#border nail art

[english-history-trip]

I normally get phone cases in screaming aqua blue, but the kind I wanted for this phone didn't come in that color so I was like Okay Imma be an Adult and get a nice dignified mauve, except whenever I put it down for the last four months it immediately vanished into the scenery. Adult Phone is overrated.

[galtzagorri-marrazki]

[mariocki]

New Scotland Yard: And When You're Wrong (1.13, LWT, 1972)

"You sent for me."

"I sent for you four days ago."

"I didn't get the message till yesterday."

"Right, you can put your diary down. Where have you been?"

"Busy."

"Doing what?"

"You know what I'm doing."

"I know what you're supposed to be doing, nobody seems to know what you're actually doing."

"You'll have my report when it's all wrapped up."

"I'll have it now. Whatever you were playing at before, you're now a witness in a murder case."

[ellecdc]

There are not nearly enough ffs on here where reader sucks Sirius off.

I just know he would sound so GOOOOD!

And he'd look so pretty with his head tilted back hshsbsknshsjsbsjshsbsjshshsjsnen! THIS MAN IS A WORK OF ART!

(If you take requests rn, I'd appreciate it if you solved my problem <3, if not, thanks for listening to me whine.)

mmmmmmmmmmm, I agree

Sirius Black x fem!reader who's very good with her mouth [848 words]

CW: oral (m receiving), nsfw/18+, swearing, no plot...sort of

Sirius only managed to open his eyes and point his face back towards you after you had nearly pierced through the skin of his thighs with your nails.

“Fuck!” He hissed as he raised a shaky hand to push some hair away from your eyes; his face beautifully flushed and chest heaving as he watched you pull off his cock.

“You have to be quiet, Sirius.” You chided gently as you continued stroking him, letting him cool down for a moment as you languidly licked up the underside of his shaft. “You’re going to alert the entire house of what we’re up to here.”

Here being the guest bathroom in James and Lily’s house as you sucked off your slightly tetchy boyfriend. 

Though, you had to admit he seemed far less tetchy now that he was sitting against the edge of the tub with your face hovering around his groin and your hand stroking him slowly. 

“Gotta stop being so bloody good at that then.” He shot back, though his usual haughtiness was significantly dimmed by the fact that his eyes were mostly pupil and he was looking down at you as if you had just completely torn him apart.

How wrong he was though.

“Good at what?” You asked innocently, before taking him back in your mouth and sinking low enough to feel the hairs that trailed down his stomach tickle your nose.

“Ugh, fuck, that! That!” He moaned above you, words melting into a sound bordering a moan and a sob as he placed his hand over yours in apology when you dug your nails back into his thigh at his volume. 

You removed your punishing grip from his thigh and brought your hand to his balls, relishing when they tightened in your grasp and his dick twitched in your mouth. 

“Shit, baby, I-”

You hummed as you carried on in your ministrations, the hand you currently had on his cock speeding up as you removed your mouth and brought it to join that first hand, making sure to give both equal attention before returning to his shaft. 

You watched in wonder as Sirius threw his head back again; his mouth hanging open as puffs of air and the occasional whine escaped his lips, the ones you couldn’t hear punctuated by the bobbing of his throat. 

He was gorgeous, always, but he was so ethereally beautiful like this; unreserved in his pleasure, carefully undone, and completely yours. 

You gave one last tug on his sack before moving both hands to his cock with renewed vigour, both of you ready to finish; you for your now aching jaw and burning knees, and him for having been edged on by you for the past however long you’d been hiding in the loo. 

“Fuck me, baby; holy shit.” He let out breathily, leaning forward and resting his hand on the top of your head. “Jesus Christ, yes.”

His hips started meeting you part way and you let him fuck into your mouth, having to keep yourself from getting too loud at the moans he was eliciting every time his tip hit the back of your throat.

“Fuck, I- I’m gonna-”

So you grabbed both of his wrists and held his hands in their place at the back of your head and relaxed your throat, sinking as far down onto Sirius’ cock as you could and swallowing as he came with a cry.

As quiet a cry as he could muster, at least, which you tried to be thankful for as you finally pulled off of your boyfriend and sat back on your heels, taking a moment to catch your breath. 

“I’m dead, I think I actually died. You killed me, gorgeous, you and that beautiful mouth.” He panted, words teasing but expression screaming torn apart and put back together again. 

Perfect.

“Feeling better?” You asked eventually as you stood - now on shaky legs - and fussed in the mirror, hoping to step out of this bathroom looking as little like your-face-was-just-fucked as possible. 

“I should bloody think so, Christ.” Sirius agreed as he stood - also on shaky legs - and righted the zip and belt on his black washed jeans. 

“Good. Be nice to your brother, then.” You ordered, earning you an indignant groan from Sirius that was all for show as he let his forehead fall against your shoulder.

“But he’s such a tosser.” 

You gave him a warning squeeze of his crotch - still sensitive if his hiss in reaction was anything to go by - and he pretended to relent.

“Fine, fine. I’ll play nice.” He agreed as he smacked a kiss to your cheek.  “Say, you have any siblings you want to squabble with? You know, so I can return the favour?” 

You gave him a sultry look as you helped fix his hair - still pretty well perfect after all that - and stepped back towards the door. “Oh, I have many ways that you can return the favour later, handsome.”

And with a matching smirk, he followed you out of the bathroom to return to the rest of the party.

[bumblesimagines]

Moths to a Flame

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Fire and Ice weren't always a duo on and off court. There'd been a time when they had another element they followed around: Earth. Or, as most call him, (Y/N) (L/N).

Pronouns: He/Him/His

I don't know what possessed me to write this but here we are

~~~

Patrick spotted him before Art did. Art could tell right away when Patrick's teasing eyes flickered away from him and then lit up like a firecracker, the victorious and gleeful grin that spread across his lips. Patrick clapped his shoulder, a tad roughly if Art had to admit, and hurried past him, leaving Art to chase after him as they dodged students and other people touring Stanford's campus. Art's attention drifted away from Patrick's back and locked onto that familiar side profile he'd dearly missed.

Patrick bent over the backrest of the bench (Y/N) sat on and slammed his lips against the player's cheek in a messy, playful kiss. (Y/N) immediately whined and crinkled his nose, the book in hand forgotten as he attempted to shove Patrick's face away. Art snickered as he plopped down beside the squirming player, shifting around to face him and brushing his fingertips over (Y/N)'s knee, instinctively tracing the scar he carried since a small accident with his skateboard back when he was thirteen. 

"God, Patrick, get off me," (Y/N) huffed, managing to shove his fingers between his cheek and Patrick's lips and pushing him away. Patrick laughed against his fingers, hand curling around (Y/N)'s wrist and staring at him with twinkling eyes. (Y/N) set the book aside and wiped away at his reddening cheek, his gaze following Patrick as the brunette circled the bench and sat down beside him, still holding onto his wrist. Patrick made no move to release him. (Y/N) always had to be the one to pull away, from both of them.

"Come on, don't pretend you didn't miss us." It always felt like Patrick had some control, some dominance over the friendship. And maybe he did when it was just Art and him, but (Y/N) was a different ballpark. He had no control over (Y/N), no words or actions that could amount to the way the two of them would react to (Y/N)'s touch and stare. (Y/N) knew that, too. 

"Missed the two of you running after me like little dogs? Sure." His smile bordered on smug but Art relished the way (Y/N) dropped his hand to place it over his, his fingers wrapping around Art's hand but his attention focused on Patrick, whose eyes lingered on their hands. Art pushed his finger into the scar and smiled sweetly when (Y/N) finally looked at him.

Patrick demanded attention just by existing, always soaking everything up while Art stood by, waiting to be noticed. He - embarrassingly enough - grew attached to (Y/N) because of his attention, because Patrick had to fight to be noticed, but he liked it like that. "Why are you here, puppy?" 

Art flushed at the pet name, one he hadn't heard in a year or two, and tugged at the vibrant red Stanford hoodie he sported. (Y/N)'s lips curled upward and his hand squeezed Art's. "Maybe we can dorm together." Art said with a borderline pleading undertone, a trickle of smugness invading his veins when Patrick pursed his lips. He'd chosen to tour, unlike Art. Too fucking bad. 

"Maybe." (Y/N) nodded and pulled away from both boys, the bench creaking as he stood and slipped the book into his backpack. Before he could pick it up from the floor, Patrick snatched it up and slung it over his shoulder, a lazy grin on his face as he challengingly arched his brow at him. Art rose from the bench, long fingers reaching out to adjust the back of (Y/N)'s shirt, feeling his nails graze over his skin. 

"Patty Cake." (Y/N) raised his brows at Patrick and extended his hand, wiggling his fingers but Patrick tugged the backpack further onto his back. 

"Speaking of dorms," Patrick wrapped his free arm around (Y/N)'s shoulders and tugged him closer, right into his chest and out of Art's reach. "Where's yours?"

(Y/N) led them through campus, working as their own personal guide of sorts on their way to the dorms. Patrick strolled on nonchalantly, evidently bored on their journey but he kept his mouth quiet, letting Art shoot off question after question until they reached (Y/N)'s temporary home.

The room was blatantly divided, (Y/N)'s belongings on one side and his dormmate's things on the other. The two eyed the stranger's things, gazes almost scrutinizing and nearing jealous. The two had roomed together once, something that led to Patrick's favorite story to tell about Art's inability to jack off until he met him. 

"I think," Patrick began, tossing the backpack onto the bed and flashing (Y/N) a smile when he scowled at him while his arm slithered around Art's shoulders. "We need to do (Y/N) a favor and get him a better roomie."

"Charlie's fine." (Y/N) told them, his mattress dipping under his weight as he climbed on top of it. Patrick dropped his arm from Art's shoulders and stepped forward, knees bumping against the edge of the bed and body bending over. His arms loosely wrapped around (Y/N)'s waist and he pressed his cheek to (Y/N)'s collarbone, eyes threatening to flutter shut when (Y/N)'s fingertips danced over his cheek.

"Come on, (Y/N). Art needs you, remember? Besides, each night you'll get to hear him jerk off to you-"

"Patrick." Art's voice sounded like a mix between a groan and a hiss, his skin lighting ablaze and palm pressing against Patrick's hip to shove him gently.

Patrick's adams apple bobbed when he laughed, and with no prying eyes around to watch, he pressed his lips against the side of (Y/N)'s neck. His mouth open to dig his teeth into (Y/N)'s skin, lightly at first it seemed but Patrick had never been able to restrain himself. His teeth sunk deeper and harder, and once it seemed like he'd leave a mark, (Y/N)'s fingers moved from his cheek to his hair and tugged. 

"I have a girlfriend, Pat." (Y/N) huffed, not that it proved to be much of a revelation to the two boys who spent frankly too much of their time trying to keep up with the whirlwind that was (Y/N) (L/N). Maybe they should've nicknamed him Air instead of Earth. At least then they could compare him to tornadoes or hurricanes. 

It'd been the fateful night they'd all been graced with the presence of Tashi Duncan. Gorgeous, badass, and with a killer smile, she was exactly their type. She seemed to like them, too, especially (Y/N), but he'd been the quietest of the three, simply observing while lazily pulling his cigarette back and forth between his lips, eyes trailing between her and the ocean.

Maybe it'd been his indifference to her presence or the knowledge he'd eventually become a global sensation because despite giving Patrick her number and having her suspicions about the goings between the three, she ultimately chose him. Patrick had wondered aloud once if maybe it'd been the other way around and (Y/N) had chosen Tashi. After all, his calls and messages turned rare, leaving the two high and dry. But Art dismissed that. 

(Y/N) never chose. 

He never chose between Art and Patrick after joining their little friendship. He never chose when he made them his little playthings, his little admirers eager to compete against each other for his attention. He never chose who got more attention, he simply divided it as necessary, only ever using it when one needed it more than the other.

Besides, he'd had his fair share of partners throughout their odd relationship, some who knew and others left in the dark. They never mattered to Art and Patrick. Sure, they disliked sharing him with anyone other than each other (Hell, sometimes they got jealous of each other), but the girlfriends and boyfriends never stayed for long. Art and Patrick did, though. 

"So? Tashi made out with all of us in one night, remember?" 

"I know," (Y/N) took hold of Patrick's jaw, fingers lightly digging into his flesh. Patrick finally stilled and (Y/N) touch turned gentler, his thumb stroking over the spot of red now on Patrick's skin. "But she'll kill me if anyone thinks she's getting cheated on."

"Isn't she, though?" Art questioned softly, sinking into the mattress beside him and leaning forward to hook his chin over (Y/N)'s shoulder. He liked the dynamic, the difference in how the two were treated. Patrick often acted like a brat, mischievous with feigned control, so (Y/N) treated him like one. (Y/N) treated Art more sweetly, and gently. Always tending to him with a gentle hand. The rising star tilted his head toward him, angling his head to brush his lips over Art's temple. 

"It's just a power couple thing, baby." A smile spread across Art's lips and he hummed, his thoughts on Tashi and her position in their relationship forgotten for a moment as he pressed his face into the crook of (Y/N)'s neck, breathing in his cologne until it imprinted itself back in his head.

Patrick hummed, feigning skepticism and dragging (Y/N)'s attention back to him. Patrick moved his head downward, kissing the spot between (Y/N)'s thumb and index finger before that cheeky grin appeared again. His eyes flickered toward Art who peeked up at him as he trailed his lips over the thumb until he popped the fingertip into his mouth and made his desires evidently clear. 

"(Y/N)," Art murmured, already breathless as he raised his head to look at him. (Y/N) chuckled and hooked his thumb fully in Patrick's mouth, using it to pull him closer and peck the tip of his nose. Despite the mischief behind his actions, Patrick's shoulders sagged and his eyes softened. 

"If you boys wanted a treat, you could've just asked."

[ode-to-melpomene]

"Everyone's a Critic"

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader Synopsis: Art is in the eye of the beholder... Word Count: 1861 Warnings: None. Art gallery meet cute. A hint of awkwardness and embarrassment!

Jason was used to being overlooked.

In a sea of bodies he often found himself standing still. A lone rock in the middle of a raucous tide that slipped around him, dousing his cold, weathered face with seafoam. It wasn't so bad, being a rock–especially at events like these. Jason stood, like a rock, in the center of a crowd, and watched the crowd part around him.

Why would they look at him? He had mastered the art of appearing smaller than he really was–broad shoulders drawn into a tight hunch, obscuring his height. Eyes to the ground and his back to the wall. Ignore me, his presence seemed to say.

Why would they look at him when Dick fluttered about the crowd with a broad smile, a proverbial halo above his head from the soft, golden light of the venue? Why would they look at him when Tim's cleverness and etiquette outshone his? Why would they look at him when Damian spoke so maturely for his age, or Cass reveled in her most recent ballet performance, or Bruce existed?

Sometimes it was better to be the dead Wayne.

Sometimes.

The venue could have been worse. The Gotham Museum of Art was familiar to him these days, after Cass’s numerous performances and Bruce’s subsequent donations. Jason had lost track long ago of how many grateful galas had been hosted in thanks for his father’s contributions. They even had a plaque posted somewhere for Bruce–or was that Gotham General Hospital? He couldn’t remember at this point.

It was easy to hide in the shadows between the paintings, the spotlights above them only spanning the canvas’s borders. Hide at the edge of the crowd, his head ducked down, shoulders drawn tight- it was what he always did.

Until a tittering couple pressed too close to him, admiring the painting he stood beside. Ivory nails tangled in a suit jacket, heels clicking against the parquet floors. Too loud. Too close. He pushed off the wall as they approached, ignoring the side-cast glances. He felt judged at events like this. He could handle being ignored, or even ostracized. But criticism hurt. He lifted his head for the first time in what felt like ages, taking in the crowd.

There. A quiet spot in front of a broad painting, its oil surface unmarred by the demanding gazes of the gala’s attendees. Jason pushed through the crowd with his head high, watching as the chattering sea parted around him. His long stride carried him through the throng as he fled his once barren spot and approached his newfound haven. His lips parted in a soft exhale at the sight of a bench–he could sit with his back to the crowd and-

Jason’s stride faltered. There was already someone sitting on the bench, a figure with their back to the crowd. How had he not noticed them before?

The spotlight on the art cast a soft glow across your front, blanketed in a warm haze that brightened the dark clothes you wore. A deep-gray blouse fading to black, well-ironed slacks. Jason’s eyes dropped to your shoes–old and worn compared to the rest of the outfit. Tired, and scuffed, the black finish faded with age and wear. A cocktail server on break, it seemed.

When Jason lifted his gaze, he found you already staring. He jumped slightly, blinking once, twice. You smiled softly–it was a bone-tired smile that eased the tension in your brow and smoothed the hard look in your eyes. 

“Sorry, I…” he started, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. He rubbed the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not,” you answered quietly. “Did you want somewhere to sit?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

Jason bobbed his head in a half-hearted nod and rounded the bench. He sat at the opposite side, putting as much space between the two of you as possible. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, eyes fixated on the ground for a moment. After a long pause, he lifted his head to take in the painting in front of him.

It seemed to come to life the longer he took it in. The background bustled with liveliness. Parents talking–maybe arguing, he thought–in a doorway. The preoccupied cat ignoring a mouse that went otherwise unseen. Children’s toys scattered at the edges of the canvas. His eyes roved over the child at the center of the canvas’s foreground, alone on a couch, gaze meeting the viewer. It was a modernized oil painting, vastly different from the Renaissance-like pieces that lined the wall–maybe that was why this piece went ignored throughout the night.

“It doesn’t really fit the theme, but I still like it,” you spoke up. What he first took as timidity now seemed contemplative as he turned to see you gazing up at the painting. “Seems I’m one of the few.” You shrugged, a tender smile across your lips.

Jason took in the muted colors of the background and the quiet intensity of the scene. “It feels very… isolated.” You turned your head sharply to look at him, brows raising in surprise. He quickly looked between you and the painting. “It’s… the kid feels really alone, you know? Like the whole world is-”

“Moving on without him?”

Jason clamped his jaw firmly shut as he tipped his head to meet your gaze. Your eyes sparkled with warmth and excitement, chasing away the exhaustion that once clung to you.

“Moving around him,” Jason answered, holding your intense stare, his brows furrowing slightly. “His parents are just-” he gestured to the painting, “ignoring him, I guess. I mean, he’s alone in the center of the painting, while everything else is distracted. Look, even the wallpaper looks busy, and he’s just… wearing muted clothes and sitting on a gray couch.”

“It’s ivory and phthalo blue.”

“What?”

“The couch. It’s ivory and phthalo blue, and a little bit of brown umber mixed into the shadows. Not gray.” You cocked your head to the side and offered him a crooked, toothy grin. His eyes dropped to your lips before moving back to your eyes. “I… like your interpretation a lot. ‘Moving around him.’ You’re the first person tonight to give it any thought, honestly.”

Jason narrowed his eyes as he studied you, his brows pinched together. His usual scowl sat on his lips, the one that tended to drive people away. Instead, you smiled sweetly and turned your attention back to the canvas. You didn’t stare through him–you stared at him. For once, it didn’t make his skin crawl. It didn’t feel like you were forcibly filling the silence.

“I was hoping for some exposure tonight, really. You know, big Wayne event, good time to show off,” you said with a melodic chuckle that sent goosebumps down his arms. “But no one seems particularly interested in my work. Everyone’s a critic, right? Except you. You get it.”

Jason blinked owlishly as his brain raced to catch up.

“You painted this?”

You hummed in the affirmative, gazing up fondly at your work.

His eyes snapped up at the painting and then back down to you. “I’m sorry, I- I just assumed you-”

“You’re not the only one,” you answered quickly. His shoulders eased. You picked up on his meaning so quickly without an ounce of offense in your tone. “I don’t really care how people do or don’t, in this case, see me. At least one person took the time to look.”

The tension in your shoulders eased with a visible sense of relief. Tonight wasn’t a total loss. Sure, you hadn’t received any commissions, and had been asked to refill someone’s drink one too many times, but there had been some success in the end. It only took one admirer to make hours of labor worthwhile.

“I think it’s beautiful.”

You jerked your head to stare at him, starved for feedback. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I… don’t know much about art–I prefer reading, honestly, but, uh, I think you did a great job with the colors. It does a really good job of framing the kid, y’know?” Jason glanced at you, his cheeks warming at your dazzled expression before looking back at the painting. “He’s muted, so it kind of draws your eyes to the middle instead of the super bright background. It’s like the opposite effect of some of the others.” He gestured over his shoulder at a few of the other paintings. “It definitely gives that… isolated vibe. I just… I guess it makes you wonder how the kid is feeling in all of this. He feels lonely.”

He could feel your heated stare grazing his skin. You weren’t leering at him like some of the others did. He held on to the reverent silence and fought to quell the warm blush that dusted his cheeks.

“You have a nice nose.”

Jason’s face flushed scarlet. He snapped his gaze to yours, brows furrowed in confusion.

“What?”

“Sorry, I-” His gaze dropped to your lips as they pursed in embarrassment and then parted with a shaky inhale. “I just- sorry, I do some sculpture on the side–not very well, I think, but I’m trying–and, well, I’ve been working on this one piece and I just can’t get the nose right, and you- you’ve got a really nice nose and I was trying to… memorize it… for when I work on it later…”

Jason held your gaze for a long moment. You shifted nervously in your seat at the way he straightened his back and regarded you closely. Your mouth opened and closed, tongue feeling tacky against the roof of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, that was-”

“Do you have a picture of it?”

“Of… what?”

“The sculpture. Can I see it?”

Your eyes widened as you blinked slowly at him, your mind racing to catch up. You tilted your head slightly to the side, staring at him in awe. “Yeah, I… um, I don’t have a picture, but- uh, my studio is only a couple of blocks away. Technically it’s the gallery’s studio-” you gestured widely to the gala venue. “But I use it for some of my projects. You could- do you want-?”

He smiled. The stone-faced, impassive, wall of a man that you had been sitting beside for who knows how long actually smiled a full, toothy grin. The crooked scar that crossed over his cheek and jaw danced with a subtle grace. Crow's feet decorated the corner of his pretty green eyes. You wondered if you could maybe match their shade.

You took in a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then breathed out a soft sigh. His gaze dipped to your lips at the movement, then back to your eyes.

“Would you… want to come to my studio?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

[freyito]

ꜰᴀᴅɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴀʀʟɪɢʜᴛ

✭ pairing(s): argenti x ftm reader

✩ inspo: Watch What Happens by Chris Montez

★ summary: Argenti adorns his boyfriends fading scars with hundreds of kisses and all the worship he can show.

✧ a/n: this (and the second part of this fic) may be my most self-indulgent fic yet... uhmmmm this is (in essence) kind of a more 'serious' fic then i write. still fluffy of course just definitely some heavy undertones, so please be careful if anything in the cw triggers you. also before anyone asks YES i am a person with scars and YES this is my form of healing. and also YES it does get better... just so you know :)

🗒 cw: ftm reader, hurt/comfort, mention of self-harm, sh scars, mention of suicide attempts, depiction of depression, mention body dysphoria, proofread

✎ wc: 1.3k

You are beautiful, plain and simple. You can’t remember how many times Argenti has told you that, in all his poetics and knightly glory. So beautiful that he had broken his vow of asceticism. Even with how disheveled you look in the morning, when your hair is unruly and hard to tame, when all you can do is yawn and stretch and ask for ‘five more minutes’. Even when you don’t want to look in the mirror in fear of looking like someone else entirely. Even with the raised skin that peppers your skin from the blades of the past.

Argenti makes sure you know day in, day out. Even when he’s away, his words take hold in those moments that you feel lost. Melancholy holds no place in your home, he makes sure of that. Any tears that dare to fall he kisses away, he chases off nightmares so diligently, and leaves no room for doubt, in yourself, or in him. Everything he does is not only an act of love, but an act of devotion, bordering on worship.

He is afraid of losing you, of course. As most mortals are afraid of losing what is close to them, the fear always lingers. But it is not because of your scars, or your body. He is simply afraid. He treats your scars as if they are the most beautiful brush strokes of a painting, your body is a work of art and he’ll be damned to not enjoy it.

Tonight, he is showing his devotion once more, holding your hand with his lips pressed against your palm, your head in his lap. Your hands aren’t necessarily the softest, skin picked and chewed around your fingertips, your nails bitten, all sorts of small cuts decorated your fingers, some covered with bandaids, some scabbed over. Argenti doesn’t care, he simply presses another kiss to your palm, mumbling something about how wonderful your hands are, something you don’t quite catch. His eyes are half-lidded as his gaze meets yours, that small shimmer of admiration shine back at you within those emeralds, making you blush ever so slightly.

His lips move from your palm to your wrist, another chaste kiss pressed against the first scar of many. It’s a little ticklish, is all. He has never looked at your scars with pity, his gaze never lingers for too long. He never frowns when he sees them, only gives you that soft smile, and maybe even a head tilt.

Before, when he had met you, the scars that decorated your wrists and shoulders were scabbed over, and he looked at you all the same. As if he had recognized it. Not as if he had pitied it. Of course he was worried, who wouldn’t be? But he never pushed the topic, not that he was silent about it. The more days you were sober, the more praise he showered down upon you. He never admonished you if you had relapsed, he never gave you anything but a reassuring look. And he’s kissed the scars, bandaged or otherwise, all the same.

By now, your scars are fading, albeit, slowly. Neither you nor Argenti can tell if you… like it. It is jarring to watch those reminders of what you’ve done fade, disappear as if you had never taken a blade to your skin. You know you should be glad, and be proud, because you had made it past all those nights where you could barely breathe, where your vision was blurry and the only thought on your mind was ‘i want to die’. Some of those times, Argenti would come around, sweep you out of that mind space, lay down and trace over your scars before you had the chance to open them. Those had been the only time he gazed upon you with anything other than reassurance and love. The most clear expression of worry, when he wiped away your tears, the way he was ever so hesitant to leave you alone when you wanted space.

However, it is a celebration tonight, despite the precarious feelings about these marks fading. Every scar Argenti pays homage to, a fleeting kiss pressed to it before moving onto the next. You both stay quiet, the only noise filtering into the moon-light washed room being the soft, wistful sighs of the wind. It is a tender moment, the knight’s eyes focused on your skin, thumb running over the scars he had kissed as he moves onto the next.

Every kiss feels like a new beginning, your sins against your own humanity, your own being, etched into your skin as a haunting reminder to the void of Nihility that had built itself a home within the hollow of your heart. Yet, his kisses, his attentions, even those small, sweeping glances, and the even smaller huffs that you translate to soft laughs, they are the most perfect repentance. A feeling of whole, perhaps even happiness wells within your stomach as Argenti’s kisses become more frequent, fluttering and ticklish. You hold back a snicker, trying not to disturb the tranquility of such a tender, meaningful moment.

Yet, the knight takes notice, of course. His normally content half-smile breaks into a full-on smile, his eyes crinkling slightly as he takes in your laughter and doubles it. He leans down, urging you up by your hand. You meet him half-way, his lips gracing yours in a slow kiss, one that would last longer if you hadn’t let a giggle slip through. You feel Argenti’s smile widen against your lips, and he breaks the kiss, nuzzling his nose against yours.

Despite how close you had been to him for about the past hour, his cologne washes over you now. It’s light and airy, carrying the faint scent of petrichor and vanilla, and an even fainter scent of leather. It is a scent that brings back vivid, winding memories. Your first dance under the stars, how Argenti was so confident as a lead, laughing as you stumbled over every other step, how close he was to you, hair cascading around you two like a veil everytime he dipped you. Another memory, the way his eyes softened when he first saw your scars, yet there was no judgment passed from him. All he did was smile, his eyes showing no pity, no words exchanged, and kissed your cheek.

His rumbling, oddly giddy laugh brings you back from your nostalgic daydream, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek once more. His hand releases your wrist, coming down to help you properly sit in his lap, thumbs caressing your waist. Those sweet, gentle eyes stare into yours, nothing but devotion glaring back at you. It’s enough to make butterflies blossom in your stomach, your cheeks heating up like it was your first date, despite being with him for a year and some change. It’s a wonderful feeling, really. Soon your own laughter joins his as he begins to pepper your face in kisses, one on your nose, on your cheek, your lips, under your eye, and so forth. The only words that dare to break the comfortable feel of the atmosphere come minutes later.

“I’m proud of you.”

No monologue follows after as you are used to, and the sound of Argenti’s smooth voice echoes through your mind. You blank for a second, relishing in those words. It’s as if sunlight draped over you on a spring day, and suddenly there’s no need to feel… melancholic. There’s no need to feel guilty over your scars, there’s no need to feel scared, sad, or anything else but happy that your scars are fading.

All chapters end, you know this. There has always been something somber about finishing your favorite book, your favorite show, your favorite game. Perhaps you have a sequel, or even a prequel to get to. But it has never been the same as the story before, left with some sort of mark of the past, and that was it. Scars.

Perhaps you are okay with your scars fading.

After all, even stars fade. They explode, really, become supernovae, and shine even brighter than they once had.

© freyito, 2024 | masterlist | queue | kofi | star header by roseschoices DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

[princessbrunette]

the first time deer!reader introduced pope to her parents, she almost couldn’t control herself.

you had no idea what you’d been so nervous about, everything had been perfect. as much as you loved the other pogues, you couldn’t imagine them behaving themselves the way pope did. he was big on etiquette, even bigger on respect — having ‘meeting the parents’ nailed down to an art. he was well educated, polite, loveable — the exact type of guy you want to bring home. you couldn’t be happier.

but something about watching him interact with your family, so eager to please them in order to keep you happy — made you eager to please him, watching him chat away with your folks over the table with your chin in your palm, barely touching your food. as soon as the meal was up, you couldn’t wait to drag him away.

“i think we’re going to go hang out upstairs for a while.” he feels your hand shyly tugging at his pinkie finger and his head whips round to him.

“after that meal i think i gotta do the dishes, atleast. please, sit.” pope whips back round to your mother with a charming smile, making her fawn over his politeness.

“i can’t ask that of you pope, it’s fine i swear — i’m sticking it all in the dishwasher anyway.” your mother refuses as you sway impatiently on your feet behind your boyfriend.

“oh, then i’ll help clear the table.” he shrugs, beginning to pile up plates. “the food was fantastic.” he compliments, following her through to the kitchen. you slump down in the dining seat once more, awaiting his eventual release.

once you finally got your hands on him, you were tripping up the stairs trying to get him to your bedroom faster. “woah, careful.” he catches your waist and it only makes your need worse, shutting the door firmly behind him once he was in. he takes a few steps into the room following you to stand near your dresser, the ghost of an amused and confused smile on his face as he watches you hurry to your speaker, tapping on the first playlist to come up on your spotify — that being his playlist.

as soon as the first note plays, you’re back infront of him, practically diving on him pressing your mouth to his. he lets out a quiet grunt of surprise and confusion as you pant against him, the first song off his playlist loudly obstructing anyone outside the four walls from hearing anything inside them.

“talk to me, what’s going on? brought me up here to kiss?” he pulls away, leaning back making a tiny whine escape the back of your throat. you would have thought you were on borrowed time from the way you gripped his shirt urgently.

“more th’n kiss.” you slur needily, leaning in trying to catch his lips once more. “you were perfect. they love you. you’re perfect.” you whisper and his brows jump up, leaning back once more.

“woahwoahwait— me impressing your parents is what’s turning you on? like actually?” you watch his eyes dance between yours. you pause for a second, catching your breath before nodding violently.

“uh-huh, yes.” you border on a whimper. his face flattens in thought, nodding his head once as it’s clear he’s taking mental note.

“interesting.”

“shh.” you silence him once more with another jump, hands all over him and lips successfully back on his. he melts more into the kiss this time, but before he even has the chance to fully get into it, you’re unlatching — choosing to kiss through his clothes instead, down his chest, down his tummy, sinking to your knees.

he puffs out an exhale through his cheeks, leaning on the wall and bracing his hand on your shelf clumsily, causing a blythe doll to fall from her stand but he effortlessly catches her in his palm, carefully placing her back on the shelf. this somehow made him ten times more attractive and you bite your lip, violently working his belt off as bryson tiller sings, covering all heaving breathing from room.

i say you don’t need nobody else, feels like you don’t got me so you feel like you’ve been by yourself —

you start to mouth at him through his pants, and he’s suddenly bending down to pull you back by the shoulders, wide eyes — like he’d been snapped out of a trance. “holdupholdup— your parents are just downstairs. are you sure this is a good idea?” he stresses, and you combat this by massaging the stress out of his cock through the fabric of his pants, squeezing him with those big bambi eyes that got him so weak.

“just need to suck it, popey.” you plead and he tilts his head back for a second, eyes rolling back.

“oh jesus.” he returns his gaze, brows still knitted in worry. “wait — your mom said dessert would be ready soon.”

“well, i want mine.” you pout your lips, undoing his zipper more to kiss through his boxers. he looks in pain, holding back. “i don’t want anything in return. it’ll be quick.”

he tilts his head with a knowing smirk. “well you already know i have to return the favour. i got manners.”

“we’ll figure it out. stop talkin’ P.” you whine, pulling him out his boxers and drooling on his tip, beginning to massage it down his shaft. he leans against the wall once more, letting out a shaky breath and squeezing his eyes shut.

“i’m dreaming.” he states in disbelief as you get to work, trying to ignore the time ticking away before the two of you would be called back downstairs. you took this as a challenge. you don’t get to be an ex-academic weapon and not enjoy a little time restricted fun.

[blushlambs]

Omg need part two of virgin art I feel bad

(part 1) (part 3)

he forgets the whole interaction as soon as her soft lips wrap around his cock, slim hands coated in saliva as she works what she can’t reach. he gasps, fingers clenching and nails biting into his thighs in a desperate attempt to anchor himself. "ff... fuuck... oh my god." he mutters, his voice shaky and strained. head drooping, his eyes roll back as she delicately plays with his wet balls.

"am i doing okay?" her voice trembled with uncertainty, her eyes searching for his reassurance. "i've never done this before." he’s rendered speechless by her sudden vulnerability - he manages a weak nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. there was something about her little worried expression, the hint of hesitation in her lips, and the spit dribbling from her chin that unlocked something inside him. being in the position of dominance, with her beneath him, big eyes wide as she attempted some coy act for him, stirred a primal urge inside that he hadn’t know of before. he blames patrick.

“i need to fuck you. need it right now.” he demands, his eyes frantic as he scans her naked body. “are you sure you’re ready, art?” she asks, voice laced with concern. he nods eagerly. “c’mere, please baby. bounce on my dick please..”

so she does. squealing, whimpering, nails digging into his back as he forces himself into her. “you’re. so. fuckin’. tight. s’made for me, this perfect little pussy.. all mine.” he growls. he reminds himself that he’d promised to take care of you, be a good boy and not give into his desires - yet the way you’re clinging to him, the way you’re already aching for more.. it would be cruel to restrict you of what you wanted, what you needed.

“hurts. hurts art. so big. you’re so big.” she rambles. a pained expression crosses her face, and he feels a pang of guilt knowing that turns him on. “yeah, baby? god.. you’re doing soooo well. keep going, c’mon don’t stop.” the moans escaping her lips are almost pornographic - subconsciously recreating what she’s seen on tapes, knowing art is reveling in it as he anchors her hips to piston himself upwards.

“oh my god. fuck.. shit. sh.. fuck. you feel so good.” he whimpers, overwhelmed. “gonna cum. gonna cum for you.” his tone is strained with desire and urgency.

“wait, no.. art, i’m not ready.. don’t.” she whines, her voice filled with a mix of yearning and apprehension, her hands gripping his shoulders in a desperate plea for him to slow down. “can’t. god you’re so fuckin’ pretty.” he murmurs, his desire evident in his words and actions. the strength of his grip on her ensures it will leave bruises, but he's too caught up in his own pleasure to notice or care.

“art. don’t fucking cum yet. i’m not close.” brow furrowed, she’s in disbelief of his sudden selfishness. it’s too late. he ignores her plea, fixating her hips to his with an intensity that bordered on desperation. his face contorts with primal need as he drives into her, consumed by his own pleasure. “fuuuuuck i’m cumming. fucking. take. it.”

“are you fucking serious, art? i’m not on birth control.”

[spdrvyn]

the soft candle glow, the music so slow (short drabble) — soft and slow mornings with (mafia) miguel after he comes home from an exhausting night of work. gift for @lauraolar14, check out her art for him omg

the coffee machine whirs with life as it sputters short bursts of espresso into your cup, miguel must have put new beans in because the aroma feels different. a milkier version of your usual wake up call with a savoury twist on your tongue, but you're in the mood for something sweet this morning.

you stand on your tip toes, but the edges of your fingers aren't able to reach the jar of sugar that's sitting on the top shelf when it's normally two levels lower. quite frankly, you don't want to walk to a completely different room just to get a stool just to get sugar.

thankfully, you don't have to. not anymore when miguel's hardened torso through cotton fabric warms your backside, his arm brushes against yours as he effortlessly grabs the ceramic from the top shelf while placing a kiss to the crown of your head.

"where have you been?" you gasp softly, he doesn't answer at first. scooping up two spoonfuls of sugar and pouring them into your cup, like he's apologizing. you notice the bruises and split skin on his knuckles, but he speaks first.

"negotations took longer than i thought they would," miguel rasped, his voice sounded like wheels against gravel, as if he'd been screaming the whole night. "i told them to handle it, but you know how incompetent they can get."

he interrupts you again when he doesn't let you run your thumbs over his wounds, but he slips his hands under the hem of your tank top to caress your bare hips. his breath is staggering, his arms are bordering on trembling, as he mutters small apologies against the fat of your cheek.

your touch, however, parallels that of a feather when you bring your own hand up to cup his face. unfortunately, where you're able to feel a scar that's yet to form later, miguel doesn't even hiss or flinch even though you're quite sure you scraped your nails against his open wound.

it's so gentle. you're so gentle. he could almost cry, because everyday is a losing battle convincing himself that he deserves this life with you that contrasts what he does to others, for others everyday.

"how about some coffee and antiseptic for those cuts, hm?"

so he settles on keeping his tears in, for now. you sit him down on the armchair of your living room, you set his americano on the small table next to him with so much care no matter how simple of a gesture it is. even when you're pouring medicine, burning, raging, medicine into his open skin, he doesn't shy away or groan from the pain. he keeps his gaze locked on you, because he's quite confident that god sent him a guardian angel.

so he settles on finally crying when you're wrapping bandages around his knuckles. quiet, but wracked sobs flood his being. his persistent, stubborn, and stupid being. you lean forward, smoothing his hair over on his forehead to leave kisses, and it feels like flowers bloom in your wake.

who needs Therapy when i have Tumblr. one of those Ts is clearly more superior than the other

[dawnbreakersgaze]

Anyone else ever think about how utterly wrecked Dawnbreaker would look the first time you touched him?

The truest definition of touch starved- he's waited years to feel your hands on him, dreaming of it every night since he was old enough to desire such things. He's not the proper and stoic Dr. Zayne you're used to, all practiced hands and measured breaths.

No, he is years worth of yearning and desire, trembling fingers almost hidden underneath the sheer force of his need to finally- FINALLY taste you. And it's almost imperceptible, the sigh that escapes him when your lips first meet, but the soft groans that follow when you bite at his lower lip confirm it was not your imagination.

His grip is one that borders on bruising; he's terrified you'll slip through his grasp. The vagaries of his dreams have left him so desperate for your affection that his body follows every slight twist or shift you make with absolute precision. His foggy mind still sharp enough to count every single point of contact between you, keeping a mental tally of how many places your physical beings become one.

Let your mouth plant and purchase down his neck, suck and bite and tend to the skin that makes him gasp and shudder. Drag your nails down the peaks and valleys of his chest and feel him vibrate and shiver; hooded eyes alight with all the need of a flame grasping for its only source of fuel. Listen carefully for every hiss and moan as they pull through him; each sound the little spark that threatens to call forth the avalanche that could bury you both. They're all throaty and pulled from behind his teeth, his brows pinched upwards as his eyes pull shut to focus on the searing heat of your touch that brands him as yours.

Feel as his cool, firm fingers find their way to the back of your neck and shoulder to knead and grip, curling around your pulse point to ground himself. He needs every reassurance you're real. Every heartbeat, every kiss, every touch, every soft word whispered against his skin that causes ripples of goosebumps to flood him- all of these are moments that will both sustain and haunt him in the days ahead.

Dark hair dusts acoss his eyes as you momentarily force yourself apart from him to stop and admire your work- and oh boy, what a work of art you've made. The expanse of his chest, littered with scars and lip given bruises, rises and falls with the strain of your activity. Jaw slack, to let saliva wetted kiss swollen lips pant. His honey and clover eyes burn and bore into you as you appreciate the masterpiece before you, and you know you've finally experienced what it means to create like the Gods.

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: a banner-style image with smudged, grungy text. The banner says "blog update" in bold, capital letters. The background is textured green and white with a film border around it. The upper left corner says "official photograph not to be released for publication." /end ID]

Happy update day!

Greenwarden, Eryinys, and TKP's chapter 1 updates are all coming along very smoothly. (Except for Greenwarden. Firstborn problem indeed. I ended up losing a ton of work -- including the whole library update -- and I got so mad I started working on a whole other route. Coming back to the library route soon, though. I have enough salvageable material, I just need to be Not Mad about it.) Here's some snippets!

CONTENT WARNING: Gore

GREENWARDEN

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. Sprinting down the street doesn't even hurt, even if you do leave a long blood trail behind you. Your one hope is that the coyote is too preoccupied tearing chunks out of Eddie to pay attention to you. Hope is dangerous -- makes you cocky. Makes you make mistakes. You keep running toward what you think is safety, and you end up right at the edge of Warden Forest. Definitely not safety. You stop just before the mouth of the woods, breathing so hard you gag, your stomach half-open like a yawning mouth. Deep breaths hurt too much -- you can't bring yourself back to baseline. You risk losing your adrenaline rush if you do that anyway. Looking around looks the same. Woods and parking lot, woods and parking lot. There's a trail right ahead of you, tempting you inside. The click of nails against asphalt makes you whirl around. The damn coyote is right behind you, still licking gristle from its teeth.

ERINYS

Marik leads you to a corner covered in paper thin monitors. Cords feed into the biggest computer you may have ever seen, protected from the water and soap by thick rubber casing and a raised platform surrounded by guardrails painted yellow and black. The ramp vibrates under heel. You realize, with a start, that the computer and monitors are much lower to the floor than you'd expect, just as the engineer wheels around to face you both. "Sorenson," Marik says. The engineer grins with a mouthful of pearly white teeth and leans back in his chair, arms folded over his stomach. He's all hard planes. Built with lean muscle, broad-shouldered like DANIEL is, but with a shock of curly red hair and a mess of dark freckles. He has a dimple on his nose. "Marik," Sorenson says, wheeling his chair back to make room for you both. "All systems good. I'm running tune-up software now, just to make sure. Everything is brand new, but still. Can't be too careful." He glances at you. Nothing escapes Marik's notice, even bent across the desk to glare into screens running codes and diagnostics and other things that make you dizzy. Absently, he introduces you to each other. The engineer's name is Doctor Matthew Sorenson. He looks awfully young to be a doctor. "Fury, huh?" Dr. Sorenson raises his eyebrows. You flex your hands. "Whatever keeps you alive, I guess."

THE KING'S PHYSICIAN

The Maw is a jagged white chalkscape. You have to march in single file, careful to avoid the razor sharp juts of rock. The horses are nervous -- the wolf packs and cave lions living in the Teeth have perfected the art of the ambush. Not just that -- the endless bone white expanse can cause the distracted to become easily lost. You keep close count of everyone -- you, Sibir, and Leniza -- their aunt. She gives the whole company water blessings on the way in. Salt water from the Archipelago, to fine their ways home. -> Not that you believe in blessings. You are a person of science. -> You give your own blessings when you can. You can never have too many gods at your disposal. -> You don't have an opinion on religion -- it's something that exists. Annoyingly prevalent, but what can you do?

I'm hoping at least one of these guys will be ready to publish by next month -- but I'm also writing another book! Because I'm crazy. So we'll see!

[weemssapphic]

Lipstick Stains - Pt. 15

previous chapter | next chapter | series page

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

summary: As your weekend getaway comes to a close, life at Nevermore continues as usual - with all the ups and especially downs that this entails.

words: ~ 2.5k | ao3 link in title

A/N: HI I'M SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO FINISH THIS. I lost all motivation, but it's slowly coming back. The most MASSIVE thank you goes out to @afeatherformills for beta reading, helping me plan out the next chapters, giving me ideas and being so patient with me! I love you! &lt;3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You really wished you didn’t have to leave New York. The weekend had been one of the best of your entire life - the prospect of going back to classes on Monday morning, of going back to seeing Larissa once or twice a week while you lived your lives in two separate worlds, was something that caused a little pit of dread to grow in your stomach. You clung a little tighter to Larissa in bed that morning, pouting when Larissa extricated herself from your grip to let in room service. 

Maybe you were being a bit clingy, you realized, as you nearly caused Larissa to spill her coffee all over the sheets as you burrowed into her side. But it was with good reason, and you could tell from the softness in your lover’s gaze (even as she gasped and tried to hold her mug steady) that she was feeling the same way.

“We have to check out in half an hour,” Larissa said with a sigh, once you’d finished picking at your food. You looked up at her from where your head rested in her lap, your lips curling into a frown. 

“Can’t we just stay here forever?” you whispered hopefully - of course you couldn’t, you knew, but the thought was awfully tempting.

Larissa smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes as she carded her fingers through your hair, red-tipped nails lightly scratching your scalp. “Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered. 

“Like what?”

“Like that,” she teased, dragging her finger across your pouting lips. “It makes me want to give you everything you ask for.”

“Pleaaaase?” You gave her your best puppy dog eyes, burrowing your head further into her lap.

“How about I promise you that we’ll take another trip soon? The students have exams coming up but perhaps after that, before Christmas?”

In spite of your sadness, an undercurrent of excitement was already brewing in your veins - you couldn’t help the grin forming at Larissa’s words, and her own smile grew brighter at the sight.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, Larissa, that’s a yes,” you said with a playful eye roll.

After packing up your things, Larissa ushered you down to the lobby to check out. Seeing as your flight wasn’t leaving until the evening, you left your suitcases with the reception to head out into the city and find a nice café.

Something about walking through the streets of New York City with Larissa felt so liberating to you. There was this freeing feeling that no one here knew you - you could be anyone, do anything you wanted. You could be as open as you wanted to be - and you could tell that Larissa felt the same. You’d rarely seen her so free, so uninhibited, so relaxed.

It hit you as you sat across from her in a little café you’d found. The two of you were tucked away in a booth in the back corner, away from the other patrons. It was cozy and warm, and the way Larissa was looking at you over the rim of her mug was bringing heat to your cheeks. You’d never been looked at with so much affection before - her sapphire eyes were bright and loving, drinking you in as if you were a work of art to be admired, a sight to be savored. If you hadn’t been seated, you’d have gone weak in the knees.

“When are you free this week?” you blurted out, and Larissa smiled as she placed her mug down in front of her and leaned her elbows on the table, propping her chin on her hand.

“Why do you ask?” She sounded amused at your sudden outburst, her tone bordering on teasing.

“I mean… I’ve been meaning to paint you. We could make a date out of it?” You held your breath hopefully as you waited for Larissa to respond. Her cheeks darkened and her eyelashes fluttered gently against her cheeks as she glanced down at the table, suddenly looking rather shy.

“I would really love that,” she whispered, her lips curling up at the outer corners. “I’ll check my calendar when I get back to Nevermore.” For all of her confidence and dominance in nearly every aspect of her life, she was very easily flustered by you. You could hardly fathom why, but it was extremely endearing to watch her smoldering gaze turn soft and affectionate, to watch her cheeks turn pink, to witness her chest hitching whenever you would do or say something that made her lose her cool.

“Cool,” you whispered back, a smile tugging at your lips.

~~~

You should have known that the little bubble you’d found yourself in over the weekend would burst the moment you landed in Vermont.

When the plane touched down, Larissa leaned over and gave you a tender kiss, her hand coming to rest on your thigh. She turned her attention to the phone in her other hand, turning off airplane mode as you did the same with yours.

A sharp intake of breath caused you to glance over at Larissa, whose brow was furrowed as her eyes scanned the little screen. 

“What’s wrong?” You tried to peek at the screen, seeing about half a dozen or so missed calls from the sheriff in her notifications.

Larissa gave you a worried look as she clicked on one of the calls and lifted the phone up to her ear. 

“Sheriff Galpin, I was just on a flight. I do hope there’s a reason you’ve called this late on a Sunday? … I’m sorry, pardon?”

You observed Larissa as closely as you could - her forehead wrinkled as she listened to whatever the sheriff was saying, her face growing pale and her lips parting in shock. Then you felt her grip on your thigh tighten and you glanced down to see her knuckles slowly turning white as her nails dug into your flesh.

“I-I understand. Did you see who may have hit him?”

Placing a hand over her own, you gently pried it off of your thigh and held it in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Ms. Addams?” Larissa’s face hardened and she let out an annoyed scoff. You weren’t sure what had happened, but if Wednesday was involved, you knew it couldn’t be anything good.

“I hate to trouble you, but would you be able to drive her back to Nevermore? Have her come straight to my office, I should be there in an hour at the latest.” Larissa had turned from shocked and concerned to hard and authoritative within seconds, and you waited for her to finish the call and slide her phone into her purse before giving her hand another squeeze.

“What happened?” you whispered. The plane had pulled up to the gate and passengers were beginning to stand and collect their luggage from the overhead bins. 

“Mayor Walker has been hit by a car and is in critical condition.” Larissa’s lip twitched as she spoke, and she swallowed thickly.

You felt your stomach drop. “And Wednesday?”

“Ms. Addams was witness to the accident. How that girl manages to end up at the center of every terrible thing that happens around here, I’ll never know.”

“Fuck, Larissa, I’m sorry…” As the man in the aisle seat next to you stood, you followed suit, your conversation briefly interrupted as you made your way off the plane and towards the baggage claim. Larissa held your hand in a death-grip in the ten or so minutes that you waited for your suitcases - in her other hand was her phone, which she glanced down at every couple of seconds. 

Once you’d retrieved your suitcases, you rolled both of them towards the exit as Larissa was quite distracted by her emails. So distracted that she nearly bumped into you when you stopped and turned to face her. She slid her phone reluctantly into her purse, looking guilty as she met your gaze. 

“Go,” you said softly, nodding your head towards the exit for the parking lot. “There’s a bus I can catch.”

Larissa’s brows knit together and she frowned. “No. I want to drive you home.” Even as she spoke you could see the conflict in her eyes, the internal battle taking place, and you took a step towards her, placing your hands on her waist and smiling up at her. 

“Please go. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Larissa began to nibble at her bottom lip as her eyes darted between your own. Finally, she sighed. “Thank you. At least take a taxi though.” She began to rifle through her purse for her wallet, opening it and pulling out a few bills, which she folded and tucked into your pocket in spite of your protests. 

“Fine,” you huffed with a playful eye roll. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

Larissa nodded her head and smiled - it didn’t quite reach her eyes, though you could tell it was genuine all the same. After giving you a tight hug, she dragged her suitcase out to the parking lot, her head held high and her step quick. You watched her go, waiting until she was out of sight before making your own way to the front of the airport to get a taxi with a heavy heart and a weird gnawing in your belly.

~~~

As you stepped over the threshold of the apartment, you were greeted by the smell of chinese food and the excited squeals of your roommate, Cassandra, who launched herself at you and pulled you into a tight hug. 

Cass was chattering away before you could even properly close the door behind you. “How was it? You have to tell us everything. Do you have pictures of the hotel? Robin said that Larissa is loaded, it better have been nice!” She pulled back and gave you a once-over, smirking as her eyes lingered on the faint hickeys littering your neck. “Don’t tell me you didn’t leave the hotel room?”

“Let her breathe,” Robin called out from the couch, making you chuckle a bit.

Cassandra rolled her eyes and let out a playful huff. “Okay, but it’s her fault for not texting us all weekend.”

“I see you every damn day anyway,” you said, taking a moment to drop your bag to the floor and remove your coat. “If you want a play-by-play, you’re not getting one. It was nice. We went to the Met and we saw Wicked.” You shrugged - of course you’d had the perfect weekend and were excited to gush about it (and especially about Larissa) to your friends. But the situation with the mayor and Larissa’s abrupt departure at the airport left you feeling rather ill at ease, and you couldn’t keep your thoughts from wandering towards your partner. 

“Something happened,” Cassandra said, pulling you out of your thoughts. She squinted at you, cocking her head. “What’s wrong?”

You let out a long sigh - she knew you too well, you should have known she’d be able to tell your mood was off. “Larissa had to head back to Nevermore, something about Mayor Walker being hit by a car.”

The silence in the apartment was deafening - even Cassandra didn’t seem to know what to say to that, her brown eyes wide with shock. After a few moments, Robin stood from the couch and walked over, her arms crossed over her chest. “What?”

“He’s in critical condition, I guess. I dunno. It sounded pretty bad, Larissa seemed worried.”

“Jesus…”

“Yeah…”

Cassandra hesitated for a moment, then pulled you into another hug, this one much gentler than the last. “You wanna call her?”

“Later…” You bit your lip, knowing Larissa would probably be busy dealing with Wednesday and the sheriff for a few hours. You might as well try to distract yourself in the meantime. “Did you guys order food?”

Cassandra laughed at the way you peeked over her shoulder into the living room. “Yeah, there’s enough if you want some?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m starving.”

The rest of your evening was spent in the living room, eating Chinese takeout and relaying the details (well, some of the details) of your trip to your friends. The awkward air surrounding the mayor’s condition slowly dissipated as your friends huddled around your phone to scroll through pictures from the weekend - it wasn’t lost on Cassandra how half the pictures were candids of Larissa, and she couldn’t help but tease you about it. 

It was nearing midnight by the time you finished talking about the trip - you said goodnight to your roommates and hurried into your room, video calling Larissa before you’d even properly shut the door behind you and praying that she was still awake. She was, of course - she answered on the second ring. She appeared to still be sitting at her desk, her face illuminated by the cool glow of her laptop screen. 

“Riss, it’s a Sunday night. The emails will still be there tomorrow morning.” Your brows furrowed with worry, and Larissa afforded you a sheepish smile.

“I know.” She let out a heavy sigh. “I needed the distraction. I promise, I’ll go to bed after we call.” You gave her a look of warning, raising your eyebrow and causing her to blush and look down. 

“How are you doing?” you asked softly, getting comfortable on your stomach on the bed.

“I’ve been better,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve put Nevermore on lockdown. I don’t want my students roaming about Jericho, I couldn’t let something happen to them - not after this, not after what happened to Eugene…”

Larissa looked so worn down, so different from how she’d looked that very morning, that it made your heart hurt. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“I’m sorry our weekend ended on such a sour note, darling. I didn’t want it to end like this.” She bit her lip, a remorseful look crossing her face as she leaned back in her chair. 

“Hey, it’s alright, I promise.” You tried to get your voice as sincere as possible, not wanting to make Larissa feel any worse than she already did. “It’s not your fault, anyway. It doesn’t take away from the amazing weekend we had.”

“I had a lovely time,” she whispered, a soft smile briefly lighting up her features. “I don’t want you to think I’m sorry for taking the time off work - I would do it all over again to have that time together.”

Her comments were making you beam and blush like crazy, and you propped your chin up on your hand. “Am I crazy for missing you already?”

“If you’re crazy then I must be, as well.” The blonde let out a chuckle, shaking her head. “Would you like to come over tomorrow evening? I think I could use the company.”

Your answer, without a moment’s hesitation, was a resounding “yes” - it made Larissa smile and bite her lip. She told you she’d finish writing the email and then head to bed.

“Take care of yourself, Riss.”

Larissa’s face softened. “You too… and be careful, alright, darling?”

You could see the worry written across her face - it was heartbreaking to witness.

“I will. I promise. I love you, Riss.”

“I love you, too.”

x

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[roseamongroses]

not to be sappy but they mean the world to me

also happy juneteenth! im a college student with the typical fees expected from a fine art program so my bare bones kofi is: here.

i'll be posting there more frequently in the incoming months, as well as prepping other blogs/social media for my original writing and art so look out for that too!

[ID: A digital drawing of Margo Kess, Miles Morales, and Hobie Brown from the chest up. Behind the characters is a purple square background with a black, sketchy border. This is in the center of a larger light- pink background. The piece primarily includes neon colors with purple and pink highlights, shading, and half-tones. Margo is on the outer, left side. She holds up a peace sign and leans into Miles with a slight smile and raised eyebrows. Margo is a brown to dark skin girl with two afro puffs at the top of her head. She is wearing pink and blue heart-shaped sunglasses, pink headphones around her neck, a mesh shirt with a teal t-shirt underneath, and a lime green jacket. To Margos right is Miles. Miles stands between Margo and Hobie, looking at the viewer directly while smiling. Miles is a brown-to-dark skin boy. He has an afro with a tapered fade and is wearing a black turtle neck. To Miles's right is Hobie. Hobie is leaning into Miles, looking at the viewer as he is holding up his middle finger and sticking out his tounge. Hobie has dark-skin, eyebrow piercings, a split tounge, and cyan stiletto nails. His wicks are the same color as the pink background and are shaded with pink-star halftones. He is wearing a pink, chunky choker and bracelet with cyan spikes, a royal blue vest, and a shredded lavender shirt. end id]

[zarvasace]

I have too many AUs and I'm not overly dedicated to this one but I figured I might as well share what I have of it :) It's a pretty good amount!

LU Space Crew AU

There is some art here!

Most who work the celestial highways long to find a place that they can call home. Most drift between crews and jobs, whether within the Kingdom or without. Some, however, live for the stars and find home is a cramped ship with engines rumbling the ground beneath their feet, and a crew that's almost family.

Those who man the special operations ship Epona are one such crew. Nine bright characters from across the galaxy, brought together through chance, staying together with determination. Though all of them have a home elsewhere, they've found cameraderie on Epona, and none are keen to leave anytime soon.

Epona and her crew are commissioned and funded by, but not officially employed by, the Kingdom. She goes where she will, to urban and rural planets alike, seeking out cells of the Black-Blooded, a mob-like organization that has infested every corner of the semi-united Kingdom. Whether the Director of the Kingdom has secret agendas for the Epona and her crew is unknown.

Time was a Kingdom special officer, trained from a young age. He comes from the planet Kokiri, but is not one of them. He is the only registered member of the alien race known as the Deities—a near-mythical people that adopt permanent forms similar to those they grow up around, identified by colorful markings and blank eyes. Whatever form they end up taking, Deities have unusual strength and kinesthetic awareness, bordering on supernatural. They also occasionally enter battle hazes, in which their abilities are multiplied, but they become dangerous and potentially unable to identify friend from foe.

After a harrowing mission in his youth, Time deserted the Kingdom and lived as a sight-after mercenary for a time, before meeting his wife Malon and inheriting the ranch on the planet LonLon. He was enlisted for the BB mission by an old friend, codename Sheik, who ensured (through dubiously legal means) that his record was wiped clean. He serves as the captain of the Epona and has grown very protective of his little crew.

Warriors was a high-ranking general in the Kingdom's army before his assignment to the BB mission. He is pure Hylian, which is rare, as the Hylian diaspora centuries ago ensured that most Hylians in the present day have other ancestry mixed in. As a pure Hylian, many people find Warriors's presence to be rather uncanny: his hair just a little too golden, his posture just a little too straight, his eyes just a little too sharp, his skin just a little too perfect.

He was instrumental in defeating the Black-Blooded leader Cia in one of the outer Kingdom systems, directing and participating in many of the battles himself. At first, he felt a little lost on the Epona thanks to the fact that he always had Artemis and Impa with him. He serves as the Epona's first mate, overseeing logistical issues such as supplies and schedules.

Twilight was a goat herder on Ordon until he was caught up in the invasion of the Twili rebels, when he worked behind the scenes with the Ordonian resistance group and the true Twili princess to overthrow the rebels and free Ordon entirely. In the process, he discovered that he was not, as he and everyone else assumed, part Ordonian human and part Hylian, but part Ordonian human and part Twili. Due to his ancestry, he has an alternate shadow form and several physical traits that have been growing in prominence since he discovered and has been using his shadow form, traits that make him a bit intimidating to most people (such as blackened hands, tough nails, small fangs, and occasionally glowing eyes.)

Ordon is not officially a member of the Kingdom, but its princess Dusk does her best to keep friendly relations with the Kingdom despite her efforts to stay independent. Twilight volunteered for the BB mission as a bargaining chip that she could use against the Kingdom. He was determined to dislike the Epona, but grew to love her and the crew. He serves as her second mate, in charge of their combat training, weaponry, and together with Warriors (and a vote from the crew if possible), is authorized to override any of Time's decisions or policies.

Sky is, as Warriors is, also pure Hylian, but his demeanor is a bit less uncanny. He grew up on Skyloft Station, which is a massive space station that once hovered over the planet First Hyrule as a place for knights and their families to live and train. The station disappeared when First Hyrule collapsed centuries ago and the Hylians dispersed around the galaxy, assumed destroyed in the aftermath. However, it appeared again a few years ago, out of a huge rip in spacetime. The station now orbits New Hyrule, the seat of the Kingdom. Its people are struggling a bit to adapt to the new era, but many ancestral Hylians are eager for a chance to know more about their lost heritage and culture.

Sky was a teenager when the station appeared in the present day, and won't speak much about the journey. He and Sun are the only ones who know exactly how much they did to get Skyloft Station safely home. Sun didn't love sending him out on this mission, but he wanted to explore! He is the Epona's primary pilot, responsible for navigation and actually flying the ship. He prefers to fly manually, since he doesn't quite trust the new automated systems.

Wild has also dealt with a bit of temporal displacement. He lived on First Hyrule as a trained knight until its collapse in the Calamity. He got himself and Flora out on a small research ship, taking a lot of damage in the process, and leaving Flora to pilot the ship for several years alone as he recovered in an induced coma. She flew out so far that when she came back, centuries had passed on New Hyrule. Unlike most who lived on First Hyrule, Wild is not pure Hylian. He is actually part Deity, lacking the distinctive markings but with very pale eyes and a hint of Deity strength.

He helped with a minor war in the Kingdom's outer reaches, putting him on the Director's radar. Flora now lives quietly on LonLon as an engineer. Wild is the Epona's computer engineer, fixing and updating her internal systems. (And occasionally causing havoc for fun.) (He also cooks. He thinks modern rations are an abomination.)

Four is a bit of an odd case, since he was not born. He was created by Kingdom scientists as a sort of proof-of-concept android made with brand new self-propagating nanotechnology. How and why he gained sentience is a mystery to even him, but he only managed to convince one scientist of it: Dot, who provided a huge distraction and excuses and allowed him to escape. He went back for her and, with the help of a small, kind alien race known as the Minish, managed to win recognition as a person and citizenship in the Kingdom. A certain offshoot of Kingdom scientists headed by Vaati attempted to recreate the success of Four and created Shadow, who lost his body in his fight for freedom. Four carries a chip holding what he hopes is Shadow's soul or something, perhaps to revive him someday.

He often works on himself, both hardware and software, hoping to expand his capabilities and perhaps discover the source of his sentience. His greatest achievement so far has been the ability to split his consciousness and body into four, and only four. The pieces end up fully independent, but rather fragile, and separating can take a lot of energy. Four is not particularly open about his nature, but he doesn't like hiding it. He volunteered for the BB mission in an attempt to find a low-profile occupation where he could work on his own projects and be protected by Kingdom power. He is the Epona's mechanic, somewhat wary of her computers, but he loves the ship and knows every rivet and wire.

Hyrule comes from a very rural planet called Kasuto, known for its frequent natural disasters and dangerous fauna, all things made more common after First Hyrule collapsed. (it is said that Kasuto resonated with the people so far away and mourns even now.) Some of the fleeing Hylians found refuge with the dying Kasitan race, and now the two peoples are virtually indistinguishable. It's a difficult world to live on, and there aren't many Kasitans in total, but their havens are tight and well-defended. Hyrule inherited a lot of the ancient Kasitan survival traits. He looks mostly Hylian, though leaner with longer fingers, but he has a number of subtle traits: eyes that can see much better in the dark (though not as well in the light), flexible keratin plates beneath his skin for an added level of defense, and the ability to go longer than anyone else without food or water. He can withstand and survive a wider range of temperature, pressure, and air quality than most others.

Hyrule fought many of his planet's monsters to help defend its settlements and defeat a tyrannical warlord. In the process, he found... something. Even he isn't sure what it is. But he can now help a body heal faster, he can raise a hand in a storm and channel lightning through his bones, and monsters always seem to find him. On a good day, he calls it a blessing from his planet. Legend suggested him for the BB mission. Hyrule is the Epona's medic and primary explorer, though he takes a support role in more diplomatic situations.

Wind is from a tiny fishing planet called Outset in a small, close-knit system. He is mostly Hylian, though he is also part Zora. His skin is scaly in parts, his eyes big, his teeth somewhat sharp. He has some webbing between his fingers, and as he's grown, he has to trim down the fins on his arms and legs like he does his hair. He learned how to fly a ship at a young age, and learned to swing a sword by necessity.

He found some old First Hylian technology under the ocean where he lived, which sent him on a journey through his system to defeat a wannabe warlord trying to take over. Once he was old enough, he got a job on a cargo ship, hated it, and was recruited for the BB mission by Tetra, his good friend who is (reluctantly) involved in Kingdom politics. On the Epona, Wind is a secondary navigator and an in-between-er, doing whatever needs to be done.

Legend could swear that he's experienced the same time dilation as Wild but in reverse. Trained in the techniques of the Kingdom knighthood but never actually enlisted, Legend grew up on the urban side of the planet LonLon. His parents were native to the planet Kakariko, and he is mostly Sheikah, which makes his form quite malleable. He had to learn quickly how to drastically change his body by force of will alone. Most Sheikah can manage to change their hair colors or height—Legend can mimic appearances very well, and has even mastered much more dramatic transformations, like turning into a rabbit.

Through his uncle, he made a few friends in Kingdom networks, and when Fable needed help, he went right to her rescue. And he's never really been able to stop doing those things. He loves the stars, and when Fable caught wind of the BB mission, she knew Legend would want in. He did. Legend is the Epona's primary face, the talker and the fountain of random knowledge. He's handy in a pinch and comes up with a lot of weird solutions to problems around the ship.

[bowtiepastabitch]

Let's talk costuming: Avaunt!

So I think we can all agree that Aziraphale looks his most traditionally angelic in the Job minisode, no? In fact, all of the angels' costuming increases in drama for this particular episode. This is, obviously, a very deliberate choice on the part of wardrobe, so let's discuss.

On a technical level, the biggest thing that stands out to me about this fabulous robe is the draping. Oh, the draping. It feels like a classic angel 'fit because on a very fundamental level, it is. A lot of what we think of as angelic draws on Renaissance artists' depictions, with flowing robes, fluffy wings, and glimmering halos. In art from this era, there is a strong attention to detail on the natural flow of fabrics that makes Renaissance sculpture so breathtaking, such as here: (The Ecstasy of St. Teresa, Bernini, 17th century CE)

It's this ability to make solid marble look like fine silk rippling with movement that leaves such a strong impression in my mind when I look at these kinds of works.

In painting, too, there is a similar effect. Something about the material culture of the Renaissance really lent itself to this style, perhaps fueled by the rise in new textile luxuries that occurred in vaguely the same period. This is seen especially strongly for angels, such as in the sculpture above, and in this painting: (The Annunciation to the Virgin, Botticelli, 15th century CE)

There's a stark contrast between the dress of the two figures. The virgin Mary is no less ornamentally or expensively dressed, but her style is rather minimalistic next to the angel's voluminous robing. It paints a very clear impression of angelic dress, and the designers for Good Omens would have been aware, in at least a small way, of the art history precedence for such a thing.

The poof of the sleeves, the tucks down the front, the little belt with the train tucked in, the gathers, the weight of the fabric, everything about this robe is constructed to carefully recreate the rather fantastical imagery of renaissance art. It's not necessarily an easy texture to nail down, given that the artists themselves had no concerns of gravity, comfort, or the way it would look in actual 3d motion, while our brave costumers were dealing with all three as well as a budget, time constraints, and the constant consideration that white fabric just gets dirty so easy.

Here's some of the other angels as well, so you can see how theirs reflect those same dramatic themes.

And then, of course, when costuming a show you have a second question: What does this mean for our character? Or rather, we know how, but WHY did they make him look so traditionally angelic?

Well, thematically, the Job minisode centers around Aziraphale's struggle with being a good angel and Crowley's struggle with being a good demon. Aziraphale is learning how to be an angel that follows along with heaven as far as we can, and he's so terribly torn up about it. He spends a lot of his time fretting about doing what's expected demanded of him, even if perhaps he doesn't believe it to be the right choice. Natural, then, that he should look the part of the perfect angel whilst sorting out these ethereal woes.

Crowley even draws attention to it himself, giggling a bit at the suggestion that Aziraphale, with his fluffy hair and flowing angelic garb, could possibly become a demon. And it is a rather silly mental image; the garment itself would be comically silly in really ANY other context at all. In the same manner, his performance of angelic archetype borders on excessive:

He's trying so desperately hard here to be the angel he wants to and is supposed to be. He's dressed the part, he's using his big scary angel voice, but deep down he's clinging to an identity that doesn't quite fit.

(You'll notice in this shot the distinct difference between his and Crowley's dress on the level of silhouette as well as color. We see this a lot from the two of them, but with the points I made above it felt worth pointing out in this particular scene)

Here at the end, as he's coming to terms with the cracks in his heaven-given identity, his robe is largely in shadow, blurring out its startling whiteness. We do not see him dressed this way again. (He continues to wear white, obviously, but from here on out his style of dress mimics the human trends of the time rather than that classical angelic imagery)