’s such a fucking slut, Stark.”

Tony is starting to really, really like way Barnes says his name.

Barnes pulls out completely, and then goes forward again, all the fucking way, enough that Steve almost chokes, but not quite. Barnes is busy telling him what a ‘Good fucking boy’ he is while his balls brush over Steve’s face and eyes, and then the man on the bed is running a hand down to his own blushing cock and—

Homemade porn is dizzy. Barnes is not holding the camera anymore.

Tony knows this because everything he sees is pale legs apart in the air and Barnes’ mismatched hands holding them there, his head between them and sucking lightly on the tip of Steve’s cock. He’s completely nude, looking up at the lens from across the pale expanse of Steve’s rippling torso and chest (pink, pink fucking little nipples that Tony really wants to pinch). He holds the camera’s gaze when he lets Steve fall from between his lips and moves his head down to where Tony can hardly see his face.

He doesn’t really need to see it to know where he’s burying it.

“He tastes amazing, Stark, fuck.”

Steve’s hips snap up off the bed, into Barnes’ face, and Barnes just grabs his hips tight and holds him there. Fantastic wet slurping sounds are coming out of his speakers as Tony wonders if Barnes’ tongue is fucking Steve’s ass or maybe just tracing his opening with it. The thought of either makes his fist pump faster.

The sounds that are coming out of Steve’s mouth, loud this close to the camera, just motivate Barnes to be more aggressive. He does something with his tongue that Tony can’t see but it makes Steve let out a pained moan like a dying man, and his leaking cock jumps where it’s resting on his belly.

“Fuck! God, Bucky! Just fuck—“

The screen goes black for the first time since the beginning of the video. If this is the end, Tony thinks, if it’s over and he’s not going to get to see what Steve practically fucking promised him, not minutes ago, if there’s no more on the tape and Tony’s going to have to finish himself off to thoughts of what it might have looked like—

Steve’s flushed face is looking at the lens, focusing somewhere past Tony, like he might be pushing some buttons on the phone or adjusting some settings. It must be on a surface, or a tripod, Tony decides, because the frame is too still for a human hand to be shooting it. After a moment, Steve stops and walks away, over to the bed where Barnes is waiting for him, sitting up with his legs casually spread out in front of him.

Steve straddles him, his knees on either side and his arms loosely thrown around Barnes’ shoulders. They kiss, for the first time the entire video, and if Tony’s being honest, it’s one of the most intense things he’s seen yet. Their mouths move like they’re trying to consume each other whole, like they’re trying to suck the souls out of each other’s throats. Steve shivers visibly and Tony thinks it might be a bit much for him.

Barnes brings his arms around Steve’s waist and pulls him in tight, so he’s splayed all across his lap and open, open for Barnes to reach down and run his fingers across his boy’s entrance lightly. Tony can see he’s already taken care of the condom when Steve starts rubbing the lube he poured into his hand onto Barnes’ cock, slow and firm in a way that makes Barnes moan and stop him, like if he goes anymore, he’ll shoot too soon.

Tony’s breath catches when finally, finally, he sees Barnes position himself for Steve to sink down onto. Steve’s head tilts back and his mouth falls, shameless and wanting as he lets Barnes into his body.

There’s a period of adjustment, where Steve looks like he’s just savoring the feel of his husband’s cock, full and thick inside him, before Barnes gets a rhythm going. He moves Steve up and down with his grip on his hips, thrusting up into him simultaneously. The light strain in his muscles is gorgeous, his arm glittering in the dim light.

Steve’s moans are all Tony can hear, loud and decadent in conjunction with the look on his face, all slack in ecstasy and eyes shut tight. He’s putting on a show, Tony can tell, but it’s too damn convincing for him to care.

Barnes slows for a second, but he keeps his hips pinned to Steve’s ass, rotating small circles inside him. He sets his chin on his lover’s shoulder and whispers into his ear hot, fucking criminal.

“Look at the camera, baby. Let Tony see your pretty face while I’m fucking you.”

And oh God, Steve kisses Barnes sweet and slow for a second before his head is turning, looking over his shoulder at the lens with most coy fucking look Tony has ever seen. He’s biting his lip and his mouth is still so fucking red and bright and everything about him, from the tight lines of his hips to the sandy blond hair dusting his thighs, takes Tony’s breath away.

Everything from then on is a blur. The video begins cutting more sporadically, and one moment Tony is looking at Steve’s body stretching around Barnes’ wide erection while Barnes holds the camera, and the next he’s watching Steve’s cock and balls bouncing against his abdomen while Barnes drives into him, hard and unforgiving.

Somewhere around, “Fuck Bucky, baby, you fuck me so good,” Tony starts to lose his grip on his own cock, hand sweaty and slippery from exertion. He’s getting close, and Barnes is swearing more often and when Steve said Tony was going to watch him get fucked, he meant get fucked.

The phone camera is settled on the mattress, moving with them, and Barnes is taking Steve from behind, chest and middle touching every inch of skin on Steve’s back. He reaches around to encircle the other man’s cock in his hand, and Steve groans obscenely.

“Stark wants to watch you come, Stevie. You want that? You want to show him how you shoot all over our nice new sheets?”

Steve’s fingers grasp the comforter tightly and Barnes’ hand slows to a steady, dragging pace. It’s the kind of pull that Tony knows is what makes slow and careful sex so intense. Steve is shaking.

“Get dirty for me, baby. Tony wants to see how dirty you can be,” and Steve comes, just like that, thick white ropes falling onto the crisp linens below. He’s swearing and begging and Barnes straightens, just staring and watching with a hand steadying the small of Steve’s back. He’s got an expression on his face like Tony isn’t the only one seeing Steve exactly like this for the first time.

And Tony’s finally letting go, the tight clench in his gut making it too hard to wait any longer. His vision swims, and for a minute he thinks he can’t see, but then he’s watching Steve look like a puddle of exhausted limbs on the bed while Barnes is fucking him within an inch of his existence, using Steve’s body and becoming this growly, animal thing.

Tony can tell when Barnes comes by the expression on Steve’s face, this self-satisfied smile that tugs on his swollen lips. Barnes collapses on top of him, kissing his back franticly and licking the sweat from it. He’s manic, grabbing Steve’s hair a little roughly and twisting his head to meet his lips, both of them a complete hot mess.

Never in his life has Tony seen anything more mercilessly beautiful.

The video cuts once more. Tony’s hand and pants are covered in his own come, and he’s finally starting to get his breathing under control. This time, the camera is on the night stand. He’s looking at the two figures lying twisted together on the bed in the nearly dark room, and he can make out the slow rise and fall of their chests and the sound of soft, moist kisses. This part, he feels like maybe he should look away. Like maybe it’s not meant for him to see.

Steve’s voice is the one that speaks first.

“Are you really going to send it to Tony?”

“I thought you wanted to?”

“I do! I do, I just—I want to know that you’re okay with him seeing me—us. Together like that.”

“He’s Stark, Stevie. Tony.”

“I know. “

There’s a long moment then, and it’s just silence. It’s just two men holding each other and talking without tongues, and it makes Tony feel like he’s never known fear or indifference in his life.

“Sometimes I like to share you with the people we love, Steve—“

—and Tony is closing out the video message before he has the chance to think twice.

*

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(i told you the ending did not translate well from the original)

See [Part 2] of this terrible, terrible art project

my actual steve/bucky work: [x]

[tenmillionwhumperflies]

Cloudwalker Series: Mouse the Dragon

Alright, so here is Mouse’s little origin story... thing, because Mouse is precious and deserves all the loves. Oh, and you can meet Azeera, another sorcerer boi.

Drawing of Mouse Here

Warnings for mentions of death, grief, mentions of slavery, ‘animal’ cruelty (contained in a very small space).

Word Count: 1700

Tag List: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

Orrien hated busy places, he hated the noise, the stall owners drawing attention to their produce, the chatter of so many people, the chopping, the grinding, the sound of animals. He hated the mix of smells that didn’t go together at all, fish and cinnamon, fruit and dung.

He hated the heat, the buzz, the way he had to bustle past so many people that just didn’t even notice he was there. He kept his cloak pulled up high, hoping to keep his tattoos hidden. No one could know he was a sorcerer. It was dangerous. They’d assume the worst, that he’d escaped or was going to start an attack on behalf of a kingdom. Sorcerers were not simply free, certainly not in his land anyway.

He kept his head down, buying what he needed to get by until he could travel to the next kingdom. Always searching, desperately looking for a new purpose now that he had lost his only son, and the man who had loved his son had turned to darkness and death. Orrien needed time before he went back to the Red Hills, back to the land he’d been born and raised on.

“Mama, look over there!” a child cried. Orrien turned quickly, thinking perhaps they were looking at him. He heaved out a breath of relief, seeing she was pointing at a small market stall. The mother ushered the child away from whatever it is they had seen. Orrien couldn’t help but approach the emptier area of the city. Something drew him towards it and didn't fight the urge to follow. He saw the owner of the stall was a cloaked man. Orrien couldn’t see his face, but he knew enough about him already. He had light magic, Orrien could feel it, but that didn't necessarily make him a friend. 

Orrien pondered speaking to him, to find out who he was, but he was distracted by a strange tink noise. He turned his head to see a very small jar on the table, and at first Orrien thought it was a small lizard. He stepped closer, seeing that its grey skin was actually metal. He picked up the jar with care. The cloaked figure grunted, but that was all.

Orrien inspected the jar with more care, seeing that the small dragon inside looked incredibly scared. They were so small, only the size of his middle finger. They clawed at the metal with one foot, but the jar was so small they could barely move. They stared at Orrien with wide eyes. He felt so drawn to them. He couldn’t leave them trapped like this. It was cruel. It could kill them. Besides, a small companion like this would likely do him some good. He turned the little paper tag attached to the jar. Enchanted dragon, 100 pieces.

"A trinket has caught your eye, sir?" The man asked. Orrien recognised the voice somewhat, but he couldn't put a name to it. "Some 'trinket' for one hundred… You can’t put a price on a life, enchanted or otherwise. You know no one will ever buy such a small charm for so much. Distress them for too long and they will lose their magic. Why push for so much money?” “The enchantment on this dragon is... immense. They were made with incredible power- from love and care. They are practically alive with their own personality... My greatest work. They deserve a loving home, but are you worthy?"

"Money and power does not equate to kindness," he hissed. My greatest work. Orrien hoped he’d put the voice to the right face, and the fact that the dragon was enchanted. Reluctantly, he eased his hood back a fraction to show his face, his tattoos. "You of all people should know that. You say they deserve a loving home, but you treat them so harshly," he grunted before putting his hood back. "Trapping them like this. You should be ashamed… Azeera." The man carefully moved his hood away, showing bright green tattoos on either cheek, a sharp contrast on his dark skin. Orrien had been right after all, and his relief must have showed. He belonged to the Sorcerer's Circle, one of the eight. His enchantment magic was impressive.

 “Correct, though it seemed to take you a while, Orrien of the Red Hills, high sorcerer of the Kingdom of Everblade." He remarked. “Former,” Orrien corrected glumly. There was no kingdom left to serve, not that he’d ever enjoyed serving that wretched man. “Indeed. Word spreads fast. But here you are, in front of me, as I’d waited and hoped. Fate always finds a way, doesn’t it? In truth, I thought you were dead."

“Why would you think that?” Orrien frowned. “Well, the last I heard of Everblade, it was being called Everblood and had fallen. I wasn’t sure if your apprentice had turned on you also.” Orrien sighed. “That castle was so low it could not have fallen any further… Avizon has chosen a darker path, but he would never turn on me.” “Then… tell me, where is your son? Are the rumours true...” his voice faded off. Orrien looked away and kept his eyes on the dragon that was now headbutting the glass with a repetitive tinking noise. “He is… he’s gone. Avizon told me the king killed him while he rested from wounds gained by protecting the castle. That is why Avizon rebelled and attacked. I was a coward and left him. I wasn't going to stop him after what Halve had done, but nor could I stand by him…"

Azeera sighed and bowed his head. “That is indeed a terrible thing to hear, but this was Avizon’s path to walk, his destiny. Fate always finds a way, even if you had stayed behind. I don’t know how Ignium will feel about the whole affair, but I shan't be the one to tell him.” “Perhaps, but what does my son have to do with buying a dragon?” Orrien asked. "And if I may ask, why are you here? Are you not still serving Queen Daphne?”

Azeera shook his head. “Not all of us were kept on as short a chain as you, you know? I was allowed to leave the grounds, but alas, no. After… Everblade, the queen decided against magic defences, despite my years of unwavering loyalty. Royals are realising we are powerful, dangerous, and most importantly, unhappy. Her focus is on the army, on a group that won’t risk so much if one loses control. She did not care for the reasons why young Avizon turned on the castle. She reflected and I believe she feared his actions would influence me. She released me peacefully, no quarrels, and gave me a home to try to keep me from turning bitter. I consider it early retirement, and really you can’t consider freedom to be a punishment. So here I am, selling trinkets to pass the time."

"I see. For what it is worth, I am sorry for Avizon’s actions. I should have been able to do more to stop this.”

Azeera shrugged. “It is a difficult situation, but when I saw Avizon after you saved him… I didn’t expect him to turn to violence, but I cannot say I’m shocked. What Halve did to him was beyond human.” Orrien shuddered, he needed a change of topic. “So what is this fate you speak of?"

"Ah, yes, that. Orrien, I don't think he told you, that it was a surprise but your son saved my life only days before the attack. I offered him a favour in return.” Orrien looked back down at the dragon and stared. Was he leading to what he thought?

Orrien continued to stare. When he stared in the dragon's eyes, he could see their pleading. They dug at the glass desperately, but it was so cramped it barely equated to anything. It bit at his own tail, but it didn’t seem to damage itself at least. Did he imagine it, or was there a familiarity? All he knew was that he couldn’t leave them. His heart told him that he needed this little one. He gritted his teeth. Orrien pulled the cork out of the jar, ignoring Azeera’s grunt of a protest. The little dragon scrambled out and hid in Orrien’s palm. He opened his hand just enough to stroke their head. They seemed so much more relaxed now they had access to magic, that they could move.

“The only way to contain them was to take away their mobility. They’re quite the trouble maker and an escape artist. They had started with a very comfortable abode,” Azeera explained with a soft grumble. Orrien put his hand up to his shoulder, letting the dragon climb onto him. They hid behind Orrien’s ear, chewing nervously on it. Orrien couldn't help but brace to have to argue or fight, to have to run away and get to the horse, out of habit more than anything.

“You're tired and on edge, old friend. I can recommend you an inn or offer space in my home to rest? That little dragon is meant to be yours. They were the favour Ro asked of me. They were to be a gift… for you. He poured his heart and soul into helping me make it… After seeing what happened to the castle I left before I could give it to him. I assumed they would be forgotten about, that you were dead, and so I put them up for sale for a good home. Fate had other plans. Your son’s love drew you here.”

Orrien bit back tears. He had not expected anything like this. For Ro to have left him something so... pure. The dragon began to slide down the front of Orrien’s cloak, so he put his hand out as a platform. “My debt is paid, the offer of rest is still there? The inn is the Crooked Key. It is welcoming of our kind and my home is just around the corner."

Orrien nodded. "Thank you, for everything you have done for me."

Orrien bowed his head and left, cradling the little dragon in his hand. “You’re so quiet… so small, like a little mouse.” He stopped and smiled. “Yes, that will be your name. I think it would have annoyed Ro just as he’d have wanted,” he smiled softly. He scratched their back, enjoying  watching the dragon weave through his fingers and arch their back like a cat might.

“To get a favour from a sorcerer as powerful as Azeera and ask only for a trinket for your father… Oh, Ro, my poor boy… This world was not made for one as pure as you.” He forced himself to take deep breaths, to calm before he let the dragon back onto his shoulder and disappeared into the choking crowds.

[introvert-celeste]

su prompt: Bismuth trying to come to terms with Rose trying to flee the Diamonds and how this informed Rose's entire military strategy, in that she didn't want ANYONE to get hurt at all and the whole revolution expanded way out of what she might have originally planned?

HI, HELLO. Yes, I FINALLY finished this prompt, and it’s quite a bit longer than I had planned (I was aiming for >1000 words but *shrugs*). I’m not sure if this was exactly what you meant, but I chose to go a more personal route for this. Bismuth is torn by her feelings about Rose, the war, and her own actions and this is her trying to air these feelings out.

Bismuth stood on the warp pad for a moment as the light dissipated around her, determined and nervous in equal measures.

Rose’s fountain stood serenely in the shadows of the surrounding cliffs, silent save for the distant babbling of its healing waters. Under different circumstances, it could have been a peaceful retreat from the trials of daily life; to Bismuth and the countless gems who passed through its arches over the years, however, it was not so simple. This fountain was their saving grace, discussed in hushed whispers during the war lest their enemies learn of its miraculous properties, and in extension the legendary abilities of their leader. It was also a grim reminder, recalling its necessity in the intensifying rebellion. To Bismuth, it was a symbol of her devotion to a gem she thought she knew.

The gems of Little Homeworld scarcely ventured out to the fountain after they were healed of their corruption, treating it with the same respect as a sacred place. Since Steven hit the road, however, this was the only place that gems could reasonably travel to in order to heal any damage to their gemstones. One could find a small group gathered here on any given day, recovering and finding solace in the tranquil setting, but Bismuth was lucky enough to find it completely deserted.

In those three years following the healing, Bismuth had her own reasons for keeping her distance, and they all boiled down to her complicated feelings surrounding Rose. She was not ready to confront them. In the spirit of personal growth, however, she figured it was time to revisit those feelings.

As she walked the path toward one of the fountain’s four star-shaped entrances, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia. She recalled the countless rotations she spent in this spot, carefully carving out what she considered one of her greatest works of architecture from mountainous terrain, using nothing but her own two hands.

As the fighting increased between the Crystal Gem rebels and Homeworld’s armies, so too did the casualties, and Bismuth was one of the few gems close enough to Rose to know that it was taking a serious toll on her. She remembered the crowds of rebels who would flock to her after every battle, barely holding themselves together as they waited for her soothing tears and comforting smile. She remembered the moment she realized that Rose was not, in fact, infallible when, after many days of healing, she found that she had no more tears to shed for the gems she could not bring back.

This fountain was one of Bismuth’s many gifts to her idol, her friend. Every stone in this place had been so lovingly crafted; she didn’t even know that it would work, and yet she worked so diligently so that, even in the midst of great tragedy, Rose could still find peace. Indeed, the immense relief on Rose’s face made it all worth it. As she stood at the top of the stairs, gazing at its magnificence, however, she struggled to recall that simple gratification.

Alongside Rose’s tears, Bismuth poured her heart and soul into this fountain, this planet, this cause. She laid her gem on Rose’s anvil because she trusted her. All of the Crystal Gems trusted her, found hope in her presence. Old, bitter tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she gazed at the towering statue before her, its arms outstretched, inviting all who entered the sanctuary into its stony embrace. Even as the artist, she wondered how she could just stand there so serenely, as if she wasn’t playing everyone for a fool. How dare she look so peaceful when her actions were actively hurting her own gems, on both sides of the war?

Rose Quartz. Pink Diamond. How ironic, that Bismuth would spend so much energy fighting against the Diamonds, only to learn that she had idolized one the whole time.

Still, approaching the base of the fountain, she felt some of that old devotion weigh on her, bringing her to her knees before one of the seated statues. She bowed, waited in earnest for Rose’s insistent voice urging her to rise, but it never came. When she raised her head, the statue didn’t so much as regard her, bearing the same impassive expression as its larger sister.

In that moment, she realized that she had never seen Rose with such a tranquil expression. There was always a storm behind her eyes, a storm that Bismuth always mistook as Rose’s inner fighting spirit. Turns out, it was just another façade.

“Been awhile, huh?” She said, her voice cutting through the still air.

The statue was, of course, silent.

Without thinking, Bismuth got up and seated herself beside it. She closed her eyes, feeling the presence of the statue. True to size, it almost felt as if they were here again in this place, sharing a pensive moment before heading back to the battlefield. The moment hurt more than Bismuth could even begin to describe.

There were a million things she wanted to say, so much pain she waited to offload onto this piece of stone, and yet when she opened her mouth to speak, the first thing that came out of her mouth was this:

“I pity you.”

And she felt it in the very core of her gem, at the very depths of her soul, she felt it. She pitied her as much as she pitied herself, and the Crystal Gems, and all the gems who had to fight in this gem-forsaken war. She pitied her with the same intensity that she worshipped the ground beneath her feet, those thousands of years ago. She wanted to hate her, and yet how could she, after she had invested so much of herself in loving her, as a leader, as a friend?

“You were in way over your head, and so was I,” was the next thing she said. “I wanted to fix a system that was too big and broken to fix, and you wanted to hide from it. In the process, we were doing exactly what we were made to do: you led; I followed…until I didn’t.” I guess it makes sense that you poofed me. Discipline for a gem who’s stepped out of line, she continued in her head, unwilling to speak this bitter thought into existence. Instead, she turned away from the statue, unwilling to face it anymore. “Sometimes, I still wish you woulda shattered me back then, so I could hate you properly now.”

Her breath hitched as the tears started to flow. “I wish I could hate you, so I wouldn’t have to think about the terrible things that I’ve done!”

Her voice echoed against the walls and the surrounding cliffs. The rose bushes—her rose bushes—rustled at the disturbance, the first time they acknowledged her presence since she got there. Steven had told her about them once, about how aimless and hostile they became without Rose’s guidance, but they never caused any trouble for as long as Bismuth had known of them. Sure enough, they stopped moving as quickly as they had started, and all was quiet once more.

It was almost a comfort, knowing that a piece of Rose was there, a passive listener to her deepest feelings, one that could easily pass its judgement onto her if it so chose.

“Yellow started healing shattered gems from the war a couple weeks ago. I bet you never expected that.” Bismuth continued evenly, grabbing control of her voice. “Did you know they were still on Earth? Did you know about the Cluster?” She sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, but you were always so concerned about those shards. Crystal gems, Homeworld gems, they were all balled up together and stuffed in the planet’s mantle just so they can blow the planet up thousands of years later. I hope you didn’t know about all that.”

She was beating around the bush, and she knew it. That awful guilt that had been building inside her throughout those two weeks was becoming too much to bear. That was why she came here in the first place: to get this weight off her chest and finally air out that old resentment she still clung to, toward Rose, toward herself, toward the entire system that put them in this situation in the first place.

In her peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of her reflection on the water, with the statue barely visible beside her. The curls of its hair were crafted so delicately, she could have sworn she saw them bounce in the gentle breeze. A great tangle of emotions moved her to action as she gazed at her face in the pale pink waters, slapping at it angrily.

“I can’t bear to even look ‘em in the eyes!” She sobbed, as a cascade of droplets rained down on the pair and their distorted images in the disturbed pool. “Those healed gems come to Little Homeworld because they don’t know what to do with themselves, and I don’t feel right telling them what to do! I don’t feel right because…”

She turned to the statue, her anguish overflowing.

“Because half the time I’m wondering ‘did I shatter this one?’”

She wanted comfort; she wanted punishment; she wanted something; but the statue was quiet, painfully quiet.

“Yeah, I’ve shattered gems, way more than I’d care to admit. I bet you didn’t know that.” She said it like she had gotten the final word, but she didn’t feel at all triumphant.

In that moment, all Bismuth could think of was Rose’s horrified expression as she showed off the Breaking Point, what it was capable of. She could only imagine how Rose would have reacted to this. Yes, accidents happened and self defense was necessary on the battlefield, but she’d be fooling herself if she thought that that was all she ever shattered a gem for. She knew what she was capable of. She preached about a fair fight, but there were plenty of fights where her first blow was the killing blow. She knew what it felt like to have a gemstone crush against her fist.

“Would you hate me if you knew?”

Although the statue still offered no response, Bismuth already knew the answer to that one. Rose felt many things and did many things—she was many things—but Bismuth knew without a doubt that she didn’t have a hateful photon in her physical form. She may resent her, she may never forgive her, but she would never hate her, or anyone, for that matter.

Bismuth considered herself a proud gem, but she wasn’t too proud to admit that she was wrong. It wasn’t even a matter of right or wrong when it came to the war. There were no winners, only those who came out better off than their opponents. Everyone suffered, one way or another. Bismuth suffered from trauma and guilt, equally; she suffered every time a reconstructed gem soldier regarded her wearily, a gem who had followed orders right to their own demise.

She laid a hand on the statue’s shoulder, drained and defeated. “I don’t forgive you,” she said simply, “but I don’t forgive myself, either.”

They were both desperate to end the fighting, but their desperation only led to greater destruction.

“I hope you would feel the same.”

[yikesharringrove]

i’m dying to read some harringrove college stuff, so what about the boys being in some frat party, meeting each other for the first time. Billy would be doing some drinking game or something and Steve would be watching him. even tho Steve’s ”dating” this guy (fuckbuddies) who’s arms are around Steve, he still takes an interest on Billy. Billy would also see Steve, all pretty and long legs and would love to get piece of him after getting that guy off him. then they fuck somewhere in the house 👀

Modern. Nb Steve ayoo.

Read on aothree

Under the cut

Billy shouldered his way into the party.

He was trying to find the kitchen, looking for a drink. He ended up just grabbing the drink out of some douchebag’s hand as he walked behind him.

He met up with his roommate, one of the other pledges from the frat he was rushing, Scott.

“Billy, you motherfucker! Play beerpong!” Scott pulled him to the table, shoving a pingpong ball into his hand.  Billy looked up, his brain shorting out as he saw the other team.

Across from his was a huge douchey-looking guy, in a muscle tank with the sleeves ripped off, and a backwards hat. Billy knows he dresses like a fuckboy on a good day, but at least he’s not like this asshole.

But what this asshole had, was the most beautiful person Billy had ever seen in his entire fucking life. All long legs, and big eyes. They were wearing a pretty bodysuit, a dark purple color with a deep neckline, lace trimming the spaghetti straps, the neckline, the low back. They had a little pin on their little denim shorts that read They/Them.

Billy watched the jock asshole, tuck them under his arm, whispering something to them, making their eyes crinkle so sweetly while they giggled, batting their big fake eyelashes at him.

Billy played the game making eyes at the pretty little thing on the other side of the table.

But the thing was, they were good. They sunk almost every throw, giving Billy a smug little look each time. It only made Billy fall harder. But then the game was over and the shitty jock tucked the perfect darling under his arm and disappeared into the party.

“Who was that?” He was standing with Scott in the kitchen, finally found it to make themselves some drinks, taking a few shots each.

“The asshole in the trucker hat? That’s Chad Weathers.”

“No not-wait, his name is fucking Chad? There are actually humans named Chad that exist on this Earth?”

“I fucking know. Can you believe? Imagine just being like, hi, my name is Chad.”

“Is he a douche because his name is Chad, or is his name Chad because he was always predisposed to be a douche?”

“Definitely the second. You can’t damp pure asshole like that.” Billy turned, seeing the perfect beerpong sweetheart from earlier, pouring some vodka and raspberry lemonade into a solo cup.

Billy laughed, holding out his hand.

“Billy.”

“Steve.” They shook hands. Their hand was warm and soft, fingers slender and long.

“You really called your boyfriend a douchebag just now, huh?” Steve gave him a look.

“Not my boyfriend. We just fuck sometimes. Usually when he’s drunk enough to not be weird about my dick, and when I’m drunk enough to talk about my dick to strangers.”

Billy just leaned against the counter, making sure to put on his I WILL eat your ass and you’ll THANK me for it smile.

“Well, I know all about your dick now, so we’re not strangers anymore.” Steve just laughed, touching Billy’s upper arm gently. They moved just a hair closer to Billy. He was totally in.

“So, Billy, tell me about yourself. What are you studying?”

“Guess.” Steve raised an eyebrow.

“Um, you’re a big dudebro so like, business management. Something to get you through while you play football on scholarship and party with your frat.” Billy sucked in some air through his teeth.

“Hate to break it to you, but you were only right about one thing. I’m rushing a frat, but I don’t play football, and I’m not studying fucking business. I’m studying social work. And I’m here on academic scholarship.” Steve was grinning.

“So you’re like, a sensitive dudebro. Good for you.”

“What are you studying, then? Art?” Steve rolled their eyes.

“Just because I’m all queer doesn’t mean I’m studying art. Why didn’t you guess theater.”

“Well, as a fellow queer I just meant you seem like an artistic soul.”

“I mean, I am really great at crafts.” Billy laughed. “But I’m studying education and early childhood development. I wanna teach little kids.” They had this soft look on their face.

“God, you’re just as sweet as I thought you’d be.” Steve raised an eyebrow again, a smile tugging at their lips, painted the same deep purple as their bodysuit.

“You think about me often?”

“Well, you’re just about the only thing I’ve thought of this whole conversation.” And then their hand was trailing down Billy’s arm, tugging him in closer by the wrist, they leaned into Billy’s space, just close enough to be heard.

“You wanna find a room? Think of me some more?” Billy slid his arm around their lower back.

“Lead the way, sweet thing.”

Billy started openly at their ass as they led him up the stairs, hips swaying. The first room they checked was locked, the second unlocked but occupied. But, third time’s the damn charm apparently.

Billy pushed Steve inside, locking the door behind him.

It was some frat bro’s room, shitty basic posters on the wall, a lot of beer cans lined up on the window sill like it was decor.

But Billy wasn’t too focused on their surroundings, not when Steve was getting naked, right then and there in the middle of the room. They tossed a condom from their pocket at Billy as they stepped out of the shorts, sliding the bodysuit off after. Billy groaned.

“Fuck. You’re so fucking sexy.” He placed his hands on their hips, sliding them back to grope at their ass, pulling them forward into him. “Gorgeous.” He figured the deep lipstick was smeared everywhere between by now, but honestly, he really couldn’t find it within himself to care as Steve pawed at his shirt, clumsily undoing the few that were still done, pushing it off his shoulders.

Some base heavy song was playing as Billy kicked out of jeans, pressed against Steve until they were at the edge of the bed, turning them around and bending them over. He pressed sloppy kisses down their spine.

“Can I eat you out?” He heard them groan, hips canting back just a little.

“Fuck yeah.” Billy grinned, spreading them slightly, getting a look at their tight little hole before diving in, licking and sucking with wild abandon. He could barely hear their soft noises over the music of the party, the wet sounds of his own mouth.

He pulled back, spitting one last time before pressing one finger inside, watching as he fucked it in and out.

“There’s, there’s some lube in my pocket.” Steve had turned their head, was looking over their shoulder at Billy, gesturing wildly to the shorts on the floor. Billy leaned back on his knees, kept his one finger pumping in and out of Steve while he got the shorts, finding a few packets of lube and condoms.

“You really came prepared tonight. You go to every party with all this one you?”

“Well it’s mostly just in case.” Billy laughed, muttering MOSTLY just in case under his breath, tearing open the lube with his teeth, pouring some over his fingers and Steve’s hole. He pressed two fingers inside, curling and stretching them expertly.

Steve was whining, fucking back onto three of Billy’s fingers. He still had one hand keeping them spread open, watching his fingers.

“I’m fucking, I’m ready. Just fuck me.” Billy pulled his fingers out, slapping their ass once.

“Brat.” He rolled on the condom, giving himself a few strokes as he did. He lined up, pressing into that tight little spot. He threw his head back, groaning as his hips pressed flush to Steve’s ass, grinding deeply. Steve was face down into the mattress, taking shaky little breaths. Billy dragged a hand up their spine, settling it on the shoulder, the other on their soft hip, using them as leverage to just fuck.

He was slamming into Steve, fucking them with a punishing pace, their skin slapping together. Billy bent over Steve, pushing one arm under their hips, angling them perfectly to slam against that sensitive little spot.

“Oh my God. Whatever the fuck you’re doing right now, don’t fucking stop.” Billy just huffed a laugh, going even harder, slamming their bodies together. Steve wormed a hand beneath them, stripping their cock quickly, bucking their hips forward and back.

Billy groaned when they came, tightening around him lie a fucking vice, crying out.

He kept going for a moment or two, grinding in deep to finish. He pulled out, slumping on the bed next to Steve, flopped in his back. They looked over at him, smiling lazily.

“I’m gonna have to get your number. That was good.” Billy laughed, batting awkwardly at their shoulder.

“Not so bad yourself.” They stood up slolwy, wincing slightly as they got re-dressed, Billy following suit.

“Seriously, I’m gonna be like, actually sore. Haven’t felt like that in a minute.” They were looking the mirror on the inside of the closet door, had just pulled it open like they owned the place to fix their mussed hair. Their makeup was somehow perfectly intact.

They flung their phone over to Billy.

“Put your number in.” They didn’t have a passcode on their phone which was bold, gave them a kinda Fuck with me. I DARE you. I have NOTHING to hide vibe. Billy liked it.

He put his number in under Billy Delta Phi party, so that Steve knew, would see the number and remember the night, the way Billy fucked them so hard they hurt.

“Just shoot me a text sometime. I’ll kick my idiot roommate out.”

“No need, I have a single room. The university was gonna put me with some guy, but my loving mommy and daddy don’t trust me not to be a slut.” Billy raised an eyebrow, cocking his head a little.

“You have a single room and we’re not there right now?” Steve just smirked, a challenge in their eyes.

“You askin’ for another round?”

“Long as you’re not too sore.” Steve took his wrist, dragging him out of the party and down the road back towards campus.

[nomoregoldfish]

Imagine Pacho Sends You as a Gift to (Spy on) Amado 3/3

More smut (but I’m really bad at writing it, :////). Plot twist guaranteed. And I can’t believe I wrote 6K for this, FML. What has Chema done to me? I also made a few changes in the first two parts, read the whole thing on AO3.

You are woken by a phone call in the middle of the night. But you neither move nor open your eyes. You hear some numbers, Amado sounds irritated. It could be something related to tonight's dinner?

Your patience is wore out minutes after minute and Amado still hasn't returned to bed. You make a bold decision to wake up, and the Mexican is smoking by the window. Something keeps him up at night? That doesn't sound like the Lord of the Skies, the man who has had the world at his feet.

"You wanna talk, more sex or a bath?" You carefully propose.

"I was expecting for late night snacks you pull with some Asian witch shit." Amado lets you sit on his lap. "Hang on, I've got some leftovers from the kitchen."

You two settle for sharing the jacarandas mochi from a small food container in the bathtub.

"You like it?" You don't really need validation from Amado. It's just you spent hours coming up with the idea of improvisation, trying to make a traditional Japanese dessert more appealing to the Mexican guests. "I made the bean paste from scratch, less sugar. I understand most Mexicans are not used to sweet bean paste..."

"They don't deserve it." Amado suddenly claims. You don't get it. Who are they? "They are just a bunch of pigs in expensive suits, corrupted, stinky pieces of shit." Then Amado tells you almost everything. He invited the tequila exporters with the hope that the cartel could use their affiliate companies in the States as front to launder more drug money since tequila is one of the largest yet least regulated businesses between the US and Mexico. And the politicians are officials from Mexican Customs Bureau and SHCP.

"Fucking idiots. They thought I was gonna ask them to smuggle coke under the tequila crates. With all the fucking Pier 1 sofa and Ford pasenger seat manufacturers in Juárez, I've had more than enough trucks to move products across the border." When Amado brought up money laundering, the tequila exporters expressed concern regarding possible investigation of tax evasion from ATF, putting more pressure on Amado to increase their cut.

They eventually made a deal less favorable to the cartel and that's why Amado's a bit pissed when he's on the phone.

"Why are you telling me this?" For the first time that night, you ask softly.

"Those cabrón. They don't deserve what you bring to the table. You pour your heart and soul, making the best feast I've ever had. You deserve to know what happened." 

You've never thought you'd hear that from Amado. He didn't have to tell you anything. It makes you lower your guard. You want to get closer to him, without any agenda.

"Does this mean my body won't be put in the trunk of one of your auto collections tomorrow?" You try to lighten it up.

Amado kisses you from behind. The position is awkward but neither of you care. 

Making out with Amado in the bathtub makes the night better than your wettest dream. 

The Mexican's gonna make you cum again with those magician hands of his.

"You...haven't told me if you like the jacarandas mochi." You're so screwed. Maybe you'll never get the answer because Amado's too busy sucking you tits.

Amado clears his schedule the next day. He brings you to the Asian boutique where he bought the Japanese painting.

"One of my guys found this place. I thought you might be interested..." That's cute from a drug lord. But you're not that kind of person.

"A) I don't need a Buddha artifact home to find my inner peace, and B) only Pacho wears shirts with Chinese characters taken from a poem back in the Tang Dynasty. Seriously, he's ridiculous. Come on, let's go."

Instead, you two spend the day trying different Asian food you can find in DF. From hotpot to Peking roasted duck, from pho to char kway teow. Amado seems to enjoy the Chinese food more than others.

"Most Asian restaurants in North America are run by the Chinese, from San Francisco to DF. Since you guys can't tell if an Asian cook is from China, Japan, Vietnam or Thailand, he or she would quickly learn dishes from other Asian countries. We are always the most hardworking people." You explain to him.

"Oh, I love hardworking people." He's so full of shit but you can't help smiling. 

Amado finds a fortune cookie note saying "Happy New Year of Monkey." Then you explain Monkey is one of the Chinese zodiac signs which repeat every 12 years. 

"So 1956...I am a monkey? Cool." He's surprisingly quick with math.

You write the Chinese character of monkey on a napkin and Amado seems fascinated by it. So you suggest that he could get the Chinese character tattooed, "Next time you can show that to Pacho. He probably would get one, too."

Holy shit, he's really doing it. 

The way the tattoo parole Amado brings you to is cleared makes you believe it's part of the cartel business, which makes perfect sense. 

"You don't have any tattoos? Not at all?" You're surprised when the tattoo artist prepares Amado's skin on his forearm, first cleaning then shaving.

"We've fucked three times, once in a bathtub," Amado grins, obviously in a good mood, "Don't you think it's a bit late to ask? Or I fucked you too hard you didn't notice?"

Thank God the tattoo artist doesn't even flinch.

OK, you have to get back at the fucker. So when the tattoo artist asks you for the character to make a design, you write pig in Chinese instead of monkey.

"Hold on, that doesn't look like what you wrote on the napkin. Let me see it." Right after the tattoo artist places an outline of the design on his skin, the Mexican stops him.

You're 100% sure Amado doesn't speak or write Chinese. How the fuck does he figure it out?

"What is it exactly? Tell me the truth or you will have an honest conversation with my brother." Amado makes the threat more scary by pointing at Vicente, who stands next to the door with two guns and a pink lollipop. 

"Wait. He doesn't know shit. It was me...I wrote a different character." Your confession is quick, you don't want to see anyone get hurt over this beef.

You thought it's just a silly prank. Now you realize you're dealing with the most notorious narcos of the country. Amado may look like a businessman, reasonable, even decent. He's still capable of getting violent whenever he thinks it is necessary, to an extent you really don't want to know.

You take a deep breath, then apologize to Amado. You are ready for the consequence. 

"Apology accepted. On one condition, you'll have the exact same tattoo as I do when the new design is done." Fair enough.

But you're a chef who often needs to cook right in front of customers. You can't let them see a tattoo on your forearm. 

"How about here?" The Mexican is touching your breast as if no one's around.

It's a small tattoo, just one character. But it's near your heart and you're sensitive as fuck.

You can't move but your nipples are hard almost through the entire process. Amado's right beside you and he sees everything. Someone please help you ease the pain FFS.

The fucker doesn't act on it until you get into the car. Amado shuts the soundproof panel between the front and rear seats and the next thing you know, you're riding the man who just makes you get a stupid matching tattoo. It fucking stings, and itchy. Yet the pleasure is undeniable when your tits being teased, bit, sucked. Amado carefully avoids the tattoo, which makes you want him to scratch the itch even more. You scream his name when you cum with both extreme pleasure and pain.

Amado puts an arm around you when it's over. Two matching tattoos are right next to one another. Your heart is still beating fast from the afterglow, echoing his pulse.

You feel the caress on your beast, it hurts a bit yet the body warmth is nice. Is it how it feels to be marked by someone else? Not many people will ever see it, plus it's not a specific name or symbol that would embarrass you later. It'd be a secret.

"You know what? You won't be able to find a dead body to stand in for you when you eventually betray me, sweetheart. No one else would get a tattoo like this." 

What Amado just says feels like a kick in the stomach. It's cold and absolutely right. Have you been sloppy? Has Amado figured out something already? "Why would I betray you?" You ask, but he doesn't give an answer.

It's the last day of your stay. You have a very special package delivered from Japan.

You gonna make blowfish sashimi tonight for Amado.

Everyone knows it's toxic so it has to be handled with meticulous care. You make Amado watch every step —  a set of fuguhiki, knives with thin blade is unwrapped, you pick them one by one to gut the fish, remove the deadly liver and ovaries, skin it and cut off its head. Then instead of cutting outward like most people do, you turn a knife to cut inward. 

"Careful! You shouldn't hold knife like that." Amado almost jumps in to help. But you assure him it's OK. Then you show off the technique to cut extremely thin and translucent slices of blowfish.

To make the white meat more attractive, you set the slices in a large plate with red poppy flower pattern. They are so thin, the poppy flower is still visible when all's done.

"An ancient Chinese writer used to say, 'The taste of blowfish is worthy of death.'" You joke when you mix the sauce. "Don't worry. I'm a licensed blowfish-preparation chef."

Amado squints, "So you're testing me."

You want to tell him to just trust you, but you don't know how.

"There's no antidote for the tetrodotoxin. But I'll eat it, too. If it's poisonous, our muscle will be paralyzed bit by bit when we're fully conscious, eventually we won't be able to breathe. We're going to die slowly, painfully and desperately."

You take the first bite, Amado follows.

"Why are you so loyal to him?" Amado breaks the silence, "For one, you don't sleep with him. You obviously are not related. And as far as I know, money can't buy loyalty."

"I'll answer it if you answer my question first." The Mexican agrees. "You didn't want me for me, you barely knew me. You made the decision when Pacho said I was the best, he wouldn't last a week without me. You want him, or something that makes you his equivalent. Except being gay, I don't know. You won't fuck his boys, so I'm the next proxy. Am I correct?"

After a pause, Amado nods. Then it's your turn.

"How many female chefs do you know?" Amado is confused for a few seconds, then he gets it.

"There was no place for you in your line of work, just like there was no place for him in this game controlled by men, men who have multiple wives and fuck whores. He sees himself in you. So he takes you under his wings."

"Yes. Pacho is the only one who's believed me. He's also the biggest shareholder of my first restaurant."

Amado then asks what you gonna tell Pacho when you return. "I'll tell him you give really good heads. Maybe he should try it himself." You wink, "No, I'll let him know you're not a cold-blooded bastard. Even though you sometimes make awful choice by dipping sashimi in guacamole, you're appreciative of other people's work." You really mean it, you like Amado. But you'll probably never know if he buys it or if it matters.

After a while, you finish the whole plate of blowfish sashimi. "Seems we're not dead." Amado's poking your cheek with chopsticks.

"No, we are not."

"Last question, why did Pacho send you?"

"Amado, you would've done the same. You know that."

[kevv]

a goodbye letter- abandoning current social media

i'm not the best at writing out my thoughts. forgive me if this feels scrambled and scraped together. my best friend, Fox, once said in abridged words; "it takes two to play out an abandonment fantasy, one to have it, and the other to follow suit".

i've known several handfuls of people who fear abandonment, or more specifically, being the one abandoned; scared that one day everyone in their life will take leave. and sometimes, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, they do. they leave in mass exodus, set into motion by one person who wants to set-forth their own abandonment fantasy– abandoning everyone else.

for me, my own fear of abandonment is not anyone abandoning me, i'm unbothered by people entering my life and leaving of their own accord; i'm scared i'll be the one to abandon everyone in my life. because i have. several times. i still do, even. i'll meet people in my lifetime that i loved harder than the universe itself, a deep love so terrifying i feel that it'll demolish cities and townships, friends and lovers and found-family. my skin will buzz and blaze alight with such an intense fear, a fear that i will ruin them and everything they are so i must run. it's unfounded, but it drives me away, and i fight tooth and nail to get to that escape route for those who won't let me leave quietly, until it ends in disaster. it's my own abandonment fantasy. i recall once, an ex-lover wanted me to stay. tried to lock the door and toss away the key, and said it hurt that i wanted an out. so i caused problems until i could break out through the window. not being allowed an option to leave made me feel like a feral, caged animal; because in the end, that's all i am. i hadn't done it on purpose. the need to escape everything had been there months prior. the events leading up to it had been fuzzy at best, sickly at worst, and i had been spoonfed misinformation. not on purpose, not in malicious intent, but still it struck genuine fear in my heart. like a feral animal, i want the option to roam. to come and go as i please. i can't be kept, i just want the trust that i'll find my way back eventually. if i feel contained, i scratch and bite until i'm released. but if you hold out your hand and wait patiently, i'll come to you. but don't ask me to stay. please don't ask me to stay. there's a lot that lead up to this current migration. the inability to be allowed to stand on my own two-feet and exist as just purely Kevin, not adjacent to someone, was a big one. still to this day i am asked about a youtuber i am no longer affiliated with by my own choice. i don't like attention, it's something i've said to her, said to many, and why i chose to never appear in her videos. which seems contradictory for an artist who posts on social media and previously did all of her older channel art. but maybe now i'm realizing that truthfully, i wanted recognition for me, not for others or for who i made myself sick in order to create content for. it's inescapable. i harbor no hard feelings anymore, i understand i was in the peak of my codependency and was willing to ruin myself for the benefit of another. to run myself broke and dry because at 19 years old i was still a child who didn't know how to handle the extent of his emotions. i want to apologize to penny. neither of us are really blameless, but we were inexperienced and young– still young. it's easy to not know what we're doing, to unintentionally take advantage of someone who was willing to burn themselves to give you warmth, or to latch onto an unfounded rumor and bare my teeth. i hope you're doing well, and i'm sorry. i'd like to give you a proper apology one day, when i'm more ready. that day is not today. sometimes i feel like there are four people living inside my brain, all with dissenting opinions and voices that i can't tell who i am anymore. i feel like i'm constantly contradicting myself because i don't know what my own thoughts are. i don't know who i am anymore. i don't know who i am anymore because i'm several different people all trying to be "kevin", all with different beliefs that go against a previous one. i prematurely deleted my twitter account for this reason, i couldn't stand a second more of being in a toxicity cycle i had previously taken part in, because sometimes that's all social media is. it's very... Online. i want to be one, unified person. whose thoughts and feelings are unadulterated by others surrounding him. additionally, there's the elephant in the room. some have already guessed it, suspected it, saw something like it coming from miles away. but for others who have known me for the past decade, it might be a surprise. someone once told me that words have power, and while at the time i disagreed, i'm starting to understand what she meant now. i've been afraid to speak it into existence, because it means it's real, and coming to terms with this unavoidable truth is a terrifying experience, one i need to face and stop running away from. 

i'm detransitioning. giving life to this phrase doesn't make me feel any better. words have power, and that power is to make me crumble and break. since as early as 4 years old, i felt as if i was born a boy who was just being raised as a girl. at 12 was when i learned about and started identifying as transgender. at 18 i legally changed my name. for a decade, i lived as a transgender man. i've mentioned this before, but i'm intersex. i have an androgen insensitivity syndrome. what this means is that androgens, male sex hormones, have no effect on me. they instantly are reconverted back into estrogen by my body. this has been a reoccurring nightmare of mine since i was 14, and having it become my reality is.. heartbreaking, to say the least, crushing a lifetime of dreams and wishes. i've tried testosterone, self-medicated in my teen years, and "officially" more recently. it has no effect on me. a friend of mine says i shouldn't give up hope until i properly see an endocrinologist about HRT, but the reality is– i know my body, and i know my condition. i don't grow body hair, and my body cannot masculinize. these are unavoidable truths. i don't need to spend hundreds of dollars to be told what i already know. HRT will not affect me; i will never be able to transition. any attempt will become a scientific study in which i'm a guinea pig. i don't want that. i will never pass for male. my voice is high, my body is undoubtably female, my face is feminine, and i'm 4'11". it's disheartening and i've shed many tears over it. for what feels like my whole life, i've longed for SRS/GRS, top surgery, a deeper voice, and a couple inches of height. i ache for body hair, masculine fat redistribution, and male pattern baldness. all the good and the bad associated with testosterone is what i so desperately yearn for with such a soul-crushing depravity. i am genuinely heartbroken. maybe it's my punishment for all the bad things i've believed in or done. it's what i'd deserve, i guess. this punishment. it is for those reasons that i feel like i can no longer find comfort in identifying as ftm, to struggle seeing myself as a man. it's crazy, i've referred to myself as male since early childhood, and now that i'm coming to terms with my intersex condition am i feeling wrong in every conceivably way of identity. truthfully, i don't even identify as anything anymore. i'm not nonbinary, cis, or i guess trans. i feel as if i just exist. i just am. you can still call me kevin. it's my name, my legal name– which i love to point out. i'm not changing it. it's the first time i made a decision purely for myself, and went through with it. i love my name. i don't think i will love anything about myself quite like my name. i chose it when i was 12, it was my first choice. i never wanted another name. i still don't. but i like nicknames, particularly kitty and K-K. you can call me those too. these have always been options available. i reiterate– i really like being called nicknames. (: you can still use male pronouns for me. i never minded being "misgendered" because, well, i never passed, and i made peace with that years and years ago. while being called she/her or otherwise will probably always leave a stale taste in my mouth, i've learned to accept the reality of what i am a long time ago. biologically female. you can still use male identifiers for me, like husband or boyfriend or whatever other male terms there are...... actually you'll have to pry those out of my cold dead hands. i will not accept being called a "girlfriend" i will literally go feral and foam at the mouth and bite your ankles until you take it back. there's comfort in these things that i'm not ready to let go of, and frankly, i don't think i'll ever feel ready to. moving forward, i don't really know what i'm going to do. right now i'm taking a break from the internet, so i can soul-search and truly find myself, in all senses of the word and every iteration that it can be built upon. i'll make a new twitter account when i'm ready to, probably. there's a lot more i want to say, to add onto this in addendum, and pour so much of myself into this until it spills out the sides and trickles down into tiny cracks. but truthfully, i don't know how to say it. i don't know its relevancy to this eulogy of an account, and quite honestly, there are still some things i can't find myself able to say. to speak into existence. to give power to those words. admitting aloud to a 6-year long love that burnt like candles catching a home on fire was intense enough (hi Charlotte it's you, it's you and it's always been you and everyone knows this). so maybe i'd rather keep some things to myself, perhaps. preferably. so i guess that's it. i've bared my heart and soul and skin and bones to whoever will read this piece of myself. it's the end to katidoj, one that's been a longtime coming. i've never been very good at staying in one place for very long. please take care, i love you. and i'll miss you. a piece of my heart left with you, here buried deep in this account. (pressing the submit button has never been so hard in my life.)

[lokispettigerr]

Ophelia--The Goddess Within: Fic Drabble (Loki x Reader) NSFW

Summary: Reader is feeling frustrated and struggling with their inner potential. Loki of course still sees the beauty and power within and decides to bring it out!

Word Count: 1406

A/N: Just a little fic drabble for you all since I have been away from posting fictions for so long. Hope you enjoy it at least some and look forward to the full fic. Read on and find out how Loki and I see you, and how we wish you could see yourself. 

Taglist: In the reblog

“I give up!” I cried, throwing my hands in the air exasperatedly. “I can’t do this anymore!”

“Can’t do what anymore?” a deeply erotic voice asked.

I startled at the sound. Loki was always appearing suddenly as if the shadows and air all around me seemed to give him form. 

His voice was a balm that soothed my nerves, but not enough to stop the tears from welling up in my eyes. 

“This!” I yelled, too loud, and pointed dramatically at an art piece I had been laboring over for the last several days. 

Without a word, he walked over to my desk. It was littered all about with pencils, papers, erasers, and the like. 

Loki’s deft fingers shifted a piece of paper away from my work as he peered at it. Though his face was still turned towards the art, he looked up at me. I was struck by how innocent he looked like that. For a moment I caught a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a small child-- perhaps trying to apologize for something he didn’t do, trying to cheer someone else up who was angry over a broken vase or the like. It was odd seeing him like that. 

“I see nothing amiss here,” Loki said, his lashes casting shadows in his luxurious green eyes. “No.” I pointed, my finger floating near his, “Look there! It’s all wrong.”

Loki’s eyes trailed back down, to where my finger gestured-- making a tight circle in the air as if I was trying to wave the problem away with magic. 

“Hmmm,” he hummed, “Ah, Norns, yes. I see it now! Oh, how ghastly!”

“You do, really? I know! It is terrible. I can’t stand it!” I replied, finally content that he saw what I could see. 

His hand grabbed at mine, his fingers linking through my own. “No, my love. I see nothing but beauty.” He brought my hand to his lips to kiss it. I could see the pencil smudges on my fingers turning them grey. 

I tried pulling my hand back, “Loki!” I sighed, “Stop pretending like it is fine. It isn’t!”

He chuckled, “Ophelia, not everything has to be perfection. Why can you not see the beauty in the imperfect? You are much too hard on yourself.”

“Loki…”

“Well, what about me, Ophelia my love? I am not perfect. Not by any means, yet you still think I am good and pure.”

I scowled at him, “Not at this particular moment, Loki!”

His mouth went into a straight line. He may have been wounded by my words, but he wouldn’t say so. I felt bad for being so snappy with him. 

“I think you need time away from,” he gestured at the drawing, “your art.” I could tell he wanted me to know it was not simply a drawing, but the expression of emotions and the soul on paper. 

“That’s fine! I’m never doing it again anyway!” I was being dramatic and I knew it. I also knew Loki was probably right, but I wanted to be upset at this moment. I was unhappy. I deserved to at least feel how I wanted to. 

Loki did not respond, instead, he pulled me away from my desk, away from the mess that reflected what was in my mind. 

He took me outside to stand on the porch. It was early morning. I didn’t realize I must have been awake through the night. The soft rays of the sun peeked out from between the branches and green, glistening leaves of the trees surrounding the house. 

“Stay,” he ordered before heading back into the house. He looked back at me over his shoulder, “Undress.” 

I was appalled a bit. I must admit, but luckily Loki and I had a cabin out in the forest, and the only ones that would witness my nakedness would be the critters and creatures of the forest. I shrugged out of my clothes, slightly feeling abashed. My arms went over my breasts and I kept my legs together, as tight as possible, crossing my feet with one another as I stood waiting, awkward. 

While Loki was gone I stayed within my thoughts. Loki truly was very interesting. When I first met him, he came across apathetic. I would have never thought he would go to great links to show someone he cares about how important to the world or to him they were-- but time after time Loki showed me how special I was. He could be filled with madness, lust, jealousy, rage, and the like. I expected those as did many others who met Loki.

It finally hit me. Loki showed those facets of himself, those facets that were expected of him to most people. It took someone truly special and powerful to bring out the rest. Loki himself was a work of art, a hidden one. Only a true artist, like myself, who drew with their whole being could bring out his truth. 

Loki returned carrying several bottles of paint. I quirked an eyebrow at him. “I’ve never taken you as much of a painter.” 

Loki didn’t answer and instead placed the bottles of paint at my feet, holding onto a purple bottle. 

Loki carried no paint brushes or other art supplies and my eyes widened as it dawned on me what Loki was planning to do. 

I watched as his deft fingers opened the bottle, turned it upside down to pour some of the paint onto the palm of his hand. The paint seeped onto his skin spreading into the fine lines of his palm, tracing a map of his life. 

“May I?” He asked, glancing up at me from beneath his lashes, his eyes bright in the rays of the sun. 

The paint could have passed for black if there hadn’t been a golden metallic sheen within the paint. Yet, it was purple, but a violet purple that mimicked that of the cosmos. For without the light of all the stars the cosmos would truly be darker than black-- a twirling void of soulessness and disarray. 

“For your brilliance, your body is a mirror of the universe,” Loki said in a husky voice, his brows were furrowed as he rubbed his hands together and his thumbs and index fingers caressed my forehead, nose, and cheeks. Then with the palms of his hand he cupped and massaged both of my breasts. When most of the paint was transferred from his hands to my skin, he knelt to get another paint tube-- this color was red, but again it had a golden sheen to it making it shimmer and become alive in the dancing rays of the sun. It looked like fire. “For within your womb is a fire that births creativity, intuition, and above all life. Not only does it consume but it is the energy source of all life.” 

I spoke not a word, I was in a trance at the sound of his words. I was under a spell. “Do not ever let this fire burn down to embers. Stroke it, feed it.” As he said this his hand  dipped down, below my navel, below the space between my hips, down, his finger right above the cleft of my lower lips, right above my clit. I drew a sharp breath in between my teeth. Loki continued, he would transfer the paint from his hands to my body to kneel back down to gather more-- he did this until all of me was covered in paint swirling like the universe. 

“Now you see what I see,” he whispered in a hushed tone. “You give birth to art, because you are art of the highest creation. I see you, now you see yourself.” Loki took his index finger, crooking it under my chin to tilt my head up so he could place a kiss of passion on my rose colored lips. 

“It’s alright to take a break from your art from time to time, but never forsake it. You are a wild goddess, your spirit swirling about the void of the cosmos giving birth and lighting all of the stars within the galaxies. You need to put your art, your soul onto paper to share with others so they will know they are never alone. Share the fire of the divinity within you.”

Loki was right, I smiled knowingly and said, “Thank you Loki.”

**** Hope you all enjoyed this and it invoked a sense of your true power and a greater desire to be at unity with yourself and your productions. 

If you would like to be added to the taglist please send me an ask in my askbox. If they are not there, I most likely will miss them and won’t see it. I get alot of mail and action here!

I have venmo and ko-fi, links in the reblog. 

[chaoskirin]

Freddie and I share something in common - we both went to school for fine art. I earned my bachelor's degree in 2005. At times, I wonder if he ever got tired of the formal education, too. I wonder if he also laughed when his film teacher told him that "after this class, you'll never watch a movie the same way again" and then realized later with horror that it was actually true. How color theory takes over your life even when you don't mean it to. How everything you see makes you wonder if you could draw that, and what technique you would have to employ.

I don't know. I was ten when he died and I'll never get to ask. Somehow he doesn't strike me as the kind of person who would want to talk about his own art, anyway. I mean, there's not much we know about Freddie's private life, but everyone says he was shy.

So when I sat down and thought about what to do for Freddie's birthday, I thought analyzing one of his greatest works of art would be a good place to start. I had to pick apart and appraise so much art in school, whether it be my own classmates' paintings or pieces in a museum, or even poetry. And what are all Freddie Mercury's songs but poetry? In any case, it felt like a good tribute to him to analyze "It's a Hard Life."

British "Promo videos" were the prototype for today's visual extravaganzas, and were really meant to provide a simple visual aid to the music. Michael Nesmith says in his book, Infinite Tuesday, that they weren't meant to have much thought or money poured into them. The name of the game was getting a band on stage and recording them, which would then, theoretically, promote more sales. But they evolved, as things tend to do.

Music videos seem absolutely mundane today. A hit single has a music video, and people watch it, and it kind of gets swept under the proverbial carpet and filed away in our collective mind. Sometimes, the really good ones stand out, but more often than not, it's just some thing that's expected. It almost feels ludicrous to think that music accompanied by video wasn't the industry norm.

But in the 1980s, music videos were just becoming valid as a means of expression, and many artists had no idea how to exploit them as an art form. Even Queen did a song supporting the idea that video was killing radio. There were a few who believed that music videos were the way of the future (See again: Michael Nesmith who started down a path that would one day lead to MTV) but to others, they were just a fad, or even something to be resisted.

But in reality, music and video accompanied each other in various forms for years. The first motion pictures themselves were set to music - usually live - because watching a film in silence would have been utterly boring! (Note - artist opinion. I can't cite that, but I stand by my assumption.) Then in the 1960s, the Monkees performed "romps" on their TV show that became the precursor for modern music video. Later, just before MTV came into existence, came "Video Killed the Radio Star."

Since that short foray into music video history is out of the way, it's time to discuss Freddie Mercury.

Of course, Queen did other music videos before "It's a Hard Life." Some were quite artistic, and even Bohemian Rhapsody - which was one of those aforementioned "Promo Videos" - had quite a lot of skill that went into its production. The point is, Freddie seemed to detest the mundane. He wanted something that would make a mark and stand out among everything around him.

In the audio commentary for "It's a Hard Life," Brian May said that the video was a "Freddie indulgence, and we indulged him." He wasn't seeing the endeavor as Freddie did, however. This project was more than an indulgence -- it was a beautiful song, with beautiful lyrics, and there was a real chance to make the video speak just as much as the lyrics themselves. Freddie could recognize the music video medium as a canvas upon which he could paint his ideas. With formal training in fine arts, he knew the importance of symbolism and color in both still art and film, and couldn't fathom why the same principles couldn't be applied to his songs.

The lyrics don't just outright tell the story, though. The song says one thing that the video interprets, but both aren't completely in sync. The visuals are up to interpretation just like any work of art. Freddie had two stories to tell here... Not only the story outlined by the words of the song, but also how he felt about those words. And that's where he managed to unite music and video into a wonderful little four-minute movie.

At the center is the main character. Freddie. His entire life is this room in two parts - an opulent staircase that contains all his life's desires. As the scene expands, his court and other revelers dance around him, enjoying life, while the other players - Brian, Roger, and John - stand off to one side in shadow, interacting with no one.

The room itself is interesting. One side is extremely busy, while there is almost nothing on the other side. The balance is striking and obvious; the stairs and everything within - revelers, a throne, gold banisters, lace curtains, balconies and columns, is meant to represent man's desire. This side of the room is warm and comfortable, populated and eye-catching. It could be heaven, or the Garden of Eden or Valhalla. The other side of the room has nothing except shadow, tile, a few stray revelers, and Death and his angels.

And there's Freddie. The commentary on the video does shed some light onto its meaning. A man who appears to have everything is devastated by the lack of love in his life, which would have made him whole. Ultimately, though, the video is about a man who is so crushed by the lack of love that he makes the decision to kill himself.

Red is used carefully but liberally to highlight passion and desire. Interestingly and importantly, red is also the color of blood - remember that for later - although at the beginning, it is very representative of desire. A red "carpet" leads up the stairs, for example, where brightness waits for anyone who enters. Freddie, as the subject of this metaphor, is also wearing red, and is also covered with eyes that are open and forever searching for what he craves. Passion, romance, deep love, and trust. One one arm, this red costume is starting to unravel as he realizes that what he wants is difficult to obtain. He's begun to believe that it's even impossible for him.

And so we reach our second important color. Blue. Often, the lighting abruptly shifts from red to blue, which is a color of sadness and longing, made even more obvious with the use of heavy shadow. It is weighty and unbearable. Crushing. It destroys everything except Freddie, who is alone when the blue light casts shadows upon everything in the room. There is no more red. No more passion. And only one way out.

He tries to make it work. A red, warm glow flashes onto the party again. But he's getting farther away from the party. He's delving into the emptiness.

Brian - as Death - brazenly walks past him on the stairs, but no one seems to notice save for a passing glance. People wearing slight hints of red rush past Freddie, engrossed in each other but ignoring their host.

Freddie is trying to save himself, but as the screen goes blue again, he knows it's over.

Roger - an angel of hell, and John - an angel of heaven, wander into frame behind Freddie. They are also important in this blue landscape of melancholy and loss. "I try and mend the broken pieces/I try to fight back the tears," Freddie says. "They say it's just a state of mind," he goes on to the sound of a discordant guitar sting, as the angels discuss him, perhaps arguing over his soul after the end has come.

This is the point where the video takes a gloriously subtle shift into darkness. It is a scene of cut time - a view of the past where Freddie was long-haired and in his prime, surrounded by the rich, extravagant life that so many people want. Even back then, his expression is devoid of what one would expect from someone with such a bountiful lifestyle, and the real tragedy is that no one seems to notice or care. They ignore his pain, but are suddenly amused and appreciative when he makes a show of himself. And these scenes are intercut with "present" Freddie, framed in blue and heavily shadowed, at his end.

The angels follow Freddie around as if deciding his fate. Though they are dressed as revelers, they always face away from the other people and interact with no one except each other. They go completely unnoticed by everyone, much like Death, although they have an important role to play. They know what's coming and when - they are even the first to climb the stairs as Death makes himself known.

And while the Garden - or Heaven - or Valhalla - is the goal of nearly everyone at this party, Freddie knows he can't find what he's looking for there. He has the ability to get there, but love is constantly eluding him, and he's come to the conclusion that it always will.

And then Death arrives for Freddie, who has finally given up and ended his own life. Suddenly, the red that appears before him isn't passion, but blood and death. Even so, the decision to commit suicide seems to be a cause for celebration - there is dancing, and the pages are throwing rice as if the day of a royal wedding has arrived. Freddie begins to climb the stairs to take a woman by the hand, only to be stung when she steps on his foot and leaves him in pain. It's not what he wanted. It's not what he hoped for.

And then he notices the angels.

The hall is empty, save for them and Freddie, and the looming visage of Death, who leads Freddie out of the Garden and into the empty hall. The angels take their place at the gates, their stare making it absolutely clear that Freddie has been denied any form of afterlife, and that they are in agreement that he will be alone. He can never go back.

But Freddie has no regrets.

"I'll look back on myself and say 'I did it for love,'" he says, as he offers the first and only smile in the entire video.

He did it for love.

[rosesanthology]

And Yet... | Akaashi Keiji x F!Reader [musician!AU]

Violinist!Akaashi x Pianist!Reader (yes i saw that one Viria fanart)

Ive been feeling extremely bad these days but im managing to write some things for my emotional support hq boys (Akaashi and Kenma) so here u go even tho its probably a lil shitty 👁3👁 its all about them la la land type of vibes

Warning : i didn't proofread this, also it's VERY self indulgent

Songs : • city of stars from La La Land (but Dodie and Jon Cozart's cover)

• any of the songs in the fic but especially Bach's violin sonata in presto IT SLAPS

[Tags] : @raevaioli

- You've always admired the way human life entertwines itself with art. The vicissitudes of a fleating existence finding a way to express themselves in external stimulations, the way someone could pour as much of their soul, as much as themselves in just one moment, one performance, one artwork.

- it is the main reason why you decided to become a pianist. The second one being that you could hardly put as much effort on anything else

- your mother would argue that it is but a mere childhood dream to do something as uncertain, sure.

- and yet, the first time your performed in front of an actual audience, even if it was just at your high school's theatre auditorium, still felt like the best

- you had registered in the student showcase program without your mother knowing, wearing not the dark blue dress you dreamed of but a hoodie, some jeans and sneakers

- in the moment it seemed fine even if you did look way underdressed than the other kids who registered for piano too

- but it all seemed to tie together with your whole personna as you sat on the stool making sure to put your tiny moomin plushie on top of the grand piano

- he helped a lot

- at that time you played Tanjirou no Uta because well....there's only so much you can expect from a high schooler who lacks confidence in their skills

- regardless of the song your fingers danced onto the heavy keys, the sound swirling with your own emotions as you tried to concentrate on the one thing you wanted the most,

- "Somebody, look at me."

- because there is such a big difference between only being seen by people and actually being looked, observed, analysed

- at the time you wanted someone to look at you and wonder if what they were feeling listening to your piece was flooding their brain the same way it flooded yours

- if the lingering sound of pressed keys made their heart and time stop in the same way it did yours so well whenever you played

- it mattered. In that moment, only that mattered, but sooner or later it had to end

- until then, the only person who was able to exactly tell the things you wanted to convey was your childhood best friend Akaashi Keiji

- he was of wealthier upbringing, his parents always so uptight and pressuring him into their perfect mold in which he seemed to fit so oddly well

- and yet, he always found time to be there for you and help you in your struggles, he was far more musically inclined than you because of his background but his eyes never lost their gentle glint as you would mess up the keys to a piece

- he'd always take his time to let you know how much he liked hearing you play even if you insisted that you weren't as good as him, his smile never wavered as he rested his chin on his palms and closed his eyes, listening to your fifth poor attempt at playing Clara Schumann's sonata in G minor

- that was your typical sunday afternoon in his living room, playing the day away intoxicated in the calmness of his scent of flowers and warm cotton

- when you finished, people didn't seem to mind the choice of the song nor the stuffed toy that added to your whole appearance, if anything you only heard encouragements, advices and heartfelt returns

- among them was Akaashi of course, ever so gentle but marking in his praise, making you feel like maybe you were worth standing on that stage

- it wasn't much compared to what the middle school kids who played Mozart got but, it gave you enough of a push to have the strength to call yourself a pianist today

- nothing really changed in your little world, you still had your moomin plush sitting on the piano everytime you performed and the same simple attitude, now you just knew your classics and could play something else than anime music even if you did manage to fit a little song once in a while

- what changed tho is that you and Akaashi had grown appart after he had left

- his parents had suddenly decided to register him in some fancy music college in Paris

- away from you

- at the time, you knew that no amount of tears and words could possibly matter in the final decision

- but it's not like you could ever control yourself when he held you in his arms like he did when he broke the news to you

- you were never that gracious at goodbyes

- but if it meant that he could get the life he deserved than you were willing to make that sacrifice, even if he wouldn't have the time to talk to you as much as before

- in the meantime you would continue to grow as a person and as an artist if not for you then for him

- and that's what you've been doing for the past four years

- and it is exactly what brought you to accept the offer to perform at another musician showcase tonight

- it was fancier than a high school show that's for sure. It was held in one of these candle lit restaurants, but not the impersonal ones where the tables are five meters away from each other

- it was one of these places where everybody seemed to know each other and relish in the warmth of sharing the same pleasant time while listening to live concerts

- after your own performance you sat back down with the other musicians, talking a bit with the pretty cellist Kiyoko Shimizu, who finished her own before yours

- when the lights dimmed and the next musician stepped on the stage your heart almost stopped

- there stood your dearly missed friend in flesh and bones, violin and bow in hand, or at least you thought so

- he started playing and you watched from the side, amazed, your heart achung with the resonance of the instrument as he gently swayed to such a hard piece as Bach's sonata No. 1 in presto

- the ground and the rest of the room seemed to dismantle around you as all you could think about was the man playing music off of your very heart strings, the man who you've known for a long time and who had been such a huge inspiration and motivation in your existence

- the man who always was so sensible and observant despite coming off as stoic to most people, the same one who was always gentle and motivating all the whilst excelling in what he did himself

- this was Akaashi Keiji.

- and right now he was playing such a fast piece with an unspoken surprising sadness to it as if he'd disappear into ashes the second he stopped, the second he relaxed

- but it eventually had to come to an end, the sound of the strings tearing you appart to reveal the most vulnerable parts of yourself to him like it always did on sunday afternoon practice

- the realization came crashing into you as he bowed to the audience and locked eyes with you, sending you a small smile before disappearing backstage

- naturally, you went after him your breath hitching and your whole being coming to a halt three meters away from him

- you had been way farther away from each other and yet, these three meters felt the worst

- he turned to you, and as casually as if he never left opened his arms for you to run into and that's just what you did

- his own heart was pounding as he caressed your hair, whispering phrases like "it's okay" or "im here now" as you sobbed into his chest

- he still smelled of wild flowers and cotton.

- "let's go catch up outside Y/N?" He said just for you to hear

- he brought you two outside on a bench overlooking the city and its lights but you couldn't help but keep your eyes on him by fear that he'd disappear again

- "w-why are you here ?" you stammered without thinking

- "why you don't want me here ?"

- "Yes- Well no- i mean yes i want you here and-"

- his laugh resonated even more than his violin if that was possible and you didn't have to wait long to feel your face heat up

- "first thing you do is laugh at me...." you said, playing with his fingers on your lap, a thing you did back then whenever he was nervous and started fiddling with his hands, even tho you were the nervous one now

- he sighed, the previous sadness from his playing as if blown away by that tiny impatient breath of air

- "i came back on my own. I missed you Y/N", he smiled again,

- "i missed you too...but what happened to your studies ? You always said you lived for music ?" you incquired, squeezing his hand maybe a little too hard in aprehention

- "i did...i did but i realized many things abroad"

- "like what ?"

- "im a little disappointed Y/N you used to be so good at guessing what i wanted to convey with my music" he said raising an eyebrow at you and laughing once more when seeing the confused look on your face

- "i may have said i lived for music yes and yet...i always knew that i live for you."

[iwroteinapastlife]

AU

And without further ado, here is the final chapter of This Is It, my fic for @chlonathweek 2k19. Enjoy <3

***

Chloé watched as water washed over her feet, briefly clearing sand away from her white nail polish only to rush back out and sink her down to her ankles in mud. The ocean mist was cool and refreshing on her skin with the summer sun blazing overhead. It really had been far too long since she’d visited the coast.

She’d known she was going to visit it again this summer; she just hadn’t predicted the exact circumstances that would take her there. Before this, she had been entertaining thoughts of planning a trip to Spain to spend a week or two on the beaches there. She had been entertaining thoughts of bringing Nathaniel with her. Now, though, she was reconsidering that plan.

“So if there are entire cities of merfolk underwater,” she said as the water rushed over her feet once more, “and your family has to go back to the water all the time anyway,” she twisted to look at him over her shoulder, “why do you live on land at all?”

Nathaniel stood barefoot in the dry sand behind her, having just finished taking off his shoes (because he wore his Vans instead of sandals, like an idiot). His hair shined a brighter red than usual under light like this—closer to that ginger orange color than the darker tones he had under clouds. She might have been imagining it, but she was pretty sure a scattering of freckles was starting to pop up on the bridge of his nose. And his eyes—that deep teal that had reminded her of ocean waters long before she had even learned the truth—were bright and clear as they rose from his phone to meet her.

He smiled in that way that always preceded something snarky. “Have you ever tried to use a pencil and paper underwater?” She gave him a look. “I’m not kidding!” he laughed. “From drawing to writing to music, just about everyone in my family is an artist in some regard.” He looked down at his phone to keep typing as he continued. “There are underwater arts for sure, but why limit ourselves when we don’t have to?”

She supposed that made sense. Even before they started talking, Chloé had known by observation alone that Nathaniel couldn’t go anywhere without his sketch book. She had never seen him so distressed as those rare days when he forgot it at home—not even his stress over telling her the truth could compare. And everyone and their mother knew Nino always had a pair of headphones on him; she hadn’t even seen him without music. Their house was full of arts and crafts varying from pottery to papier mâché, there was always music of some sort playing from somewhere in the house, and Chloé couldn’t even picture Nathaniel’s mother without a pen tucked behind her ear; it seemed just as attached as her red hair.

“Do you have any family that don’t live on land?”

He shrugged, still typing. “Probably some distant family, but no one we keep in contact with.”

“Who are you texting?”

He looked up again and smiled upon seeing her confused expression. “Just Marinette.”

“Why?” Was it wrong of her to feel a slight pang of jealousy? Would the topic of Marinette ever stop being a sore spot for her?

Two more seconds to finish typing, then he closed his phone and tossed it off to the side with the rest of their stuff. “There’s a friend of hers that I want you to meet.”

“What? Why? Who is it?”

“Don’t worry about it.” She gave him another look. He just smiled in that way that was absolutely unfair. “You’ll see.”

“But—,”

“You’re welcome to keep watching,” he interrupted, voice muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head, “but I am going to fully undress.” He turned around and knelt down by his backpack, stuffing the shirt inside. Long strands of tangled red hair lay across his back that fell down by his face as he leaned forward, baring his shoulder.

Baring the flowers.

They were perfect, down to every little detail. The shape, the design, even the tiny little errors she had nitpicked long ago. All those years, she couldn’t understand how he could think she was his soulmate; not when her own tattoo was so clear. But looking at the flowers in that moment, she couldn’t conceive of anyone not reaching that conclusion.

It was so very specifically Marinette’s design on his shoulder.

“Chloé?”

She looked up again, realizing that while she had been scrutinizing the tattoo, he had stood up, half turned to her, and maybe even said something. Now with his hands paused at the button of his jeans, he was looking at her with that snarky smile again.

“This is your last chance if you want to turn around.”

“...Right,” she eventually said. Her feet still stuck in the mud, she simply faced forward so she was staring out at the horizon again. “Sorry.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she lied.

“Let me rephrase.” His voice was getting closer. With a gentle hand on her back, he came around to her side to look at her face. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t meet his eyes, intent on watching a piece of seaweed float along the surface of the water out past the break. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“I don’t care.”

She rolled her head back with a pout. “No, Nathaniel, that’s where you’re supposed to say, ‘don’t be silly, Chloé, whatever’s bothering you can’t be stupid.’”

“I’m not going to lie to you.” She backhanded his stomach and he laughed, catching her hand to hold it in both of his. “Come on,” he said gently. He lifted her hand and she finally looked to watch as he pressed a soft kiss to her wrist—to her tattoo. There may be nothing technically different about it as compared to his lips anywhere else on her skin, but that specific kiss had her weak. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She stared at him—stared at the tender, welcoming, reassuring way that he looked at her. That way that made her feel safe speaking her feelings for once in her life.

She sighed. “I don’t like that it’s Marinette’s design on your shoulder,” she finally admitted, her eyes focused on the tattoo she couldn’t see, but knew all too well would always be there on the other side of his back.

Seeing those flowers was seeing two whole years of watching her soulmate happy with someone else. Two long years of convincing herself to give up on ever being with her soulmate because she had managed to lose him before he was even hers. Two bleak years of knowing that she was one of those people who didn’t end up with their soulmate, and wondering if she would be lucky enough to ever find love with someone else. Two years, culminated in three pink flowers and a vine of twelve leaves etched into her soulmate’s skin.

Nathaniel moved to stand directly in front of her, warm palms cupping the sides of her face to make sure she looked at him as he spoke the words she may never stop needing to hear. “I’m your soulmate.”

She rolled her eyes as if hearing him say it didn’t mean everything to her. “I know; that’s why I said it was stupid.”

Even if it had only been a few months, he already apparently knew not to trust her nonchalance. His thumbs stroked gently across her cheeks. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.”

She leaned her cheek into the warmth of his hold. “I know.” Her hands came to settle on his hips and she leveled her gaze with his, meeting those genuine apologetic, remorseful eyes. “Promise you’ll spend the rest of your life making it up to me.”

A soft smile on soft lips. His fingers weaved up into her hair, thumbs settling on the edges of her jaw as he moved in. “I promise.”

By now she had lost count of how many times they had kissed. That didn’t mean that she was used to it. Nathaniel liked to cradle her head when he kissed her—whether that was her cheek nestled safely in the warmth of his palm or her head held with care in the strength of his fingers. He poured his everything into every kiss, always kissing her with the utmost passion and feeling and warmth. Like she was his whole world when they kissed; like nothing else existed but the two of them in those brief moments that their lips touch.

She was never kissed in such a way that she didn’t feel absolutely cherished with him. Secure.

“I’m yours, Chloé Bourgeois,” he whispered, putting the perfect words to a kiss like that. She wondered if she would ever get to a point where hearing him affirm that didn’t strike her to her core.

“You’re so overdramatic,” she whispered back. “Using my full name, kissing me like it’s the end of the world.”

Her eyes weren’t open, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Maybe I’m still afraid it’ll be the last.”

“Keep doubting me like that and it will be.”

He chuckled and the sound was warmer than the sun above. “Or maybe I’m just still savoring the fact that a kiss can feel like that.”

“Whatever the reason,” she opened her eyes and found his right there waiting for her, “never stop.”

Would she ever get used to that bright, beautiful, beaming smile?

Another kiss—just one more slow, perfect, calming, centering, breathtaking, mind clearing, soul completing kiss. Nathaniel’s kiss.

As if to remind them where they were and why they were there, a particularly large wave washed up on shore, pushing water further up on her legs than before and no doubt soaking the cuffs of Nathaniel’s jeans. “Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, a nervous and excited flutter in her chest.

“Ready.”