#gilly glow

[sprinklesoncereal]

I'M NOT DEAD-

I'VE BEEN DOODLING A LOT AND I WANMA DIGITALIZE SOME OF THESE-

But I made more welcome home doodles + ocs :")))

AND THE REAL WORLD WH AU WAS CREATED BY @chez-cinnamon ITS SO FUN TO WATCH IT GROW, GO READ AND LEARN BOUT THEIR AU NOWWWW >:333

((Also the dude smoking in the poorly made school doodle is Fionn which is @//chez-cinnamon's oc!!!))

AND OFC WELCOME HOME WOULDN'T BE HOLDING ME HOSTAGE IN BRAINROT WITHOUT THE TALENTED @partycoffin AND THEIR AMAZING TEAM!!!! ^v^

BUT YEA-

WH OC PUPPPETS:

Boris Mist (wolf with goggles)

Gilly Glow (the short one with antenna who's a firefly!)

Lacy Silkweaver (Ms. Silkweaver) (The lil spider lady based off the bugs on the update!!!

((Gilly goes by They/Them and Ms. Silkweaver goes by She/They!!))

WH HUMAN OCS (FOR REAL WORLD AU AND POSSIBLY MY OWN AU ONCE I COME UP WITH A STORYLINE-)

Milley Rivera

Gillus (Gills) Wheatly

((Milley is genderfluid like Boris + Julie(aka goes by any prns!!) and Gillus goes by He/Him))

[[I SWEAR I'LL POST COLORED ART SOON-]]

[lcpmon]

They're hereeeee and honestly v cute. Will have to learn to work with softer colours bc the brown jacket has just become black amalgamation RIP

[sherbet-powder]

"Nightlight, bright light,

Sweet dreams I bestow,

Sleep tight, all night,

Forever I will glow."

listen, i havent been posting or drawing lately but its because im too damn lazy. anyways, have @gilly-moon's nightlight^^

[hypewinter]

It started with his parents finding out he was Phantom. That led to him running away with only a simple go bag. Then after a few days of traveling, his hair started turning white. Next his lichtenberg scars started glowing a faint green only visible in the pitch black (he started covering them up with bandages just in case). Finally the pain came. Sometimes it came from the scars themselves. Other times, it was phantom pains from old battle wounds that had long since healed. On a few rare occasions, he would cough up thick green blood. It didn't make any sense. Why him? That's what he thought as he sat doubled over at a bus stop.

"You okay?" He faintly heard someone say. He looked up to see a teen barely older than him staring down at him. His eyes filled with concern.

Edit: this is partially base off of this post by gilly-moon.

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

He should be having a mental breakdown behind the club

Sea Three going clubbing, as they deserve <3

It is dark and the air in the club vibrates with music, deep and wild. The sound echoes through Harry’s bones, but he manages not to focus on that, with Uma and Gil dancing right in front of him.

Uma– She’s wearing a shiny minidress tonight, as if she needed the extra bling to be jaw-droppingly beautiful – Harry almost scoffs at the thought. She is also dancing oh-so-close to him and singing the lyrics at the top of her lungs. The club is so loud that Harry can barely hear his Captain’s voice, but oh well, just more of the reason to go closer.

He grins at her and twirls her around, only laughing more when she bumps into him. He catches her into a hug and soon, Gil is there too: „Aww, group hug!“ he exclaims before he proceeds to pick them both up and spin around, causing a minor commotion on the packed dance floor.

These people should have known better than to get too close to them, anyway.

„Gil!“ Uma shrieks, laughing, „Put us down!“

He does, though he doesn’t let go entirely, and the music drops lower yet; it makes the hair at the back of Harry’s neck stand up. Unconsciously, he tightens his hold around Uma’s waist.

She glances up at him and moves her lips in a silent question: „You okay?“ (She has pretty lips.) He just smiles at her instead of an answer and inclines his head, knowing she’ll want more than just a smile.

„Okay,“ she says and then she presses a quick kiss to his jaw; „Love you.“ This leaves him so dazed he almost misses it when the music drops all-time low – when the DJ speaks and the crowd chants with him – when the lights flicker and die, only to come back wrong.

And there, of course, Uma is, amidst the nigh-black mass of the club, gleaming and alight, like the goddess she is; Harry wishes he could appreciate that properly, now.

Instead, he just blinks, processing the strange light and the music and pulses through him; he moves one of her braids over her shoulder.

„Uma!“ Gil exclaims, startling Harry from his thoughts, „You are glowing!“

Uma smiles – her lips glow, too – and winks at Harry before turning around and wrapping her arms around Gil. „If anyone asks, it’s just make-up, Gilly,“ she says, as if anyone who knows her – anyone from the <i>crew</i> would believe that.

But the club is too busy for Harry to argue, the too deep music and bodies all around them, uncomfortably close, and this is Auradon, he can’t just stab people for getting too handsy, break their bones–

„I’ll be right back, love,“ he says to her – hopefully she heard, or Gil, or – and walks into the crowd, pushing the shapeless mass out of his way. A sharp elbow, a hard push, who could blame him, really?

Soon, he is out of the stuffy dance floor, and looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Fuck. He didn‘t drink enough yet to be feeling so out of it. He grips the cold edge of the sink and closes his eyes, breathing in deeply.

When he opens his eyes again, staring back at him is the same manic expression as always. The eyeliner frames his eyes perfectly, but does little else to disguise the twirl in insanity inside. 

He blinks again and nothing changes, his eyes are still as wide as before and the air is still too heavy, and– Eh, might as well.

Harry exits the bathroom and walks directly to the bar. He pushes aside Ivy de Vil, who was flirting with the bartender and probably well on her way to get a free round for herself and whoever she wishes and orders.

She keeps speaking into his order gesturing to the bartender wildly, and he cannot distinguish her words; he shuts his eyes for just a moment, to block out at least something.

When he opens his eyes again, the three drinks he ordered for himself and his partners are in front of him, as well as two shots of clear liquid; Ivy grabs one of them.

„Vodka,“ she shouts, but he’s mostly reading her lips, „You look like you need it.“

He grabs his shot without thinking.

„Cheers.“

They drink together, and the shock of the alcohol does manage to block out the club for a moment. Harry shakes his head, ignores his hair falling into his eyes, and throws some money on the counter; it is probably enough.

He doesn’t really care that he just paid for Ivy’s drink, too.

He doesn’t spare her another glance as he walks into the thick crowd of people that make his skin crawl. He finds Uma and Gil easily enough – she’s still glowing like a star – and gives them the drinks; neither of them comment on his being half-empty already.

He watches them dance, Uma pulling in more and more people with her magnetic presence, but he doesn’t join, can’t bring himself to move. When Gil looks at him questioningly, he just shoots him a smile: Everything’s just fine, isn’t it?

He presses his nails into his palms.

The next thing he notices is Uma, taking the drink from him and speaking at him; he does his best to focus and listen, because it’s Uma.

„…Outside?“

He nods, mostly because saying „yes“ to his Captain’s suggestions is the most natural thing for him to do, and relaxes a little when she takes his hand, having given her own drink to Gil.

He focuses on the contact as he follows her through the club, the sea of people spreading apart to let her pass, she flashes her bracelet to the security by the entrance, and the cold air hits him in the face.

He exhales in relief, shutting his eyes and waits for the afterglow of the club lights to go away. Uma pulls him closer to her and he hides his face in her hair. 

„It’s okay,“ she mutters, „You should’ve told me sooner. It’s okay now.“

Maybe it really is, with her hugging him and Gil carefully putting his arms around both of them.

„Sorry,“ he says.

„Don’t say sorry, Harry,“ she says,„It was getting way too hot and crowded in there anyway.“

„Yeah, way too hot,“ agrees Gil quickly.

„So we’re just gonna stay here for a bit, okay, Harry? Let’s go sit.“ She gestures towards the wall. Let’s go sit, of course, he can do that – as long as she doesn’t let go.

And either way: „I love you,“ he says. It just seems like an important thing to say. „You know that, right? I love you.“

„I know,“ says Uma, smiling, tugging him down to sit.

„Love you too.“ Gil.

Harry sits in between them, just enjoying how close they are and that nothing else is trying to steal his attention, tearing it in a million directions. He lays his head on Uma’s shoulder.

„I don’t think I want to go back inside anytime soon.“

[suzukiblu]

more pocket-sized soulmates from @bucky-boychik-barnes's Pockets AU:

Tim's Pocket refuses to wear a mask, which is an issue. He doesn't want to wear the tiny wire-rimmed glasses either, or even change out of his weird straps-and-belts version of the Superman suit into . . . literally anything else, at this point. Tim would take anything else. They've given him options, but he's refused them all. He won't take off the costume. 

Also he won't stop flying around the cave like a bat out of hell, and it's seriously annoying. 

"Have you successfully selected a name for your Pocket, Master Tim?" Alfred inquires as he pours everyone tea at the table while Bruce is staring assessingly at Tim's Pocket, including four little Pocket-sized cups' worth–one for Bruce's Cat ("Kitty" to the tabloids), one each for Dick's Red and Star, and one for Tim's . . . whoever. 

Alfred doesn't have a Pocket of his own. Tim's always felt too awkward to ask about it. 

And Jason never got a Pocket at all. 

"No, not yet," Tim says, because the whole no-mask/yes-cape issue has been a lot more immediately concerning than naming him. He can't take a Pocket Superman home to his dad. Pocket Clark Kent is going to be bad enough. 

Assuming Tim's Pocket ever puts the stupid glasses on, anyway. 

"You should get on that," Dick advises as he picks up his teacup with an appreciative nod of thanks to Alfred and takes a sip. "Red got really mad at me when I didn't name her right away. I mean, like, naming Pockets is so . . . outsider, you know? And kinda gilly, too. But that's how Babs grew up, obviously, and I don't know how they did it on Krypton, but Uncle Clark was raised by gadje too, so . . ." 

Tim understood absolutely none of that, but just nods like he did and makes a note to go do some research later. 

"Sure," he says, just hoping he can convince his Pocket to ditch the damn cape sooner than later. Red wheels her tiny wheelchair over to the Pockets' nicely-set little tea table and ignores Star floating down to land in the seat across from her. They don't usually get along very well, which is a little weird to see in Pockets who didn't come from people who are, like, on the literal opposite ends of the ethical spectrum, especially ones that belong to the same person, but they both settle in all the same. Cat does an artful flip off of Bruce's caped shoulder down to the table and then strolls over to join them. Tim's Pocket looks curious, but stays hovering in the air just over his shoulder. 

Is his Pocket, like, antisocial or something? Is that a concern? Usually Pockets group up really easily, from what Tim knows. Not that he's ever had one before, and admittedly his parents' had always mostly ignored each other, but . . . normally they do, right? 

Cat chirps impatiently and makes a beckoning gesture at Tim's Pocket, but he, very weirdly, sort of floats backwards and almost . . . hides behind Tim's head. Just for a moment, but . . . 

Weird, Tim thinks. Weird, and not very Superman-like. Pockets are usually a bit more emotionally honest than the people they come from, but Superman's met Cat as many times as Bruce has met Laney, so why would a Pocket that came from him ever hesitate to go over to her? 

Star chirps too, holding out her arms and starting to glow with intensely bright solar radiation that would only be an encouraging gesture to a Kryptonian, Tim is sure. It does the job, though, and his Pocket pauses for just a moment longer, then goes to the visible effort to put on a bright grin and darts over to land beside her. She immediately starts chattering at him in Pocket-talk and he chatters back easily, and Tim then has to witness his own damn Pocket start undeniably flirting with one of Dick's Pockets. 

He has never been more mortified in his life, he thinks right up until his Pocket turns his head and starts flirting with Cat. 

Tim disassociates a little. Like. Just a bit. 

Or a lot. 

"Hm," Bruce says while Tim is busy dying of mortification, his eyes narrowing assessingly. Star is happily flirting back at Tim's Pocket, to Tim's absolute horror, but worse, Cat is actually humoring him. 

Tim has died and this is hell. There's no other explanation whatsoever for this.  

Cat reaches over and scritches his Pocket behind the ears. He looks startled, then visibly zones out for a moment, and then leans into the contact and purrs. Cat chirps approvingly, Star laughs, and Red snorts, but fondly. 

Tim is definitely, definitely in hell right now. Oh god. What is happening right now and why is it happening to him? 

"Well, he's got aspirations, I'll give him that," Dick says wryly as he leans back in his chair. "Though I don't think Lois Lane would appreciate them." 

"It's not Superman," Bruce states matter-of-factly. Tim and Dick both blink; Tim's Pocket immediately scowls.

[starboy-acer]

gillion tidestrider headcanons!

Gillion Tidestrider has more prominent shark features than most tritons. Tritons typically have some sort of shark features about them, but they all typically have different ones. Some have a dorsal fin on their back, some have multiple rows of sharp, serrated teeth, most have small fins on their forearms and/or calves. Gillion has the tail of a Great White, strong and large. He has slightly larger fins on his forearms AND calves. He also has one, maybe two, rows of serrated shark teeth. He has webbed feet, but his hands are just slightly webbed, like it wouldn't be noticeable unless he spread all his fingers out.

The main defining feature between Gillion and other triton is his changes when influenced heavily by emotion. I.E. his battle rage. As a paladin, he doesn't technically rage, but as the Chosen One, he does undergo changes. This doesn't happen when he's normally fighting. This is a state of pure battle rage. Think of it like adrenaline. His magic courses through his body, causing his eyes to glow and pure magic to radiate off of him. Sometimes, spines start to grow from his back. Basically, with the pairing of an enlarge spell, he looks like Godzilla.

Monster Gilli, you have my entire heart.

[bullet-prooflove]

TheWall! Series Part One: Poker Night - Bishop Losa x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond  @wakeama @fanfic-n-tabulous @dreamlandcreations @anime-weeb-4-life @keyweegirlie @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @the-wandering-lunatic @alwaysachorusgirl @beardedbarba @multifandomloversworld @est1887 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @purrrrfect @adaydreamaway08 @stressed-chas @spookyboogyuniverse @librarian1002 @msjava1972 @thanossexual @kishie8 @saltyunicorn079 @nessamc @thebaileybugle @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @justreblogginfics @beccabarba @legally-a-bastard @trublu2u @irishavengersassemble @fanfic-n-tabulous

Companion Series to:

Complicated - Bishop already knows your secret.

The Wall - Bishop comes home to find you covered in blood.

It’s poker night at Vicki’s.

Bishop thinks it’s going to be quiet. A couple of drinks, a few rounds of cards while the rest of the guys blow off a little bit of steam. It’s more toned down than it used to be now that most of them have coupled up, but they’ve got a few guys up from Yuma who were looking for a specific form of entertainment and Vicki’s happy to oblige.

Bishop’s playing out the best hand of his life when they hear the gun shots. He knows the sound of a high calibre, long range weapon when he hears it. Despite your best efforts the Reed Coalition are still hunting down immigrants. He knows you’re not out there tonight. You’re meeting with the accountant to discuss the community centre’s finances. Still hearing those gun shots, it puts the shits up him. They were close, too close he thinks.

It's the flash of headlights that makes his heart sink, the sound of wheels spinning out on gravel. Creeper slides the curtain back and Bishop sees the colour drain out of his face before an expletive leaves his mouth. He’s on his feet as the door is thrown open.

It’s you that Riz is carrying, you who’s bleeding out in the other man’s arms. Drops of blood trail down your limp wrist, pattering onto the hard wood floor. Bishop knows that he’ll hear that sound in his fucking dreams.

Coco uses his arm to sweep the cards and poker chips from the table, the plastic disks scatter across the floor, rolling under chairs that are being shifted to make way for the causality. Riz is careful as he lays you down, Bishop takes in the sight of him as Gilly assists. Theres’s glass in his hair, miniscule shards glittering in the warm glow from the lights above. Streaks of crimson run down the left side of his face in rivets from slices across his forehead, cheek and neck. His shirt is soaked with blood, a mixture of both yours and his.

You’re awake, your hand is pressing Riz’s hoodie against the wound just under your clavicle. Coco covers your palm with his own, taking over the task. Bishop’s hand slips into yours, clasping it tightly, quiet reassurance that he’s there, that you aren’t alone. He feels that relief thundering through his system when you squeeze back. You hiss when Coco removes the hoodie, his features pinched as he tries to assess the wound.

“Stitches is on route, but she's an hour out.” Creeper informs them before Vicki shoves a First Aid kit into his hands and directs him to one of the bedrooms up the stairs. Her attention switches to Riz, guiding him onto one of the barstools as Hank flicks open the clasps of his own First Aid box.

“We need to take you upstairs.” Bishop tells you. “Get you some privacy so that Coco can get a better look at that wound. I’ll follow you up alright?”

You nod, a tear leaking down your cheek that he chases away the calloused pad of his thumb.

“I’m gonna be right here Mi Cielito.” He promises you. “Everything is gonna be ok.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[harleyshahas]

If you're taking requests - Blackice for the touch prompts? 👀

33. Tasting their smile Or 45. Feeling their temperature

(Or 58. "Forever Mine" kisses from the kiss list, I'm indecisive and like giving options lol)

(Also I (platonically) love you too ♡)

33. Tasting their smile for @gilly-moon

Jack's smile was always so bright, so welcoming, so warm.

Maybe that didn't really make sense for a creature of ice and snow, but he was warm. His eyes sparkled like the rising sun with his fun and mischief, and his smile was just as blinding.

It pissed Pitch off.

It pissed him off because he had watched Jack from the shadows, had seen that smile waver and fall, had seen those eyes grow hazy with tears that never fell, had seen the cloudy storm of emotions play out, and it was all just as beautiful. Jack's moods could affect his winter if he wasn't careful, and more often than not, especially in the beginning, Jack would forget this. He would bring his fun and snow, the children would play, but the moment a child walked through him that fun would shift, darken. Clouds would roll in, and what had once been a soft flurry perfect for sledding would grow and grow until fat flakes nearly blinded all who were caught in the blizzard. Parents were left confused, children fearful, and Pitch loved nearly every second of it.

But that damn smile always came back.

Even before Pitch attacked the Guardians he wanted to see that smile wiped off that pale face, wanted Jack to let loose with his power, watch the world be covered in ice. But instead he had to watch Jack prance around with those damned Guardians, had to watch as they took his best chance at reclaiming his power, had to watch as Jack smiled and laughed with them.

It made him sick.

Even now, after three years of quiet exile, he watched as Jack played with the children in the little town they shared, smiling and laughing and throwing snowballs. The kids here actually saw him, they played with him, going so far as to tackle him to the ground and pile snow on his head. Jack laughed all the while.

Pitch watched. He watched every day that Jack was around, tasting his deeply buried fears ofThis won't last andThe next time they'll walk through me like the rest andWhen will they leave?

Jack's fear continued to sustain him even after all these years. Pitch wasn't sure how he felt about that.

It wasn't until one day close to Christmas after a rather exciting snowball fight that Jack finally noticed him. The sun was setting, casting an orange and fiery glow to the snow and Pitch marveled at the way it didn't melt. The children said their good-byes to Jack as their parents called them home, all of them giving the winter spirit a hug as Jack gave them a near teary smile. As the last one left, the boy who had stood against Pitch that fateful Easter weekend, Pitch had sneered, his low growl echoing in the following silence. Jack whirled around.

He saw Pitch at the base of a nearby oak tree, Pitch contemplating briefly if he should run, but he decided against it. This confrontation had to happen sooner or later, so why not sooner? With that in mind, he stepped out of the shadows, crossing his arms as he leant against the tree.

Jack's eyes were wide as he stared at him, mouth dropping open slightly.

Pitch smirked. "What's the matter, Jack? The rabbit got your tongue?"

The younger spirit shook his head, but his eyes remained wide. "You're alive..."

Pitch snorted. "Course I'm alive. It takes more than some Nightmares to kill me. Did you really think you'd seen the last of me?"

"No - I didn't..." Jack trailed off. His staff was held loose in his hands in his shock.

"Fear is a powerful thing, Jack," Pitch continued. "If left to itself, it grows and festers. It survives."

"Is that what you do?" Jack asked. His bright eyes cleared, his brow rose, but still he did not raise his staff. He took a step towards Pitch.

"It's what I've always done," Pitch stated quietly. He watched as Jack came to a stop barely three feet from him, watched as Jack watched him. "There will always be fear, therefore there will always be me. I didn't lie about that."

Jack's brow furrowed and his grip finally tightened on his staff. Pitch did not move. "Then what did you lie about?"

"What use did I have in lying?" Pitch said. He pushed off the tree, Jack tensed his grip, but the Boogieman only placed his hands behind his back, gripping one wrist with the other hand as he brushed past the small spirit. "I laid all my cards on the table that day and everything I said, everything I offered, was true. It's your choice to believe it."

"Choice..." Jack muttered. Pitch glanced over his shoulder. Jack stared down at the snow with a bitter twist to his lips. "You chose to attack the Guardians, the kids, even if you can never fade away?"

"What use is living if you can't share your life with someone?" Pitch watched as Jack's head jerked up, staring at him once more with wide eyes and mouth open. Pitch took a step to half turn to him.

"Family..." Jack whispered near brokenly and Pitch could only nod.

"I definitely didn't lie about that."

Silence fell over them. Jack watched him with that heartaching expression, his eyes hazy with tears that could not fall, and Pitch didn't comment on it. He stared down at Jack, gripping his wrist so tight his nails were starting to break through his skin.

Jack was... achingly beautiful, even in his melancholy. He had seen the rage, the bitter anger and resentment, the fearful turmoil, every time those bright eyes looked at him back then, and every time he was so, so beautiful. All the love and light and laughter was meant for everyone else, but this, Jack's most deeply buried feelings, all the ugly faces he wouldn't dare show the children, those were meant for him.

Pitch turned away. Something bitter and vile was clawing up his throat, his nails digging into his skin. Shadows roiled around him, the darkening night darkening further.

He didn't want those ugly feelings. But he did deserve them.

He took a step away, the nearest shadow wrapping around his foot as he prepared to return to his lair.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

Pitch stopped. Jack darted forward on the wind, stepping down just in front of him. He chewed his lower lip between his teeth, something shining in his eyes Pitch had never seen before, not to him.

"What?" he asked. Pitch wasn't sure if he sounded tired... or confused.

Jack chewed his lip some more. His grip tightened and loosened on his staff. "Do you wanna... I don't know, have some fun?"

More silence was swallowed up by the snow around them.

"What?" Pitch was definitely confused.

Jack snorted lightly, covering his mouth. Pitch blinked down at him. "Sorry! I mean, you just... seem like you could use some fun in your life, I guess." His eyes were sparkling in a way they never had before at Pitch.

Pitch loosened his grip on his wrist. "I think your idea and my idea of fun are two very different things, Jack Frost."

Jack was definitely grinning behind his hand. "Maybe, but I think there's a way we can meet in the middle. There's a Christmas horror movie playing at the local theater." His hand dropped and his grin was mischievous. He looked up at Pitch from under his lashes. "Wanna help me scare some humans?"

The smile that tugged at Pitch's lips was slow, menacing, and positively delighted. He bowed with a flourish, holding a hand out dramatically. "Lead the way."

Jack laughed and hopped in the air, Pitch followed from the shadows. He was led to a cinema, popping up from the shadows behind a small crowd of humans already in their seats and waiting for the show to start. Jack landed next to him. He gestured to the back row where no one was sitting, and Pitch followed him. From there, they had a decent view of the movie goers. The audience was silent with anticipation, the title card played, and the tension was palpable.

Jack leaned in close to him, as if anyone could hear him, and Pitch indulged him, leaning down to meet him. "Wait for my signal," was all he said. Pitch nodded, then sat back to enjoy the show.

The first five to ten minutes of the movie took place indoors, but any time a character stepped outside Jack would tap his staff to the floor. The temperature in the theater dropped, and the audience visibly shivered. Some looked around themselves, their nerves lighting up and Pitch breathed it all in. Pitch caught on quickly, his shadows roiling in the dark corners of the theater everytime a character entered a dark room. Tension rose as the humans muttered amongst themselves. One even pointed at his shadows.

As the movie went on, Jack worked a breeze through the room. Someone yelped. At another point, Pitch encouraged his shadows to dance at peoples feet. More than one person jumped. At the next jump scare, a shadow tugged on a woman's hair and she screamed. The rest of the audience jumped and the tension had reached the ceiling by the time the third act had started.

Jack was shaking in his seat. Pitch glanced over, worried for half a second that this wasn't actually what he'd had in mind, that he had messed this up somehow, that he was scaring Jack away.

To his absolute shock, Jack was laughing. He was laughing so hard he was shaking, near doubled over with a hand clamped over his mouth. Delighted tears clung to his lashes and his feet practically stamped the floor through his giggles. A smile twitched at Pitch's lips.

Jack had never laughed for him before.

He leaned down. "Ready for the big finish?" he whispered against a pale ear, his voice husky with the power he had fed on, and maybe with something else he didn't want to name just yet. Jack looked up at him with shining blue eyes, sparkling like the sun on a chilly winter morning, hand still clamped over his mouth as he nodded vigorously. Pitch smirked back. "Then watch the master at work," he preened.

He instructed the shadows to calm a little, relegating them back to the corners. The audience seemed to calm with them, the tension still high, but enough to make them relax and enjoy the final moments of the movie. As they watched, Pitch moved his shadows out of their sight, snaking them up through the aisles to wait at unsuspecting feet. Pitch lifted a finger, tapping Jack's staff and Jack got the hint, providing a final chilly breeze that immediately had the audience on edge. Anticipation was thick.

And then, as the music swelled and the killer was revealed, the hero screamed and the audience screamed with him as shadows brushed against revealed skin, pulling on hair and brushing against cheeks and hands, tugging feet and poking their backs sharply. Pitch cackled as someone broke down into sobs.

As the credits rolled, the humans cheered, clapping and laughing and crying in equal measure. Pitch shadow traveled to the front of the room, standing before the humans on a pedestal of shadows, and taking a low bow. When he looked up, not a one of them was looking at him, and he expected that, and he expected the hurt that inevitably came with it, but he did not feel it. Instead, he felt warmth as there in the back, perched upon the tip of his staff, was Jack Frost, clapping wildly along with the audience and smiling that blindingly bright smile right down at him.

Jack had never smiled at him like that.

But there he was, clapping and cheering and smiling just for him and Pitch felt warmth fill his insides, felt a lump lodge in his throat. He looked away as the audience left, followed them out quickly through the shadows. Jack joined him not too long after.

"That was amazing!" the younger man cheered excitedly. "That was so cool, I've never been able to get a reaction like that! I can usually get a few shivers and some laughs, but man! I've never gotten them to scream like that! You have to teach me how to do that! How do you know how to time it so well? I've seen that movie like five times now and I still can't get it right, but you - that... that was awesome!" Jack continued to ramble, arms waving wildly as he gestured back to the theater, to Pitch, to the humans who walked by still gushing about their experience. His smile was so bright, so welcoming, so warm, and Pitch couldn't stop himself from leaning down, from tasting that warm cold with the barest brush of lips against the corner of Jack's mouth.

Jack froze.

Pitch pulled away. He looked down at Jack with a softness he hadn't felt in eons, smiling gently down at the now wide eyes gazing back at him. "I had... fun, Jack," Pitch muttered. "I'd love to do this again sometime. If you'd like."

Jack swallowed, his throat visibly bobbing with the action and Pitch wanted to taste that too. "Um... okay... Yeah, we should - we should definitely do this again..." He smiled again, slowly, softer this time, his cheeks flushing a pale purple. "Thanks, Pitch..."

Pitch smiled back. "Anytime, Jack. See you around." And then he sunk into shadow.

From a darkened alley nearby, he watched as Jack stood there a moment longer. The boy reached up, pressing his fingers to his lips. Another smile tugged at them slowly, bright and happy, and he laughed in a way Pitch had never heard him laugh before. It was gentle. It was shy. There was a joy in it that didn't come from snowball fights and sledding with children or from spending time with the Guardians. Pitch smiled.

That was his laugh. That laugh was for Pitch and for Pitch alone.

And he couldn't wait to find out what it tasted like.

---

I've never done a prompt like this before so I hope I did it right!! Thank you for the ask, you're always so good to me so I hope you like it!!

I am accepting title ideas!

[lcpmon]

putting off finishing Iaventon stuff bc i am broke and also distracted by many other ideas. and life. everything is happening so much fr man.

[gilly-moon]

I'd been only looking at your amazing ROTG fan art for so long that when you posted the heart memes with what the characters actually look like from the movie I was unpleasantly surprised by their movie looks. So you definitely have a great trademark art style, especially for blackice!

Omggggg I'm really glad you like the gilly-glow-up version of them so much!!!

Tbh I also have to regularly pull up pictures of them to remind myself what they actually look like >.< Pitch is always the bigger shock to my system but I'm weak to every version of him lol

[interdimensionalburnout]

>> [2 more glowing feathers in a sealed bag appear in the mess, assuming that's still there, with a note: 'Given the emergency nature of this morning, seems like you should have some spares for the future.' On top of the bag, seemingly as an afterthought, lands an apple caramel cinnamon muffin.]

>>You get a ping from Gilly, right around the same time you get a ping from your prosthetic Eye's UI; time to go re-fill your O2 reserves. And also, you just realized, you've got no goddamn coffee in your system yet. Getting thrown out of bed threw your entire day out of whack, your routine's ruined, and a detour to the mess sounds fucking GREAT right now.

>>You smile warmly, and look down at the bag, reading the note. The lurch, the fried gravity, it knocked pretty much everything off your shelves, but you've been through that kind of thing once or three-thousand times before, and 90% of your belongings are bolted down, the cabinets locked tight. You tuck the bag of feathers down your shirt, where it vanishes into your inventory, and then fish a spare coffee pot from a bolted cabinet. The muffin, though. Ohhhh the muffin.

>>You keep sideeying the muffin, while you wait for your coffee to brew. The percolator, a cheap Mr. Coffee, is bolted tight to the counter with pieces of two-by-four, but the original glass pot has to be swept up while you're waiting. It's as good a distraction as you get, to keep you off your new breakfast until your coffee's done. "Those feathers," you hear Gilly say, once you've poured your fist mug of the day, "Those are what brought me back online, yeah?"

>>You nod, through a mouthful of a muffin that has NO business tasting like a coffee cake that is both breakfast, desert, and well beyond your paygrade (which is zero, like all self-employed pirates). You savor the flavor, silently this time, while Gilly seems to think silently to herself. After a time, the hum of her comms-link cuts out, the speakers quiet. You combine the next bite of muffin with coffee, and decide to try and reset your brain. The day can still be yours, this muffin gives you hope.

Mads this feels like if a coffee cake was a muffin!

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

My brain is being mean, so enjoy Sea Three going to a club. Only slightly questionable, I swear. (Needs to be finished, but.)

It is dark and the air in the club vibrates with music, deep and wild. The sound echoes through Harry’s bones, but he manages not to focus on that, with Uma and Gil dancing right in front of him.

Uma– She’s wearing a shiny minidress tonight, as if she needed the extra bling to be jaw-droppingly beautiful – Harry almost scoffs at the thought. She is also dancing oh-so-close to him and singing the lyrics at the top of her lungs. The club is so loud that Harry can barely hear his Captain’s voice, but oh well, just more of the reason to go closer.

He grins at her and twirls her around, only laughing more when she bumps into him. He catches her into a hug and soon, Gil is there too: „Aww, group hug!“ he exclaims before he proceeds to pick them both up and spin around, causing a minor commotion on the packed dance floor.

These people should have known better than to get too close to them, anyway.

„Gil!“ Uma shrieks, laughing, „Put us down!“

He does, tough he doesn’t let go entirely, and the music drops lower yet; it makes the hair at the back of Harry’s neck stand up. Unconsciously, he tightens his hold around Uma’s waist.

She glances up at him and moves her lips in a silent question: „You okay?“ (She has pretty lips.) He just smiles at her instead of an answer and inclines his head, knowing she’ll want more than just a smile.

„Okay,“ she says and then she presses a quick kiss to his jaw; „Love you.“ This leaves him so dazed he almost misses it when the music drops all-time low – when the DJ speaks and the crowd chants with him – when the lights flicker and die, only to come back wrong.

And there, of course, Uma is, amidst the nigh-black mass of the club, gleaming and alight, like the goddess she is; Harry wishes he could appreciate that properly, now.

Instead, he just blinks, processing the strange light and the music and pulses through him; he moves one of her braids over her shoulder.

„Uma!“ Gil exclaims, startling Harry from his thoughts, „You are glowing!“Uma smiles – her lips glow, too – and winks at Harry before turning around and wrapping her arms around Gil. „If anyone asks, it’s just make-up, Gilly,“ she says, as if anyone who knows her – anyone from the crew would believe that.

[suzukiblu]

Expanded version of Tim's next scene in the Core Four poly-pocket soulmate AU, with a read-more for length.

The adorability of Pockets as a concept y'all can thank @bucky-boychik-barnes for.

Tim's Pocket refuses to wear a mask, which is an issue. He doesn't want to wear the tiny wire-rimmed glasses either, or even change out of his weird straps-and-belts version of the Superman suit into . . . literally anything else, at this point. Tim would take anything else. They've given him options, but he's refused them all. He won't take off the costume.

Also he won't stop flying around the cave like a bat out of hell, and it's seriously annoying.

"Have you successfully selected a name for your Pocket, Master Tim?" Alfred inquires as he pours everyone tea at the table while Bruce is staring assessingly at Tim's Pocket, including four little Pocket-sized cups' worth–one for Bruce's Cat ("Kitty" to the tabloids), one each for Dick's Red and Star, and one for Tim's . . . whoever.

Alfred doesn't have a Pocket of his own. Tim's always felt too awkward to ask about it.

And Jason never got a Pocket at all.

"No, not yet," Tim says, because the whole no-mask/yes-cape issue has been a lot more immediately concerning than naming him. He can't take a Pocket Superman home to his dad. Pocket Clark Kent is going to be bad enough.

Assuming Tim's Pocket ever puts the stupid glasses on, anyway.

"You should get on that," Dick advises as he picks up his teacup with an appreciative nod of thanks to Alfred and takes a sip. "Red got really mad at me when I didn't name her right away. I mean, like, naming Pockets is so . . . outsider, you know? And kinda gilly, too. But that's how Babs grew up, obviously, and I don't know how they did it on Krypton, but Uncle Clark was raised by gadje too, so . . ."

Tim understood absolutely none of that, but just nods like he did and makes a note to go do some research later.

"Sure," he says, just hoping he can convince his Pocket to ditch the damn cape sooner than later. Red wheels her tiny wheelchair over to the Pockets' nicely-set little tea table and ignores Star floating down to land in the seat across from her. They don't usually get along very well, which is a little weird to see in Pockets who didn't come from people who are, like, on the literal opposite ends of the ethical spectrum, especially ones that belong to the same person, but they both settle in all the same. Cat does an artful flip off of Bruce's caped shoulder down to the table and then strolls over to join them. Tim's Pocket looks curious, but stays hovering in the air just over his shoulder.

Is his Pocket, like, antisocial or something? Is that a concern? Usually Pockets group up really easily, from what Tim knows. Not that he's ever had one before, and admittedly his parents' had always mostly ignored each other, but . . . normally they do, right?

Cat chirps impatiently and makes a beckoning gesture at Tim's Pocket, but he, very weirdly, sort of floats backwards and almost . . . hides behind Tim's head. Just for a moment, but . . .

Weird, Tim thinks. Weird, and not very Superman-like. Pockets are usually a bit more emotionally honest than the people they come from, but Superman's met Cat as many times as Bruce has met Laney, so why would a Pocket that came from him ever hesitate to go over to her?

Star chirps too, holding out her arms and starting to glow with intensely bright solar radiation that would only be an encouraging gesture to a Kryptonian, Tim is sure. It does the job, though, and his Pocket pauses for just a moment longer, then goes to the visible effort to put on a bright grin and darts over to land beside her. She immediately starts chattering at him in Pocket-talk and he chatters back easily, and Tim then has to witness his own damn Pocket start undeniably flirting with one of Dick's Pockets.

He has never been more mortified in his life, he thinks right up until his Pocket turns his head and starts flirting with Cat.

Tim disassociates a little. Like. Just a bit.

Or a lot.

"Hm," Bruce says while Tim is busy dying of mortification, his eyes narrowing assessingly. Star is happily flirting back at Tim's Pocket, to Tim's absolute horror, but worse, Cat is actually humoring him.

Tim has died and this is hell. There's no other explanation whatsoever for this.

Cat reaches over and scritches his Pocket behind the ears. He looks startled, then visibly zones out for a moment, and then leans into the contact and purrs. Cat chirps approvingly, Star laughs, and Red snorts, but fondly.

Tim is definitely, definitely in hell right now. Oh god. What is happening right now and why is it happening to him?

"Well, he's got aspirations, I'll give him that," Dick says wryly as he leans back in his chair. "Though I don't think Lois Lane would appreciate them."

"It's not Superman," Bruce states matter-of-factly. Tim and Dick both blink; Tim's Pocket immediately scowls.

"You sure, B?" Dick asks skeptically. "He looks just like him. And he literally showed up wearing the El crest."

"I knew Smallville," Bruce says, ignoring Tim's stubbornly glowering Pocket. "He was nothing like this Pocket. And Superman is undeniably dead. Believe me. We checked."

Of course Bruce checked, Tim thinks. They know so little about Kryptonian physiology, after all, and even less about how Kryptonian physiology works under a yellow sun. It's not as if Earth is spoiling for other Kryptonians.

And Clark Kent was Bruce's friend.

So of course he checked.

"It is true that Mr. Smallville did have a markedly different personality from the one our new young Master Pocket seems to," Alfred says, delicately setting a tiny tray of tiny Pocket-sized treats on their tea table. Tim has no idea how Alfred even makes cookies that small, but he does it. "I don't think I ever once saw him in any semblance of Superman's costume at all, in fact."

Tim's Pocket looks briefly puzzled, and then very worried. Tim isn't sure what to think about that, but it makes him feel a little useless. He doesn't know how to take that worried look off his Pocket's face, but he feels like he should be able to do something about it all the same.

He tells himself–soon. Once he knows him a little better. He'll be able to do it then.

Or he hopes he will, anyway.

Star and Cat get Tim's Pocket to sit down at the table and scoot their chairs in to pin him between them, which seems to help more than Tim was going to be able to figure out how to. At least, his Pocket looks a bit less anxious about the conversation now.

He's still shooting Bruce sullen little glowers, admittedly, but one step at a time.

"Maybe your Pocket's just really work-focused, Robin," Dick observes wryly, and Tim's Pocket immediately laser-focuses in on him and jumps back to his feet so fast he knocks over his chair and nearly Star and Cat and the tiny tea table too.

"Rob!" he shouts excitedly, definitely not in Pocket-talk, and Tim blinks down at him in bewilderment, trying to figure out if he just hallucinated hearing that or not. That was–that was so fast for a Pocket to have picked up their first non-Pocket word. Most Pockets don't even care to learn more than a handful of those, and certainly not so quickly. And Tim's not an expert on Pockets, obviously, but . . .

"Hm," Bruce says.

"You probably do need to name him pretty soon, if he's already latched onto your name this quick," Dick says, leaning forward a little bit to peer a little closer at Tim's Pocket. Tim's Pocket ignores him to grin delightedly up at Tim, which Tim feels very weird about. No one ignores Nightwing for him. Ever.

He guesses if anyone would, it'd be his Pocket, but still.

"That's not technically my name," he reminds Dick. Dick had it first, after all, and Jason had it too. Tim just . . .

He didn't even inherit it, really. It's not like Jason deliberately left it to him or anything. He doesn't even know what Jason would think of a Robin like him.

His Pocket scowls again.

"Rob!" he insists loudly, flying up into Tim's face so fast he nearly smacks into it. "Rob! Rob!"

"Tim," Tim corrects, although obviously his Pocket isn't going to pick up two words on his first day of existing, it's just–

". . . Tim?" his Pocket repeats uncertainly, his brow furrowing as he stares much too intently at Tim.

Tim has absolutely no excuse for how red his face turns.

"Hm," Bruce says again.

[glamrpevents]

Perched atop the Panier hill, in the oldest quarter of Marseille, the InterContinental Marseille – Hotel Dieu, is the most majestic of the luxury hotels in the city. Overlooking the Vieux Port, its massive staircases, vaulted passages and magnificent terraces all bear witness to the former status of the building: the Hôtel-Dieu, a superb 18th century edifice, inaugurated by Napoleon III, in person. This classified historical monument, with its unique setting, offers an inimitable view of the landmark Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde Basilica, while firmly seated in the present-day, modern and very contemporary Marseille. The MuCEM (museum for Europe and the Mediterranean) that opened its doors in 2013, is a short walk away, as are the old Joliette Docks with their animated business quarter, shopping outlets and ever-growing trade and commerce. The Hôtel-Dieu continues to stand tall above the city, as it has done for centuries: it is an ideal venue for anyone wishing to really get to know Marseille, both past and present.

Nestled within the historic setting of Marseille's iconic Hotel Dieu, the InterContinental Marseille boasts a blend of timeless elegance and modern luxury. With breathtaking views of the Vieux Port and the Mediterranean Sea, this five-star hotel offers impeccable service, exquisite dining options, and indulgent spa facilities. Each room and suite is meticulously designed to provide the utmost comfort and sophistication, ensuring a memorable stay for discerning travelers seeking an unforgettable experience in the heart of Provence.

Elevate your experience at the rooftop bar, where sophistication meets skyline panoramas. Offering a stylish ambiance and unparalleled views of Marseille's historic Vieux Port and the azure Mediterranean, this rooftop oasis invites guests to indulge in handcrafted cocktails, fine wines, and gourmet bites. Whether basking in the glow of a sunset or reveling in the city's nightlife against a backdrop of twinkling lights, the rooftop bar promises an unforgettable rendezvous high above the bustling streets of Provence's vibrant capital.

It’s no secret locally, that the Capian bar is one of the trendiest in Marseille, and a huge favourite among cocktail enthusiasts. The word ‘capian�� derives from the local word for the pointed prow of the emblematic, brightly-coloured fishing boats, with their generous curves, that ply their trade in the ports of the Mediterranean. This bar has it all! An elegant décor, a superb terrace, a view of the Vieux-Port, the protection of Notre-Dame de la Garde and to cap it all, a head bartender, Xavier Gilly, national and international award winner.. Together with his talented barmen, Xavier has created over 50 inimitable cocktails for a drinks menu with over 200 international alcohol brand references, including a magnificent collection of premium spirits.

LES FENÊTRES: In a brasserie that is at once modern and chic and extends unto a magnificent outdoor terrace in summer, our Chef’s cuisine draws its inspiration from all things Provencal, for contemporary, audacious dining.

THE TERRACE: Grandiose, sublime, glamorous, extraordinary: these are but a few of the adjectives to describe the 750 m2 that are your best introduction to the capital of Provence, the city of Marseille and its 300 days of annual sunshine. The terrace of the InterContinental Marseille – Hotel Dieu is set above and slightly back from the Vieux-Port, under the benign gaze of Notre-Dame de la Garde, emblem of the city.. All year round our staff is delighted to share this paradise with you. The life and times of the Provence is well represented here, as is the very soul of the wonderfully fashionable city of Marseille and the eternally-beautiful Provence Here you can contemplate the Lacydon cove (calanque) where the local art de vivre finds its origins: and the art de vivre in Marseille is well-known indeed!

ROOM SERVICE: Room service is gastronomy at your fingertips, when you wish. Dishes prepared by our Chefs are delivered to your room by staff there to ensure that you enjoy every moment of your stay. Whether you opt for a Continental breakfast, a healthy choice meal, à la carte, starters and salads, regional dishes, in season dishes of the da, pasta, pizzas, sandwiches, burgers, desserts, the wine menu and so much more… At Room Service there’s a lot to choose from.

The pool is perfectly secluded, protected from public view and from the sun’s rays, with water at 28°C, in an infinitely peaceful setting. The decor is reminiscent of the fountains and lavoirs (communal clothes-washing places) of traditional Provence. The decor draws its inspiration from the Palais Longchamp, built to celebrate the arrival of water in the city of Marseille in the 19th century. The pool is enclosed on one side by a stone wall down which water gently cascades into the pool, providing a charming, pleasant backdrop. The lighting, both subtle and discreet, with a mix of warm and cool tones, evokes the changing luminosity of the city and reinforces the sense of peace.

BEACHES NEARBY:

Plage des Catalans: Located just a short distance from the hotel, Plage des Catalans is a popular urban beach offering golden sand, clear waters, and stunning views of the Château d'If and the Frioul Islands.

Plage du Prophète: Situated to the south of Vieux Port, Plage du Prophète is another nearby option known for its relaxed atmosphere, calm waters, and picturesque setting against the backdrop of the Corniche Kennedy.

Plage de la Pointe Rouge: A bit further from the hotel but still easily accessible, Plage de la Pointe Rouge is one of Marseille's largest beaches, featuring fine sand, various water sports activities, and a vibrant beachfront promenade with restaurants and cafes.

Plage de la Vieille Chapelle: Tucked away in the charming Vallon des Auffes neighborhood, Plage de la Vieille Chapelle offers a more secluded and intimate beach experience, surrounded by rugged cliffs and traditional fishing boats.

In a decor inspired by the traditional Provencal fountains and lavoirs (communal clothes’ washing places) the Spa by Clarins offers time out: a moment of sheer revitalizing relaxation in an ambience redolent of the warmth and sensuality of the Mediterranean basin. There are 5 treatment booths including a double VIP booth, indoor swimming pool, indoor relaxation areas and a spacious fitness centre: the spa offers you a bubble of physical and spiritual relaxation, restful with Provencal tones. The Marseille Spa by Clarins is the first ever care and beauty treatment centre from this world-famous brand to open in the city of Marseille and indeed the first ever partnership between the brand and an InterContinental hotel in France.

Endowed on three sides with large French windows, the fitness center benefits from pervasive light and has an incomparable view of the Hôtel Dieu and the Vieux Port. It is fitted with the very latest, high quality Technogym equipment, WIFI connections and personalized, touch-sensitive screens:

Treadmill

Indoor cycles

Elliptical trainer

Rowing machine

Muscular strength exercise machine

Aqua jogging

Our personal trainer, several-times French champion in Taekwondo and Olympic coach in the 2012 games in London, is on hand should you request her services, to help you get back in shape, with the methods best adapted to you, personally.

Bedroom 1: 1 King

Bedroom 2: 2 Queen(s)

Sofa bed

Rollaway beds not permitted

Cribs permitted: 1

Common Area

Each room provided with a terrace

Ana De Armas, Hayley Williams & Jake Gyllenhaal

Anne Hathaway, Kendall Jenner & Andy Samberg

Joe Keery, Candice Swanepoel & Camila Morrone

Danielle Campbell, Louis Tomlinson & Harry Styles

Damiano David, Dove Cameron & Bella Hadid

Elsa Hosk, Charlie Hunnam & Madelyn Cline

Nicholas Galztine, Aaron Tveit & Taylor Zakhar Perez

Jenna Ortega, Jennifer Lawrence & Sophia Bush

Madison Bailey, Michael Clifford & Ashton Irwin

Kim Kardashian, Pete Davidson & Ariana Grande

Joe Jonas, Taylor Swift, Travis Kelce

Madison Beer, Zendaya Coleman & Mason Gooding

Andrew Hozier Byrne, Paul Wesley & Nina Dobrev

Ross Lynch, Jacob Elordi & Troye Sivan

Victoria De Angelis, Cari Fletcher & Renee Rapp

Romee Strijd, Austin Butler & Chris Evans

Zoey Deutch, Selena Gomez & Justin Bieber

Andrew Garfield, Callum Turner & Dua Lipa

Kaia Gerber, Nick Jonas & Justin Hartley

Barry Keoghan, Shawn Mendes & Sabrina Carpenter,

David Corenswet, Florence Pugh & Henry Cavill

Chase Stokes, Sydney Sweeney & Kelsea Ballerini

Chris Hemsworth, Emily Ratajkowski & Dacre Montgomery

Drew Starkey, Rudy Pankow & Grant Gustin

Glen Powell, Cindy Kimberly & Dylan O’Brien

Kylie Jenner & Liam Payne, Thomas Doherty

Mike Faist, Phoebe Tonkin & Steven R. McQueen

Olivia Rodrigo, Luke Hemmings & Calum Hood

Ryan Gosling & Gigi Hadid, Camila Mendes

Ryan Reynolds, Sophie Turner & Blake Lively

Hailee Steinfeld, Niall Horan & Barbara Palvin

Tom Holland, Joe Burrow & Hailey Baldwin

Perrie Edwards & Zayn Malik, Cody Christian

Billie Eilish, Jessica Alexander & Odessa A'Zion

Robert Pattinson, Chase Matthew & Suki Waterhouse

Maggie Lindemann, Kevin Jonas & Josephine Langford

Dianna Agron, Tom Hiddleston & Riley Keough

Margot Robbie, Melissa Barrera & Alycia Debnam-Carey

Ryan McCartan, Greta Onieogou & Lauren Jauregui

Anna Kendrick, Dakota Fanning & Avan Jogia

As per our usual routine, we'll be switching rooms mid-week.

[bullet-prooflove]

Stockton!Series Part Eight: Canvas - Nestor Oceteva x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @anime-weeb-4-life @danzer8705 @drabbles-mc @alwaysachorusgirl @witches-unruly-heart @mysoulisasunflower @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @est1887 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @thanossexual @lexondeck @weiwei0210 @trublu2u @justreblogginfics @oklahomapeach @keyweegirliee @dakotapaigelove @wnbweasley @jadesamhart @sisinever @skyesthebomb @msjava1972 @fleureeee @jp1019 @thiashazzywriting @fanfic-n-tabulous @ravennaortiz @just-a-throw-away

Stockton!Series:

Part One: El Cuchillo - An incident in the clubhouse causes ramifcations for the entire club.

Part Two: Always - Nestor learns about what happened.

Part Three: In the Dark - You and Nestor wake up to find armed men in your house.

Part Four: Sierra - Marcus takes care of the men who tried to kill you.

Part Five: Maternal - Nestor and you take refuge at a familiar location.

Part Six: Times Are Changing - Marcus and Bishop discuss moving forward with the club.

Part Seven: Graveside (feat: Marcus Alvarez) - You and Marcus discuss your mother at her graveside.

It’s late when you come back home to the house that you and Nestor share. The electricity is still off from where they’d cut the power during the break in, but Nestor has illuminated the rooms with the battery powered Moroccan lamps you use for mood lighting. It’s a pretty, welcoming glow.

You find him sitting on the floor of his art studio, the stench of gasoline is barely noticeable unlike the ruined floorboards from where the cohesive material had eaten its way through the varnish. His unruly curls hang loose around his shoulders as he sits in front of a canvas, spreading paint across it with one of the thicker brushes. He’s clad in a loose vest and grey basketball shorts., the light from the Moroccan lamps casting a warm glow across his skin.

He's absorbed in the task, his brushwork methodical. Painting is where he goes to hide away from the world, to make sense of it. Everything that’s happened over the past few days it’s too raw, too much. Now that things have settled you have to process what happened, deal with it.

“Gilly’s gonna come by tomorrow, give us a quote for the shit that needs fixing.” Nestor tells you, his gaze still fixated on the canvas as he swirls the paintbrush. “Bottles and EZ helped clear out the stuff that can’t be repaired. We’re gonna need a new bed and couch and our books are ruined…”

You reach out across the space between you, your hand coming to rest upon his forearm, thumb gently smoothing over his skin.

“Nes.” You say softly. “I’m sorry about what happened to your paintings.”

Out of everything that was destroyed you know that is the one that hurts. They’re things that you can never get back. his creativity, his brilliance they shine through in all the work he does, he leaves a piece of himself in every painting.

“They’re just things…” He says with a sigh, raking his hand through his hair.

“It still matters.” You tell him and he looks up at you.

You can see the pain in his eyes, the anguish because those paintings, they meant the world to him. He sets the paintbrush down before he studies the artwork in front of him, the one he’d been working on before your home had been invaded. It had been beautiful once, darkness and light contrasting against each other. The night sky and the stars, the desert landscape. Now the paint runs down it in rivets, the chemicals from the gasoline burning into the canvas, eroding it.

“I was working on something for your birthday.” He tells you, his gaze lowering back to the canvas in front of him. “They fucked it up, they came into our home…”

He trails off, the line of his jaw clenching.

“I keep thinking about what would have happened if we hadn’t woken up that night.” He says quietly, his chin coming to rest upon his knee. “If I’d been on that run up to Denver, the way that I was supposed to be. You would have been here alone…”

He’d been about to embark on a security run for Rose Kush when he’d gotten the call from Bishop. It would have been a three-day job. Coco had taken it instead after he’d heard what happened to you with Ramos. You shift until you end up kneeling beside him. You wrap your arms around him, drawing him close, your lips brush over his hairline as he buries his face into the curve of your throat.

“I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you.” He whispers against your skin. “It came too close this time Mi Corizon, it was far too close.”

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