#choosing to not put in context for this
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
jestermeows · 8 months ago
Text
deerpelt: i abandon my clan to die a slow death by leaving them with no one to capable of taking care of them...please starclan, help me bring my clan back, I'll do anything to bring them back! Just tell me what to do!
starclan:
Tumblr media
1 note · View note
hellspawnmotel · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
remember when I did this?
well I did more
2K notes · View notes
gabrielsbubblegumbitch · 5 months ago
Text
I just wrote the scene where Vox asks Valentino if he's a communist, and honestly, I think it would be hilarious if Val were a communist.
Vox learns about it during their fourth sleepover (I assume they started seeing each other not long after Val's death, when he wasn't bourgeois and still held some of his beliefs). That revelation causes Vox's existential crisis because he can forgive being a rapist, murderer, and queer, but a communist? He vents about it to Alastor because you know how angry some people get when you suggest that maybe ten people shouldn't own all the money? And Alastor, who is of course an anarchist, says something like, "But you said he was stupid!" That sends Vox spiraling because apparently, he's weirdly attracted to men who are red in more than one way.
146 notes · View notes
steelthroat · 4 months ago
Text
Jazz/prowl is cool and all... but what if they couldn't stand each other?
Come on, let the petty busty girls fight. It will be ugly... I PROMISE🍿👀🔥🔪
83 notes · View notes
scarlet-witchery · 7 months ago
Text
why do people think Yevgeny wasn't Mickey's son? in 3x06 there was clearly no condom used (not that Terry probably would have let Svetlana stop to get one), but there's no reason to think she wasn't using condoms with her regular clients. it's not Svetlana's fault that she was a tool used to rape Mickey—the sole blame for everything that happens in that entire situation belongs to Terry Milkovich and him alone—so why does it feel like it's just another way for people to shit on Svetlana for something that wasn't in her control? it's not as though she'd asked to get pregnant in the first place...
#stop giving svetlana shit just because terry was one of her clients—between him and sasha do you really think she had a chance to say no?#her attitude towards mickey is s4 is very easy to understand when you think about the fact that a) she's his age or maybe a year older#b) she is a person who knows she has to take what life gives her and make the best of bad situations#c) her entire future rests (so she thinks) on her and mickey making their marriage work and he was absorbed in ian (which the audience gets#but svet has no context for) and thus her feeling threatened is very understandable because mickey also won't stand up to his father#so yeah of course svet is gonna see terry as the one person who will put things the way they're supposed to be#but! it's after mickey comes out and he and ian fight everyone in the bar that she realizes mickey could be an ally to her#and she extends a hand in friendship because they're both stuck in this situation and yeah of course she wants him to stop being stupid#about yev—as she puts it “baby did not choose this either” which leads me to think she understands mickey's situation a little better now#but yev looks so much like mickey and has those big blue eyes of his (also evidence for baby mickey being blond)#I get that the whole child from rape thing isn't fun for mickey to have to deal with but women have to go through it all the time—like Svet#okay rant over I'm sorry I'm just...it puts a bad taste in my mouth whenever I see it in fic or meta that yev can't *possibly* be mickey's#mickey milkovich#svetlana yevgenivna#yevgeny milkovich#shameless
80 notes · View notes
Text
oh im gonna be SO annoying about bbh in a minute. i keep saying the same thing over and over again but his character is too fucking complex motherfucker is like:
"i'm a demon who is 11,000 years old and i refuse to acknowledge that im a demon nor that i do bad things (like steal furniture) but i will help people every chance i get despite saying im going to stop doing that and i am going to devote my life to protecting these fragile little eggs even though i know im going to lose them one day because i love them too much (and i know i can do that and it will one day be okay, because i have an immortal diamond to keep me company even if he isn't here now). when my friend throws himself beneath the spokewheel of the federation i will be there, bitter about my loss, but i will not start a revolution until he proves he deserves one. i will do what i can to safeguard his system against corruption because i am afraid the federation will use him to hurt us. i know he doesn't want to hurt us. he keeps hurting me. he is isolated by our distrust in him and he is still working hard to try to be a good person in an inherently corrupt system that cannot be fixed so i will build him a statue. i will not kill him when he takes a picture of me in the presidential chair (that was almost mine) and puts it on his wall and calls me 'employee of the month.' i didn't do all of that work for the federation i did it for him like i do it for others because they are my friends. i will exhaust every option i have to build a reason to NOT start a revolution. to not kill him. because i have to say that i tried. i feel like i have made so many compromises. i have held myself back to try to find reason. i will still remove his access to my base. when the island turns against me and he locks me in a cage for a crime i did not commit, i will remove everyone's access (except for my family the french and my family the eggs). i am having fun. when the eggs appear the next day with cracks and dirty shells i will worry, but i know they're strong. they'll be okay. (when i find my son's secret lab and his unethical experiments that cause him harm i will be proud because he has done what i do. he has helped. i want him to be safe but we are never safe and i trust him more than anyone else. i know now, and i can help him be safe.) when the eggs go missing i will be silent. i will look for them, and i will destroy for them, and i will bargain for them, and i will cry for them, and i will not accept their loss. when my friend who is president who once built a safehouse that saved my eggs' lives is finally damaged by the federation (like i knew he would be when he became president) and he starts to hurt people by pushing the same treatment onto them i will not be surprised. i will be surprised when he tries to marry me. i will not blame him (much) when he tries to kill me. our children are missing. he is forced to pretend that his is not. i wish i could too. i will not tell him yes or no because i need an open avenue to manipulate him (because to save him i will have to manipulate him). i will not marry him because he is out of his mind. i have said marriage is overrated. i have also said that i want to live with him in a house with our kids and my skeppy. when he tells me that he wants to be happy with me i will still say 'aw' because it is the most genuine thing he has said to me and i miss my friend. i will still try to kill him. i fail to kill him with someone else's plan. i don't place a block to lock him in place. i hesitate. it doesn't matter if it's on purpose because the next plan works. i will reveal an item that could destroy me to my closest allies (and tubbo) because it will let us save him. we save him. when he kills himself 18 times over i back away from the explosion in surprise and then step close again. while i have grieved i have thrown myself into mines. it doesn't matter. i am numb and want to feel something. everything has lost colour. we save him.
i visit federation workers and ask them about my eggs and they do not tell me anything. i know they are lying. i visit the graveyard to talk to my lost eggs. i have lost all of the eggs. i do not know how to save them. i lay in the mud. it rains and rain signifies the monster has returned to kill my children but my children are not here and so i do not care. when i go home i will become so angry and i will go down to my basement (which i have locked like my friend locked the entrance to his greatest fantasy. we are so alike and our delusions are different. he child was real; here is the secret to finding my children) where i have locked a federation worker away. i will not wash away the blood stains.
i am also part-time grim reaper and i only ever dress up in robes to make people drink more water."
243 notes · View notes
mayhemspreadingguy · 10 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
“I need a father. I need a mother. I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty.” ― Sylvia Plath
107 notes · View notes
thishappenedinsmt · 5 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
yall got any more of them pixels
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
23 notes · View notes
afterthelambs · 2 months ago
Text
At this point in the game Fuuka is becoming the MVP of my party. What do u mean she can scan the enemies' weaknesses so i dont waste time and SP with trial and error? And she can map the entire floor so i dont have to waste time running around?? And her theurgy replenish my SP, HP, and give me buffs randomly at my discretion (aka it's not randomly triggered)??? Also she can give me an escape route in case that fuckass reaper shows up and i havent found the stairs to the next floor yet???? I havent played p4 so idk if their navigator is as useful as Fuuka but damn p3r is the first time im using a nav for utility and not just charming voicelines. Fuuka my beloved you are the gold standard for navigators everywhere
19 notes · View notes
patrocles · 6 months ago
Text
the thing is i dont think eddie ever actually thought about how he would have to explain to his parents (texan, mexican american catholics) why he chose his best friend (of only a few years by that point and has had more near-death experiences than him no less), to be his son’s guardian in the event of his death over them (his own parents!!) in a way that doesn’t sound gay. like he did all that and was probably like “well if i’m dead i dont have to explain myself” and safely packed it away
19 notes · View notes
notnights · 2 months ago
Text
Love when people call Jax’s physical assault and invasion of privacy, “prankster behavior.”
10 notes · View notes
skitskatdacat63 · 1 year ago
Text
Boy King Seb :D
Tumblr media
#thank you to Grace for the idea of making his chivarly collar red bull instead <33333#he was gonna have both collars but then making that one made me suffer so no not today#this was a lot of fun but also made me suffer. but i keep looking at it and being like AAAHHHHH BABY!!! BABY BOY!!!!!!!#can you believe i tried to do this in one night? i cant#i stopped and came back to it and was like 'no way you could do this in one sitting at 1 am'#this is kinda the ascended form of that very first sketch i made for this au! concentrated boy king sebby!!!#i say to myself i need to take a break from drawing complicated things but youll prob see a nando version of this in less than a week ;;;#okay about the drawing(i wrote good tags and then tumblr deleted them so these are a bit inferior AGH):#this is typical pouty seb but is also referenced off a specific pic from AD 2009(beloved)#its very important to me how emotionally open Seb is. im not sure the specific context of this. maybe after a triumph?#but instead of being that typical stoic serious detached kind of ruler; i like him being openly emotional(think AD 2010)#its important as well for his dichotomy with nando and how they choose to portray themselves#seb is very assured in himself and his rule vs. nando who is more insecure and bitter about his#so nando takes strides to portray himself in that more stoic calculating way bcs he feels like it helps him legitimize himself better#whereas seb has absolutely no care for outward public image and shows how he feels and is loved for it(nando hates it but loves it)#not that nando cant be fun and whimsical!! but to me he always seems a bit more mysterious; like i can never tell his true thoughts tbh#anyways i feel like ill finish 10 more drawings before i end up posting the lore pt 2 LMAO#its just a lot harder to organize and layout compared to part 1 which was just an explanation#pt2 would be a mix of more world building/characterization/anecdotes ive talked about with mutuals(LOVE YOU GUYS!!!)#i have a *lot* of ideas (gotta whip out my notes app every once in a while to write down stuff abt it) just hard to put into a coherent pos#sebastian vettel#f1#formula 1#f1 art#formula 1 art#f1 fanart#formula 1 fanart#catie.art.#*ill prob make a process post later if anyone is curious!! its fun to write abt my process and influences and such#boy king au
41 notes · View notes
lesbianlenas · 2 months ago
Text
4 notes · View notes
deus-ex-mona · 11 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
rage is a ✨way of life✨
#found out that i successfully angered someone by not showing up to work on saturday lmaoooooo#and im just like… gOOOOOOD. BE MAD!!!!!!!!!!!!#mans has no room to be mad anyway. it’s his fault i had to ot for 7 hours to cover his work for him in the first place soooooooo#a nd he’s getting demoted next year and im ahauxucjsjjsjsjsjxjdhss#in other news im kinda annoyed by my mother’s (unfortunate) pressuring of me to go to the upcoming family christmas gathering :(#like no way manssssss i haven’t seen the extended fam since my grandma’s funeral and i’d like to keep it that way thanks~~~~~~~~#and a c h r i s t m a s gathering of all places… m a n. im half expecting them to drag everyone to church to end off the gathering…#i wouldn’t put it past the hosting aunt to do that ngl. she had tricked me into attending a church service in the past and all…#like. man. there’s this local mall that has a similar name to said church service…#so ofc it’s normal to assume that said mall is what she was referring to when she said ‘let’s go to [insert name]!’ with no context right???#and uggshdhdjjsjsjdjs i don’t wanna be introduced to my cousins’ kids as ‘auntie [insert nickname i hate]’ bc that’s lame#and m a n. i definitely don’t wanna interact with my cousins’ kids. i either don’t know or can’t pronounce (or both) their names#i only remember the oldest one’s name (bc he has a stereotypical frat boy name) and the one who’s named after a ninja turtle#but none of the rest. i think some of them have names from my cousins’ spouses’ home countries? dk about the others though#i’m 80% sure one of the girls was named something like ‘triceratops’ but that doesn’t seem right…#being named after a dinosaur sounds cool though… or any prehistoric creature really#if i could choose my own name i’d like it to be ‘coelacanth’#just so i can say ‘i coelacan’t do it!!!!!’ if someone asked me to do something i don’t wanna do. the pun potentials are endless mans#huh. wow… i started this off with a mad coworker and ended it by turning into a coelacanth… how did we get here anyway…?#oh wells no one reads the tags anyway uehxudjdjdjsjsjss my secrets are ✨safe✨
15 notes · View notes
secondjulia · 2 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
My brain, working on a dark!Dream/Hob fic that's getting pretty bloody: So... does everybody know that Hob killed people over white bread?
Like, this is not him bragging to friends or making a joke. Dream has already walked away with Shaxberd, and Hob's just like recollecting by himself.
My ideas about why Hob and Dream/Hob are so captivating are twofold:
Because even at the best of times, Hob is never a hero. Like I know the "regular guy" trope is... well, a trope. Especially in Fantasy, I feel like there's this emphasis on how the hero is really, actually, totally just a normal person with a normal life and just wants normal stuff who just happens to have whatever world-saving powers/tools/information the story needs. I mean, Peter fucking Parker's whole thing is him being a totally regular teenager — with world-saving spider powers! (I love Spiderman, don't hate me.) Even if you're a sidekick, you still have to have like genius-level brains or skills. But Hob really, really is just some random drunk braggart in a pub and even though he gains some wisdom, he is never actually more than a guy in a pub. I'm not saying it's laudable — that's the whole point — it's just that he's so... us. He's just a mirror of the world. When the world gets excited about chimneys and handkerchiefs, Hob's right there with them. And when the world goes dark, Hob gets mired in that, too.
Because change. You have Dream who is capable of change at an absolutely glacial pace. And then you have Hob who rushes into life again and again and again, seemingly endlessly capable of change — regardless of whether it's for better or worse. There's something compelling about the two extremes colliding and transforming each other. Even at the worst of times, I think change contains hope — because if things can turn one way, then they can turn another. And the idea that over time, people can grow and learn and become better and maybe become better at change itself is a beautiful and powerful and deeply human idea. We're adaptable, that's our thing.
109 notes · View notes
happi-tree · 11 months ago
Text
don't kiss and tell
“Can you get off me, please?” Lincoln deadpans instead, jostling Taylor on his back a bit. “Wanna stand up.”
“Hmmmmm, on one condition,” Taylor muses slyly. His jet black hair gleams with sweat under the scattered fluorescents, and stray strands tickle the side of Lincoln’s neck as Taylor leans in even closer. 
“Remove my makeup for me?” He shakes the package of makeup wipes for emphasis, and Lincoln glances over his shoulder to see Taylor’s trademarked doe-eyed look, complete with batting lashes and pouting lips. 
Or: After a long, tiring concert set, Lincoln helps Taylor backstage. One thing leads to another, and he gets a little more than he bargained for.
ao3
Hi, guys! Guess who's back with one more Swiftli fic to finish off 2023! I've had this idea kicking around in my docs (and my wip posts lmao) since July and figured it was high time to polish it up haha. Enjoy some very, very self-indulgent idol au Swiftlis below the cut!
“Liiiiiiincoln,” A familiar voice whines behind him.
Lincoln hums questioningly without turning around - he’s a bit preoccupied with tidying up their group’s shared dressing room. 
Sure, they’ll be performing their set here tomorrow night as well, but it never hurts to make sure everything is in its place so he can at least attempt at mitigating the chaos that is bound to unfold. That, and he doesn’t want to cause the staff any excess trouble.
“Liiiiiiiink,” Taylor prods again, and Lincoln can hear the exaggerated dragging steps his groupmate is taking toward him. “I’m all sweaty and you’re all sweaty and I will not hesitate to lean on you if you don’t pay attention to me.”
“Do, it, then,” Lincoln mutters, slightly hunched over to fluff up the throw pillows on the couch and inspect it to make sure nobody’s spilled their half-caff coffee (Normal) or energy drink (Scary) or needlessly complicated boba order (Taylor) or sports drink (himself). “Busy.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” Taylor says, draping himself across Lincoln’s back like an overgrown cat, hands hanging limply over Lincoln’s shoulders. In his peripheral vision, Lincoln notes that one’s holding a container of makeup wipes. “You’re so grumpy when you’re exhausted nowadays! Seems like a certain someone’s rubbing off on you.”
“Or, you know, using my back as a chaise lounge.”
“Well, I had been referring to Scary, but you’re not wrong!” He crows, stretching a little as if to emphasize all the points where their bodies make contact. 
(It’s uncomfortably warm and a little gross with all the sweat from their concert, and it’s a lot less bothersome than Lincoln would like to admit. Even in the afterglow of a performance in the earliest hours of the morning, voice hoarse and body crashing from all the adrenaline and mind dimmed with the promise of late-night room service and sleep, Taylor still has a way of making things a bit more bearable. Even when he’s acting anything but.)
A grimy finger pokes him lightly in the cheek, breaking Lincoln from his thoughts. He rolls his eyes and makes to fold the little blankets the staff had set out for them. 
“You’re so cute with your brows all furrowed like that,” Taylor teases. “Li-Wilson, our very own pretty boy, all angry and frowny. What would the press say?”
There’s a very, very stupid fluttering that happens in Lincoln’s chest whenever Taylor strings his name together with words like “cute” or “pretty” or “handsome”. And it happens annoyingly often, considering how much the four of them will play up their affections for their fans. Lincoln knows it’s not untrue - the internet surely agrees with what Taylor’s saying, if the endless amounts of comments he probably shouldn’t get sucked into reading are anything to go by - but sometimes… he still wonders if it’s all in his head, the way Taylor drops flirtations like he means them.
That’s a thought for later, though, when he’s in their shared hotel room fighting off the wonderful combination of jet lag and insomnia.
“Can you get off me, please?” Lincoln deadpans instead, jostling Taylor on his back a bit. “Wanna stand up.”
“Hmmmmm, on one condition,” Taylor muses slyly. His jet black hair gleams with sweat under the scattered fluorescents, and stray strands tickle the side of Lincoln’s neck as Taylor leans in even closer. 
“Remove my makeup for me?” He shakes the package of makeup wipes for emphasis, and Lincoln glances over his shoulder to see Taylor’s trademarked doe-eyed look, complete with batting lashes and pouting lips. 
“Cute,” Lincoln says out loud, because he calls Taylor that all the time in public, and he has no reason not to voice it now. Unlike the countless interviews and livestreams they’ve done together, though, he has the pleasure of watching red crawl its way across Taylor’s cheeks, which only further proves his point. 
“B-be that as it may, I have you effectively trapped until you do my bidding, you tall, unfairly handsome boy.”
Lincoln is so fortunate that he doesn’t blush easily, a fact which annoys both Taylor and the rest of their group. 
“Why can’t you remove your own makeup, huh?” Lincoln complains halfheartedly even as he takes the wipes offered to him and Taylor wriggles happily in celebration.
“Don’t have any mirrors,” He argues (which is clearly a lie - there are no less than eight in this room alone in case of last-minute touch-ups, not counting their phones), “and I’m so tired I can barely stand!”
“Oh, are your legs acting up? I can carry you if you want,” Lincoln replies, all pretense of grouchiness forgotten as he carefully straightens up, making sure that Taylor can still lean on him without throwing him off-balance.
“I mean, I’m probably fine. Just a little shaky, is all.” Taylor laughs a little, a short, breathy, half-nervous sound that Lincoln feels against the back of his outrageously complicated blouse. 
“You sure?” Lincoln asks, shooting Taylor a look of his own - his “princely protector” look, as he’s seen their fans call it - and Taylor’s expression softens a bit before breaking into a teasing smirk. 
“I mean… I am pretty tired, if you’re still offering, and I’d hate for those strong arms of yours to go to waste -”
“Alright, then, just let me…” Despite the awful clinging feeling of his sweaty clothes and the daunting task of even a little bit of physical exertion, Lincoln can’t help but grin as he rearranges their limbs to lift Taylor. It’s a familiar practice, borne from their years as training partners before they ever made their debut alongside Scary and Normal, and one Lincoln can find himself enjoying even in his drained, slightly sluggish state.
(It’s hard not to enjoy the feeling of Taylor in his arms, even if it’s just for a little bit.)
“Up we go!” Lincoln says, scooping him up into a bridal carry and spinning the two of them in a lazy circle. Like the many times they’ve done this, Taylor slings his arms around Lincoln’s neck and laughs, joyful and unrestrained and slightly hoarse from a night of singing. Like the many times they’ve done this, Lincoln wishes that he could bottle the sound, hollow out a hole in his heart and place that in it. 
(Like the many times they’ve done this, he wishes he could stop going a little braindead every time Taylor’s hot breath fans against the side of his neck.)
“O-okay,” Lincoln announces, hoping the stutter in his voice can be passed off as some sort of vocal strain. “Where do you wanna be?”
“There!” Taylor shifts in Lincoln’s grip, pointing to a black leather swivel chair in the corner of the room, tucked away behind some sort of support column. 
“Alright,” Lincoln says, swooping over and then allowing Taylor to carefully extricate himself from Lincoln’s torso. 
As gross as they both are right now, Lincoln finds himself missing the contact. 
He has a job to do, though.
Lincoln kneels down on the worn, carpeted floor before Taylor, trying not to think about how his body aches, grabs a makeup wipe from the pack, and assesses the boy before him. 
Taylor sits still and pretty - the distinct lack of fidgeting is a sure sign of how absolutely exhausted he is. His face shimmers from a combination of sweat and the glittery pink-peach pastes his makeup artists use to draw attention to his eyes. Thin, smoky eyeliner swoops from the outer corners of his eyes, a burgundy so dark it’s nearly black. The heavy blush that was placed on the apples of his cheeks has faded to a mere suggestion now, but Taylor’s lips are still stained a deep cherry-plum, the corners defined with small strokes in a way that makes his smile appear more cat-like, somehow. 
The stylists did a very good job with him, Lincoln thinks.
Lincoln makes slow, gentle work of removing every last bit of makeup from Taylor’s face, stroking with just the barest of pressure across his forehead, vaguely registering the way that the fibers stain with shades of peach and beige and concentrating on unearthing the soft skin beneath. 
With every swipe of his hand, Lincoln can feel Taylor’s eyes on him, slightly glazed over and staring shamelessly. Lincoln doesn’t blame him for spacing out this late at night, and if Taylor’s not spacing out, if he’s looking at Lincoln just to drink him in amidst the peace that comes after a long night of song after song - well. Lincoln would be lying if he said he wasn’t using this as an excuse to look at him, take in and admire each and every one of his features as if he hasn’t committed them to memory a hundred times over. Map out the slight dip of his temple with his fingers, trace the curve of his cheek, stare right back into those dark, faraway eyes while removing his eyeliner and risk falling into them…
“Close your eyes,” Lincoln prompts, and that temptation is removed as Taylor’s eyelids flutter shut, obedient. Somehow, it doesn’t help with the lump of emotion building like phlegm in the back of his throat. 
Lincoln isn’t good with words, not the way Scary is, with her effortless lyricism and smooth-sounding syllables, phrases that bludgeon with the force of a sledgehammer or pierce through with the precision of a surgeon’s knife, depending on what is needed most.
But when Lincoln looks at Taylor like this, sometimes he finds himself wanting to be. He wants to write out everything trapped somewhere between his ribcage and his mouth, press the stain of it all into hotel memo pads, onto crumpled-up napkins from restaurants in cities he’ll never see again, tuck them into his pockets and let his chicken-scrawl attempts weigh him down twice as heavily as before. 
He’s tried, before, tried so many times, but they never come out quite right, toeing the line between being trite and far too strange. 
There’s just this… undeniable gravity about Taylor that defies any description. He’s got this magnetism to him, and they’ve been circling each other like opposing poles, like binary stars, ever since their first near-collision. His presence is real, undeniable - and not just onstage, where every staccato sound tumbles past Taylor’s lips with the strength and grace of a percussive rainfall, where every eye is drawn to him. 
Taylor is far more than that.
It’s in moments like this where Lincoln feels his pull the strongest, when the lights fade and the curtain drops and Taylor’s features are softened by the encroaching shadows yet still radiant from the high of their performance. When Taylor’s taken out his fancy lenses and Lincoln can see the onyx depths of his eyes, dare to lean closer to see if he can map out the place where his irises meet his pupils in the lowlight, all framed by dark, short lashes. When he presses a hand to Taylor’s cheek and strokes gently, watches as the sweat and foundation and blush give way to olive skin, wishes that the makeup wipe wasn’t in the way and he could hold Taylor like this for real, whenever he wanted. When he finds a clean section of chemical-soaked cloth and carefully touches it to Taylor’s lips, when he hears the way Taylor’s breath hitches near-imperceptibly in the quiet of this tucked away green room in this two-night town. 
“Does it sting?” Lincoln hears himself ask, searching his face for any discomfort. After so much silence, the question sounds louder than when their voices echoed off the stage, more amplified than any microphone could ever make it.
“N-nope,” Taylor rasps, and Lincoln knows it’s probably just rough from overuse but maybe there’s also something more. “Keep - keep going.”
“Okay,” Lincoln says, leaning in a little closer (he has to make sure he gets everything). “Let me know if it hurts?”
“Mm.”
Lincoln sets aside the makeup wipe, grabs a fresh one, and focuses on removing Taylor’s lipstick. 
Taylor has very nice lips. Like, objectively. They’re a little on the thinner side, but his cupid’s bow forms a heart shape and the edges turn up naturally at the corners in a way that makes him look perpetually mischievous.
As Lincoln gently swipes away at the lip liner, he thinks (not for the first time) about what it would be like to kiss him.
Taylor’s kissed Lincoln before - on his forehead, on his shoulders, on his cheek. Lincoln has kissed Taylor before, too - the crown of his head, his temple, and on one memorable occasion, the corner of his mouth. It’s practically to be expected at this point. He’s kissed Normal and Scary, too, and they’ve kissed him, but with them, it’s something easy, rote, platonic, entirely performative.
Kissing Taylor has always felt different. Maybe it’s because the soft press of Taylor’s lips against his skin always leaves him with some sort of endless pit in his chest, something that threatens to consume him whenever he meets Taylor’s black-hole eyes.
And it drives Lincoln absolutely crazy, the way he constantly finds himself wanting more - wanting to know the way that their mouths might slot together, to see if Taylor’s lips are as soft against his own as they feel against the back of his hand. 
Lincoln presses the wipe to Taylor’s top lip, runs his cloth-covered finger over the divot of his cupid’s bow, and fails to stop thinking about the way his groupmate might taste - fails to stop thinking about kissing the boy in front of him until they’re both rendered completely breathless. 
Taylor’s breath stutters, and Lincoln can feel the fluttery inhale-exhale against his face, and he glances upward to see Taylor’s eyes open, now, free of shadows and glitter. His gaze darts lazily between Lincoln’s eyes and his mouth.
Taylor can read Lincoln’s expressions like a favorite book. It’s only natural, having lived and worked in close quarters for the past five years together. He knows the way the light glances off Lincoln’s eyes when his mind is elsewhere, knows his fake smiles from his genuine ones, knows the way his eyes crinkle at the corners whenever he’s truly, exuberantly happy.
Taylor knows exactly what Lincoln’s thinking right now. 
And for the same reason, Lincoln recognizes the look in Taylor’s eyes for exactly what it is. 
Tiredness. Longing. Affection. Want. 
It would be easy, so easy to lean in those final few inches, to close the distance between him the way that he’s wanted to for years, the way they’ve both wanted to. But what they desire and what they can let themselves have - those have always been two very different things. 
But it’s late, and most of the staff have cleared out, and Normal and Scary are probably hanging out on the empty stage like usual. Even so, there’s always a chance -
Lincoln’s eyes flick toward the ceiling.
“There’s one camera on the other side of the pillar,” Taylor says, and Lincoln’s eyes snap back to him immediately. A suggestion of a smirk plays at Taylor’s lips.
“Did you…” Taylor’s smile grows, something secretive and almost shy. Predictably, Lincoln’s gaze follows the curve of his lips as he trails off.
“You’ve been staring a lot tonight,” Taylor teases, and god, Lincoln can’t take the low, lilting timbre of his voice right now, not when he’s close enough to feel his breath against his face, not with flashes of berry-stained lips and white teeth taking up so much of his vision. “Do you wanna -”
“Yes,” Lincoln cuts him off, sounding much more desperate than he intended.
With no foundation left to hide it, Taylor’s face colors bright red remarkably quickly.
Lincoln swallows down the embarrassment, and Taylor’s eyes track the constriction of his throat.
He drops the makeup wipe, absentmindedly brushing his hand on his trousers, letting it hang in the empty space between them.
There’s not much of it left. Lincoln can feel the last of his resolve crumbling in the wake of Taylor voicing the truth that’s lived trapped in their lungs for years on end. His heartbeat, previously sluggish with the promise of rest, pounds faster in his chest, a marcato drumbeat that seems to chant almost, almost, almost.
Lincoln has lived through years of almosts, sustaining himself on the briefest of intimacies that they allow themselves, and everything he longs for is right in front of him, coalesced into the shape of his closest friend. 
Lincoln is tired of almosts. He wants a finally. 
But he’ll reach out and take it only if Taylor wants it, too. 
“Are… you okay with this?” Link asks, the question barely a murmur, because even though the answer is spelled out in the way Taylor’s hands are shaking in anticipation, he needs to make sure before their closeness becomes something more.
“Yeah,” Taylor breathes, a whispery sigh of an admission, and Lincoln’s heart jolts in his chest as Taylor reaches out to cradle the curve of his jaw, to drag him in further. “Yes. Please.”
And it is with that last murmured plea that Lincoln feels his resolve break. He shifts upward, inward, bracing his hands on the armrests of the makeup chair (he doesn’t trust his own legs to stay steady even as they kneel before him, and like hell is he going to let that ruin the moment he’s been dreaming of for years), and Taylor’s hand curls even more perfectly around his jaw, and finally, they meet in the middle.
Kissing Taylor is both nothing and everything like Lincoln had imagined.
Everything, because the feeling of Taylor smiling slightly against his lips, the subtle warmth of his mouth, the supple, pliant give as Taylor slots their lips together, is almost exactly as he had dreamed.
Nothing, because Taylor kisses him sweetly, gently, slowly, more kindly than Lincoln had ever thought possible.
Taylor has always been insatiable. Lincoln knew this from the moment he first laid eyes on him, from the moment he had bound up to him. He had been newly seventeen and starry-eyed, then, flagging him down from across the company practice room and asking if he could teach him how to dance. Taylor is fiery and headstrong and brightly-burning in his ambition, and everything he does, he does with an intense passion.
Now, in the half-lit almost-quiet of the green room, Taylor mouths at his lips so tenderly - almost hesitantly - that Lincoln feels like he could melt. The hand on the side of his jaw carefully, worshipfully maps out the planes of his face, traces along his cheekbone, behind his ear, guides him to tilt his head for a better angle. Lincoln makes a strange, whining noise in the back of his throat that Taylor takes from him, swallows down with a satisfied hum that sends vibrations through to Lincoln’s very soul, like the thrumming pulse of a bass-line in his chest.
Lincoln leans further into Taylor’s gravity, kisses him with the quiet desperation that’s been pent up, building and building in a wordless crescendo within him for years on end. He tries his best to pour the vast depths of his devotion into this moment, every admiration and affection and confession, every brush of Lincoln’s lips against his an I adore you, every exhaled sigh an every love song we’ve ever sang made me think of you. I love you, he thinks as he presses Taylor flush against the back of the chair, as his hands let go of the armrests to tangle in shiny, dark hair and Taylor sings into his mouth in response. Taylor is beautiful and warm and sweaty against him, and Lincoln presses their lips together again and again, an unending chorus of thank you, I love you, I love you, I love you.
Taylor, for his part, responds in kind, arching his body into Lincoln’s hold, warm hands unhurriedly searching for purchase and finding it at the nape of his neck, at just above the small of his back. Lincoln registers the way Taylor fists at the expensive fabric of his shirt, the way his blunted, neatly-manicured nails scrape against the base of his scalp, and Lincoln shivers a bit in his embrace, though he feels wonderfully warmed through, more alive than when they performed for hundreds of fans just hours ago.
Taylor tastes like sweat and the chemicals from the makeup wipes. It has no right to be as addictive as it is to him. Maybe it’s because Taylor’s lips are every bit as soft against his own as they look on the monitors.
Lincoln’s sure that his lips are thoroughly chapped, but judging from Taylor’s delicate gasps and the eager, greedy way he leans further and further into him, he’s also sure that Taylor doesn’t mind.
Lincoln holds the last kiss for as long as he dares, drinking in the feeling of satisfying all of his favorite dreams and his wildest hopes. He commits the shape of his groupmate in his hands to memory, basking in the euphoria of carding fingers through show-mussed hair, of Taylor’s hand twisting in the fabric of his blouse. A smile threatens to pull at his lips as Taylor’s feathery breaths ghost against his cheek, measured and slightly shaky, an orchestration coming apart at the seams.
They stay like that for a long moment, and there is synchrony, harmony in the way Taylor melts into his touch. He's trying to capture this moment, too, Lincoln knows, impressing every bit of it into the corners of his mind, the backs of his eyelids, the hollow of his ribs. 
Eventually, they break apart, and Lincoln opens his eyes to see Taylor smiling slightly, angelic, still leaning inward like he wants to chase his lips. It’s such an adorable image that Lincoln nearly goes to kiss him again, but then Taylor looks up at him through his lashes, blinking slowly, and Lincoln is awed into stillness. 
Taylor’s always been very charming, expressive in a way Lincoln envied, able to make their fans fall for him with nothing but a camera and a simple glance. 
But Taylor isn’t acting for anyone here. The affection that warms his deep, dark eyes is for Lincoln and Lincoln alone, something raw and unscripted and intimate enough to steal the air from Lincoln’s lungs, and he can only hope the open adoration is reflected in his own gaze.
God, he’s gorgeous.
Lincoln touches his forehead to Taylor’s, exhaling unsteadily.
Taylor’s hand smooths over the back of his neck, and he gasps a little, drawn in by his touch, his magnetism, his care.
“I’ve wanted to do that for years,” Lincoln admits softly into the shared air between them.
Taylor grins, a secret, clandestine thing, eyes half-lidded in a heady concoction of exhaustion and exhilaration and wanting.
“I know,” Taylor murmurs back, barely above a whisper, and Lincoln can hear the smile in his voice, all his sharp edges softened and heat tempered just for him. “Me, too.”
And it really is that simple. They’ve been dancing around each other for years on end, every bit of longing telegraphed like choreography through every minuscule gesture and fleeting touch. Every fragment of it is magnified by the glances they allowed themselves, reflected in the way their eyes meet, yearning painted in countless shades of onyx and bronze and ebony and sepia. 
Lincoln knows it, and Taylor knows it. 
And quite suddenly, the world has narrowed down to the two of them and nothing else.
“Yeah,” Lincoln responds dumbly, breathless from the proximity and the weight of years lifted from his shoulders. His eyes flick down to Taylor’s lips, at the red stain his own mouth has left there, at the delicate curve of them, love-drunk smiling and slightly puffy. 
He wants to kiss him again, wants to feel that smile pressed against his, wants to lean in and close the distance. And so he does, because nothing on this earth can stop Lincoln from chasing after Taylor in every stolen moment he can get, from tilting his head just the right way, from shutting his eyes and following through -
Except Taylor does stop him, pressing the pad of his index finger to his lips. 
Lincoln makes a confused sort of hum, opening his eyes to find Taylor giggling incandescently, and it almost makes up for not kissing him.
“It’s late, Link,” Taylor murmurs conspiratorially, though he has no need to when nobody else is here. “Norm and Scary’ve gotta be wondering what’s taking us so long.”
“Oh,” Lincoln says, disappointed - or, well, he tries to say it, but Taylor’s finger is still in the way, so it comes out a little odd. After considering for a moment, he places a kiss to the tip of Taylor’s finger instead, blinking up at him.
“God, put your pretty eyes away, I’m already embarrassingly in love with you,” Taylor responds, his bare face flushing noticeably darker even in the dim lighting. 
Lincoln smiles against his finger, and Taylor sighs, eyes darting elsewhere so he can focus better.
“Anyway. They’ve gotta be waiting for us to get into street clothes so we can get the fuck out of here,” Taylor continues, pointedly not looking directly at him.
Lincoln kisses his finger again, just to be a menace. Taylor’s breath hitches the slightest bit, and Lincoln grins. 
“Listen, the sooner we leave, the sooner we get to the hotel. And the sooner we get to the hotel,” Taylor finally looks at him - looks at all of him, eyes dragging slowly down his still-kneeling form - “the sooner we can pick up where we left off.” 
He makes eye contact then, smirking and smug as he pushes lightly at Lincoln’s shoulder to give himself space to stand. “Sound good?”
Holy shit.
Lincoln has the sudden, distinct thought that they’re going to need to cancel the rest of their tour, because Lincoln is going to die at Taylor’s (soft, beautiful, warm) hands if he keeps saying things like this. Lincoln will die, and their group will disband, and everything will be ruined because Taylor is every bit as cruel and conniving as he is beautiful and Lincoln is in far too deep. 
“Uh, you okay, dude?” his groupmate (boyfriend? partner? something else?) asks. 
“Great!” Lincoln says at an octave he didn’t know was possible, numbly pulling himself to stand and ignoring the way his knees ache. 
Taylor follows suit, and Lincoln makes for his change of clothes - though not without ducking down to place a quick kiss to Taylor’s temple, feeling more awake than he has in hours as he darts away from him. 
Taylor barks out a one-note laugh, startled and disbelieving.
“Race ya!” Lincoln yelps, laughter coloring his own voice as he quickly grabs his street clothes, leaving Taylor sputtering behind him. 
“Oh, you are so getting payback when we get to the hotel,” Taylor seethes not-so-darkly, grabbing his own go bag of clothes.
“I’m counting on it!” He replies, cheeky and giddy with energy despite the late hour.
Lincoln knows it’ll be hell not to hold Taylor as close as he wants out in public, not to kiss him beyond the bounds of manufactured flirting for the cameras. They’ll need to talk about what they are now, exactly, he thinks, as he starts to pick apart the series of crisscrossed, mazelike fastenings of his stage outfit. He has to remind himself to be a bit more patient so the fabric doesn’t rip at the seams in the wake of his excitement. 
But, as he finally extricates himself and pulls on the SPDRBZ hoodie he had snatched from the merch booth a few stops ago, Lincoln can’t help but feel optimistic. 
It’ll be worth it, he thinks, to hold Taylor, kiss him, shower him with praise until his skin flushes red, to be held and kissed and praised in return away from prying eyes. To have something just for them, even if it means they’ll need to work hard to keep this under wraps.
They’re no strangers to hard work. Lincoln’s groupmates are about as diligent as they come, Taylor included. Surely, this won’t be too difficult.
“You coming or what, slowpoke?” Taylor asks, pulling him from his thoughts. He’s changed into a simple tee shirt and cargos at the doorway, cane in hand and fondness in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Lincoln says, stumbling into his shoes as he meets Taylor, wanting to sling an arm around his waist before correcting himself and draping it across his shoulders instead as they head out. He beams regardless, giddy and hopeful, and the feeling in his chest burns brighter than the stage lights. “Let’s go.”
13 notes · View notes