#i dusted off my coloured pencils

[evenasyoungastheyare]

:)

[heavenlyraindrops]

Can I request a bit of lucifer x reader where reader is a new resident at the hotel but also extremely powerful like could almost be an overlord if they wanted but are shy/hate people so they try to just keep to themselves and be as quiet as possible but end up in a forced proximity situation with the king of hell himself (who they have a horrible crush on) and something pushes them over the edge we get some fluffy confessions but also a bit of dry humping (I liked your pervious story with it) and afterwards they realize being tangled up with Lucifer himself probably isn't going to keep them out of the spotlight but oh well? (I hope this isn't too much you said the more specifics the better and works got me to burned out to write it myself )

ʟᴜᴄɪꜰᴇʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ- “ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋ” ——> word count: 3.5k

Warnings: drinking, tiny mention of blood/violence, sexual content, dry humping, forced proximity

hiii anon tysm for the ask I love it, it’s perfectly specific and I had sm fun writing this ! I’m not too good with fluff but I tried my best, I hope you like it!

You didn’t want to be an overlord.

Despite your monumental power- it was just too much. The other overlords scared you, and you despised the attention. 

Instead of choosing any overlord-ish career endeavours, you’d opted to help Charlie, your friend, with her hotel. It was better, it was easier, especially much more than having to mingle with power-hungry demons. And Charlie herself was charming enough to make working with her seem attractive enough. 

“[name], I’m so happy you’ve decided to help me,” she beamed, clutching your hands, eyes sparkling. And as she hugged you fiercely you realized with a rush of warmth that it was worth it.

Vaggie nodded behind her, yet her eyes held apprehension as she swept her gaze up and down you. “We need all the help we can get,” she said tersely. You nodded wordlessly. Charlie turned to look at her. 

“Believe me, Vaggie, she’ll be a great addition.” She hugged you again, sideways. “[name] here just happens to be super powerful! It’ll be really useful to have them around.” You flushed bashfully at the praise. 

Vaggie nodded and smiled stiffly.  

Over time you’d made it your mission to get Vaggie to like you. Need help moving these boxes? Telekinesis. Loan sharks bothering the hotel? Incinerated. Angelic warfare? You were more than willing to paint the streets gold. And you did it, too, terrifyingly easily, without a single word spoken. You were never one to talk more than you needed to. Normally you wouldn’t, but you did it discreetly so that word wouldn’t leak that it was you, and plus, you could use Vaggie’s trust.

You sighed, placing down a box Vaggie had asked you to move as everyone crowded together in the lounge, colouring pencils and markers spilled across the floor. Charlie’s soft murmurs had ceased as she put down the phone. 

You cleared your throat, to catch her attention and focus it on your quiet voice. “Hey Vaggie. What’s in this?”

Vaggie looked up. “Books, for the library. It’s too he-“

It lifted up into the air behind you, and you stared at her blankly. She cleared her throat. 

“Right, you can do that. They belong in the library.”

You set for the door, the box trailing behind you in the air. Charlie sat up properly. “Won’t you join us, [name]?”

You nodded quickly. “I’ll just drop these off first,” you mumbled, before giving a tinkly little wave before slipping in through the door.

Sighing, you quietly made your way down the hallway towards the library. Grappling with the lock before swinging the door open, wincing as it creaked, you switched on the lights. Dust billowed up where you moved and even more as you set the box down with a thud.

“God, this storage unit so fucking tiny,” you muttered to yourself. The door fell shut.

You tried to open it but it wouldn’t budge. It was jammed. You slammed the base of your palm against the door. It took you a good few seconds of pulling and twisting until it clicked back open. 

You sighed, running your hand through your hair before going back to join the others. 

You smiled wearily in greeting, your hand throbbing as you sat down and picked up a piece of paper. It rustled in your hands. You looked around, an unspoken question.

“Mindful colouring,” Charlie replied, the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration as she carefully coloured within the lines. Vaggie smiled softly. Your eyebrows shot up as Niffty took in a deep sniff of a Sharpie and suddenly began to shake- not that anyone paid her any mind.

“Cool,” you said, not really knowing what else to say before picking up a pen. Angel Dust shifted behind you, his paper catching your eye. 

“Angel, you can’t just draw dicks all over your sheet,” Vaggie chided.

“Sure I can, toots,” he said, scribbling down another one in bright pink marker. You sighed and scratched a few lines into your own sheet. 

“By the way,” Charlie said. “My dad’s coming tomorrow.”

Your heart seized. 

No-one noticed the look on your face as the room fell into casual conversation. Only you could feel the thrumming of your heart in the back of your throat. Heat crept up your face. 

A hand landed on your shoulder. Charlie’s concerned face appeared in your vision. “You okay, [name]?”

You struggled to dredge up words to assure her that you were, eventually stuttering out a single word.

“Y-yeah.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. You gave her a wobbly smile. The conversation resumed without you. 

Eventually night fell and the group had dispersed, aside from you, Angel and Alastor at the bar while Husk rubbed down a glass. You glanced sideways nervously at the overlord, who lifted a gloved finger. 

“Whiskey,” he ordered nonchalantly, leaning on his elbow as he flicked his hand at Husk- who rolled his eyes and grumbled. You hunched over your hands as you quietly requested a drink, before Angel made his own order.

“So, dear.” Alastor’s glass clinked as he set it down on the counter, smile widening as his eyes fixed onto you. “You’re quite powerful, [name].”

You shrugged, taking a gulp of your drink, figuring you’d need it to get through the conversation anyways. It burned the back of your throat, bitter and woozy. “I guess so.” Alcohol had always managed to loosen your tongue. Angel and Husk fell into conversation on the other end of the bar. Alastor leaned closer.

“Then why don’t you become an overlord, darling? You could seize half of the Pride ring with that power. We’d work wonderfully together.” His eyes sparked with excitement. You pulled away.

“Don’t wanna,” you said bluntly, turning back to your drink. You heard him huff lightly, yet the smile never left. 

“Why not?” Radio static buzzed in your ears.

“I can’t. I just can’t. Being well-known…dealing with other overlords and sinners and even royalty…” you threw your hands into the air. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Al, but I’m not exactly a people person.” You threw back your head and took another gulp. “I’d rather live without the attention on me.”

He gave a low chuckle, tracing the rim of his glass. “Oh, but there already is. Despite keeping to yourself, and hiding who exactly you are, you haven’t exactly made an effort to hide your abilities. Not from us, anyways.”

“And I have no obligation to,” you slurred. “I’m content with what I have.”

He seemed to be thoughtful for a moment, finger still tracing patterns against his glass. Then he sighed. “Fair enough, dear.” You blinked, surprised as he patted your shoulder. “If you ever change your mind, you may consider me and Rosie allies.” 

With that offer he stood up, dusting down his coat and emptying his glass. He nodded curtly. “Farewell.”

And then he left. 

Angel Dust’s arms were around you within moments, his chest floof pressed against your back. You giggled a little, ticklish. 

“Hey, toots. What was Smiles talkin’ about?” He released you, spinning your stool around so that you faced him. Husk had moved towards you two as well. 

“Just asked me why I wasn’t an overlord,” you mumbled. They both looked at you expectantly. “No, I’m not explaining. I’m sick of it. I just don’t wanna.” You sighed and slumped onto the bar counter, almost knocking your drink over before Husk steadied it.

“That’s fair,” he said gruffly. Angel Dust shifted behind you.

“If you’re not drinking that, then I will.” His hand reached for your glass.

“Take it,” you mumbled. He did.

Husk had disappeared to mind his own business, leaving you and Angel to talk. You could feel his smirk burn into your back, and turned to look at him. “What?”

“So, I’ve been noticin’ something…” he leaned his elbows on the counter, placing another hand on his hip, as his smirk widened.

“Uh huh,” you said, not sure where this was going. 

“And whenever someone mentions him, or he shows up…Don’t think I didn’t notice the look on your face during Charlie’s little bonding thing.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “Who’s he?”

Angel waved his hands around animatedly. “Devil Daddy. Short King. Ya know.”

“Did you just call him ‘Devil Daddy?’”

“Yeah, I did,” he said proudly, giving you a bold stare. You sighed and ran your hands through your hair, and with your growing silence his smirk split into a grin.

“You’re not denyin’ it.”

“Denying what?” You spread your hands in front of you, exasperated. He rolled your eyes.

“You got a crush, toots.”

You pressed your lips together.

He jabbed a finger at your chest. “See? Y’ain’t denyin’ it!”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” Your words seared through your throat and tore from your lips, face burning with embarrassment. “What’s it to you?” 

He snorted. “Can’t wait to see him tomorrow, huh?”

“No,” you squeaked. He chuckled with triumph, ruffling your air.

“Good luck, toots.”

“Thanks,” you muttered.

-

You groaned, stirring in your sheets as the red light peeked in through the curtains. Niffty was jumping on you, knocking the breath out of you as she landed on your chest. She pulled away, face inches from yours, hair tickling your cheeks. 

The words came out in a jumbled, hysterical mess. “Wake up! The bad boy’s here and he’s been here for an hour and you’ve just been sleeping!” 

You tore Niffty and the bedsheets off of you before scrambling to get yourself ready as she scurried out. 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” you muttered under your breath as you tried to fix your hair and stripped yourself of your clothes, stepping into the shower. You tugged a comb through your wet hair and quickly rummaged around for clothes- and all the while your heart thrashed against your ribcage at the thought of seeing Lucifer. 

A few minutes later and you’d managed to make yourself presentable. You sucked in a breath, smoothing your hands down over your stomach to fix your clothes, and then stalked down the stairs. 

Charlie looked up, blonde hair falling over her shoulders. You tried not to look at the man sitting next to her. 

“Hey, [name]!” She waved and then gestured to Lucifer. “My dad’s here!”

Your eyes shifted to him and immediately burned again- his sleeves were up, coat and hat off. His blond hair was slightly tousled in that perfectly messy way- you tore your eyes away from him after giving him a small smile and back to Charlie. 

“Sorry I slept in. I must have had too much to drink last night.” 

Charlie smiled, waving her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.” 

You smiled nervously, feeling Lucifer’s gaze burning through you. Charlie waved you over next to her. You sat down awkwardly, knotting your fingers together in your lap. 

“I’ll just go get a drink of water,” she said quickly, shuffling off. “I’ll be right back.” You and Lucifer both nodded. He turned to you.

“So,” he said. The air burned with awkwardness. “You look- you look nice today.”

Heat flooded your entire body. “Really? Thanks.” You looked away, unable to find the courage to compliment him back. “I mean, I only woke up less than ten minutes ago,” you chuckled nervously. He laughed.

“You seem to have a talent for looking effortlessly beautiful, then.”

Was he flirting with you?

Before you could answer with an absolute stuttering mess of word vomit, Charlie tottered back. “So anyways,” she said, turning back to her father and continuing their previous conversation. “We’re making a library. [name]’s helping with it.”

“Really?” He balanced his elbow on the side of the seat, his eyes fixing onto you. Your face burned. 

“I- yeah, I am.”

He chuckled at your answer, then his eyes flicked between you, Charlie, then you again. Charlie piped up. “How about you show him, [name]?” She grabbed you both my the arm and ushered you to the door.

“Oh, it’s not really- it’s not really ready-

“It’s fine!” She waved you away. You and Lucifer stared at each other. You could see him swallow, then grin and flick his head at the door.

“Go on, then. Show me.”

You briskly walked down the hallway, feeling his presence behind you as you began rambling. “Well. The bigger room is where we’ll eventually have the library but we’re keeping all the stuff in this smaller room right now, well actually the stuff was already there except we’re just moving it now so-“

“You can show me both,” he murmured as you stopped outside a door, breath hot on your nape. You flinched at his closeness and opened the door. 

He glanced inside. “It’s quite…empty.”

“Like I said.”

“I guess so. Other room, then?”

“Sure.” You turned. “It’s just a storage unit, though. There’s books, bookshelves, lights and decorations and stuff.” 

He hummed as you opened the door.

“Wow,” he said, stepping into the dark room after you. “How do you even move around in here?” Something clinked and the clutter shifted, before he almost tripped over a box and into you. 

“I don’t know,” you said, with a light huff of laughter as he grabbed your arms to steady himself. The places where his fingertips pressed into your arm burned. The door swung shut.

The room flooded in darkness. You flinched, Lucifer’s yellow eyes glowing at you, cutting through the shadows and you laughed nervously, shuffling around the mess to reach for the door handle. Your hand closed around cool metal, and you tugged. 

It wouldn’t budge.

You tugged again, and it took a few moments of you grappling with the handle for Lucifer to come over and try it himself. He stood behind you, reaching past your arm to-

CRASH!

You let out a small yelp as you were immediately pressed against the door, Lucifer being thrust up against you. Your forehead knocked against the wall and your head spun. 

“Fuck,” he cursed behind you, breath skimming across your shoulder. You shuddered. “Something fell and I-“ he squirmed, “I can’t move.” Your eyes fell to his palm, splayed out on the wall above you to steady himself. 

You parted your lips but no sound came out for a few moments, until you forced yourself to speak. “It’s okay. Do you have a phone?”

Silence. Then: “No. I left it in the other-“

“Yeah. Me too.”

You both fell silent, and it began to gnaw at you so you scrabbled at the wall, looking for the light. You searched for at least five minutes but couldn’t find it. Your hand fell back to your side.

“Can you turn around?” Lucifer muttered. “This feels…this is kind of weird-“

“Yeah, yeah,” you said hastily, voice breathless as you shimmied to the side so you could turn around, your back to the wall instead. You bit your lip as you looked at him, a blond lock of hair falling in front of his eyes. His breath was warm on your lips. 

“I feel like this isn’t much better.” 

“I guess not,” you laughed nervously. He started to look anxious so you awkwardly patted his shoulder.

“They’ll find us,” you reassured him. “They’ll realize we’re gone and they’ll come looking.”

His lips twisted into a wry grin. “I hope so.” 

You could feel his heartbeat thrumming against your chest. You tried to look everywhere except him, but the closeness wasn’t exactly helping- his eyes searched your face, expression dropping. 

“Hey, [name], I- I know that this isn’t the ideal position to be in, and that you’d rather be anywhere else than stuck with me right now, but-“

“That’s not true,” you said quickly, then pressed your lips shut as he looked at you in surprise. “You’re… you’re nice.”

“I- really?” He chuckled nervously. “I mean- I always thought you hated me.”

You blanched. “What? No, that’s-“ your face grew hot at the look on his face, and your gaze dropped downwards. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, you don’t really talk to me that much is all.” He licked his lips nervously. “I mean, you don’t talk much but- me, it’s like you’re specifically avoiding me. So I just assumed.” 

You stared at him for a moment. “That’s far from the truth.”

He gave a low, quiet laugh, nerves eased. “What’s that meant to mean?” 

“I like you,” you blurted out. The stunned look on his face seemed to slow down time. You swallowed and then turned away, not that it would get you anywhere away from him- he seemed to have pressed even closer to you- flush up against your body. Or it could have just been your imagination. 

“Well, I’m glad,” came the relieved reply.

“N-no, I mean, I like like you. Romantically.”

Silence.

Fuck. You should have just not said anything and-

“I’m still glad.”

Your eyes flicked to him. “Huh?”

“I like you to, [name].” He grinned. “I like like you. Romantically.” 

The air around the two of you felt like it was burning, oxygen sucking out of your lungs as your knees buckled. This had to be some sort of fever dream. “Really?” Your voice sounded weak to your own ears. He drew closer, humming. 

His lips met yours. 

Heat pooled under your stomach as he pushed you roughly against the door, lips moving in time with his as you snaked your hands around his shoulders and dug your fingers into his hair. He pulled away, face flushed. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I should have asked.”

“It’s fine.” A smile danced along your lips. “I liked it.” His hands fell down to your waist, then hips, pulling you closer. Your core brushed against his, and you flinched, but he didn’t notice as he buried his head into your shoulder in an embrace. 

“This is nice,” he muttered, and you hummed. “I’m glad- this sounds selfish, but I’m glad that we got stuck in here.” He laughed, a beautiful sound. 

“Really? Exactly how long have you had eyes for me, my king?” You teased, newfound confidence born from how comfortable the vibe had gotten. He shivered at the title you’d called him by. 

“Since I saw you help Charlie with those loan sharks.”

“So…when I commit an act of violence?”

“Hush. Don’t question it.”

You squirmed a little, trying to get into a comfortable position, and he stiffened. “Don’t do that,” he muttered. You did it again and he sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Don’t do what?”

He didn’t say anything, instead opting to hide his face from you. “Lucifer?”

You felt something press up against your abdomen. 

You flushed heavily, then chewed on your lip, wondering if you should drop it or toy with him. Your own desire flooded you at the thought. You tapped his shoulder. “Kiss me again?” You mumbled. He glanced at you, not knowing whether you’d noticed or not. 

“Anything you ask of me,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your lip before pressing his lips to yours.

You ran your hands through his hair again, and just as he was about to pull away you sharply tugged him back in, pressing your crotch against his. You could feel his breath hitch. “[name], what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you said innocently, grinding slowly. His face flushed as you felt him harden, and suddenly you were burning too. “What do you think I’m doing?”

He didn’t answer, instead immediately diving in for another kiss and catching you off guard. His tongue swiped across your lips, which didn’t part, until his hand snaked its way up to your collarbone, wrapping around your neck and pressing gently at the base of your throat. You gasped, and his tongue slipped in, making you shudder. 

“Lucifer,” you gasped as he pulled away, hips rolling into his, desperate for friction against your cunt, which was already drenched. He peppered kisses down your jaw and collarbone, hands falling back to your hips and pushing you back up against him.

“Fuck,” he grunted, a languid grind of his hips against yours making you throb. He latched his lips back to your neck, leaving a hickey. You whimpered as his hands smoothed up your sides, thumbs worming their way under the hem of your shirt and holding you steady by the waist as he continued his desperate humping against you. Your core pulsed, drawing closer to the edge-

Suddenly he pulled away, running his hands through his already mussed hair. “What?” You asked breathlessly, anxiety spooling in your stomach. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head, then bit his lip and grinned. “The opposite, actually.” He reached behind you. The handle clicked, air buzzing with magic. You stared at him, finding it even harder to ignore the throbbing in between your legs.

“You could do that this whole time, couldn’t you?”  You accused. He arched a brow and you flushed. 

“Don’t act like you couldn’t either,” he winked before kicking the door open. His hand closed around your wrist. 

You huffed, face burning as you realized- getting tangled up with him wasn’t the best idea if you wanted to avoid attention like you’d told Alastor. But the pleasure you were feeling told you that you didn’t care. 

He turned to you. You flushed. 

“Now. Where’s your room?”

[allmyocsarebritish]

Dressed to kill

Pairing: Angel Dust X Reader

Warnings(?): Angel does reader's makeup, and unintentionally pokes them in the eye, I have no idea how to do makeup, this came to me when I found pink eyeshadow

Also yes, that's my eye lololol

"Please, toots. I'm literally beggin ya!" Angel complained once more, dramatically draping himself over the bed beside where you sat.

"I promise ya'll love it if ya just-"

You cut him off with an exaggerated sigh and roll of your eyes, though the amused smile on your lips evidenced your joking tone.

"Alright fine, I suppose it won't hurt."

"Yes! Don't worry babe, I'll make ya look stunnin'!" He practically leaped off the bed at your response, though his movements were unreasonably agile and smooth as usual.

You exhaled a breathy laugh at Angel's excitement, drawing your knees up to your chest whilst watching him search his dresser. Rummaging through the drawers, he pulled out (ha) various small wash bags. Each was a slightly different shade of pink, and all embroidered with his name in extravagant lettering. Satisfied with his collection of supplies, he retreated back to the bed, dumping them all on top of the duvet.

"Ya ready?" Angel grinned, lower set of hands resting on his hips.

"Go ahead." You smiled,resting back against the plush headboard. Angel hovered over you, a knee on either side of your legs. Your face flushed at the sudden proximity, which he immediately picked up on.

"What's wrong baby? A bit too close?~" Angel's words were genuine, though he spoke with a massively flirty tone which drew even more heat to your cheeks.

"N-not at all." Despite the fact you *tried* to match his demeanor, you stuttered over your words and just appeared a flustered mess. Angel chuckled and leant back slightly, allowing you space to breathe as he dug through his eyeshadows.

"I'd start by givin' ya some blush but I really don't think ya need it!" He teased before retrieving a small, silver palette.

"Wait, Ange, hold on, aren't you supposed to start with concealer?" You wondered aloud, mildly confused.

"I suppose ya could, but ya really don't need it, babe" he responded, frowning ever so slightly. "Perfect just the way ya are."

You smiled and thanked him for his sweet compliment, to which he leant down and pecked your nose. Still cupping your cheeks with one set of hands, he opened the palette with another, dusting the pigment onto a brush.

"Close ya eyes for me?" He requested, to which you obliged. The brush was soft against your skin, and Angel's strokes were gentle yet deliberate. You could feel his warm breath fan across your cheeks as he exhaled, deep in concentration. You smiled at the thought of his focused face, wishing that you could open your eyes and see him. It was at that moment that you realised you had no idea what you were going to look like. Of course you trusted Angel almost entirely, but even still you wouldn't put it past him to make you look ridiculous.

"What colour are you doing?" You asked to which he laughed mischievously.

"Wait and see." His response raised your suspicions even further, though you couldn't help but smile at Angel's antics. Your wait wasn't long, however, as a few moments later he leant back, making you immediately miss the contact and warmth brought by your proximity to the spider.

"Open!" Angel's excitement was barely concealed in his tone, and a mirror was thrust into your hand as soon as your eyes adjusted to the bright light of the room after being closed for so long. Your concerns were proven unnecessary by the clean and glittery pink and black eyeshadow adorning your eyelid, perfectly complimenting the colour of your iris.

"Okay, you were right, I do love it." You admitted defeat, wondering why you were skeptical.

"Ya seem surprised. Ain't got no faith in me?" Angel dramatically rested a hand on his chest in mock offence, to which you playfully rolled your eyes.

"No, never." You deadpanned. He scoffed before reaching for an eyeliner pencil.

"Look up." Angel advised, gently pressing down on your cheek to expose your waterline.

Unfortunately the pencil slipped.

"Ow!" You winced, jerking away and squinting your eye closed.

"Fuck, sorry." Angel grimaced as you rubbed it to relieve the stinging from being poked. "Would ya like ta do the other one yourself?" He offered, to which you nodded, trying to surpress a laugh. Balancing the mirror on your knee, you put on the eyeliner yourself, making a point of the lack of casualty.

"I said I'm sorry, what more do ya want from me?"

You shook your head and put down the eyeliner and Angel took his place back on top of you. You rested your hands on his hips for balance.

"So, what's next, love?" You asked, watching as he considered.

"False eyelashes or mascara?"

"Which is less likely to make me lose my eyes?" You teased, yet more reference to the fact he poked you. Angel scoffed and rolled his eyes, reaching for an eyelash curler.

"Uh, no, no, no. There is no way in hell I'm letting you near my eyes with that!"

"Fine, fine!!" He held up all four hands in surrender and dropping it on a cushion.

The next challenge presented itself in the form of Angel trying to put the mascara on you.

"Hold still!"

"No!"

"Toots I swear I won't poke ya in the eye again." He promised, and, though you had your doubts, you sat obediently, allowing him to coat your lashes.

"See! What'd I tell ya?!" He leant back again, proud smile on his lips as he admired his work.

"Ya look stunning, babe." He told you, closing the distance between the two of you. "Just one final touch and then we're done!"

Unscrewing the lid of a lip gloss tube, he made as though he were going to put it on you, before turning at the last second and putting it on himself, looking away. You raised an eyebrow and shook your head, smirk brightening your features.

"Oh ya wanted some?" Angel feigned innocence, dramatically looking into the plastic tube. "That's a shame, there's none left! Guess ya'd better come here then!"

You rolled your eyes and grabbed Angel's small lapels, pulling him into you and kissing him, feeling the product transfer.

"Gee, thanks babe!" You replied, continuing to act like there wasn't multiple full tubes on the bed surrounding you both.

"Ya look amazing, Y/N."

"Thanks Angie, you're so good at makeup. Well, apart from eyeliner." He rolled his eyes at you before leaning in again.

"I told ya! I'm sorry"

"I might have to ask Charlie to schedule a lesson on how not to betray someone's trust like that." You teased, dragging out the joke.

"Of course ya will." He rolled his eyes again.

"I do forgive you though. And thank you, for doing it for me" You wrapped your arms around him and drew him in for a tight hug.

"Any time."

[pomegranatecrab]

Rhodey/Tony/Steve, anyone?

Steve buys an apartment with his back pay.

It’s small, but it has two bedrooms. He converts one into a studio, and he should be comforted by the peeling paint and faded colour, covered in thousands of little fallacies, so very akin to the room he shared with his mother, where he would count each mark and stain while he was in bed, struggling to breath. Instead, the memories that the walls incite are sour.

There’s nothing stopping him from moving the minimal furniture out into the hallway, and sanding back the walls by hand. The man at the store had suggested an electric one, a round device that he had politely turned down. When he strips down the walls, Steve is still at a loss. No colour feels right for the room. There’s two windows where Steve is considering putting a house plant between, yet, no inspiration strikes. A spattering of dust floats in the air, a thick smell permeating the room. Steve opens a window, and frowns when someone knocks on the door.

He’s never met the man on the other side before. Tall, dark skin and carrying himself strongly. A wry smile paints his lips.

“Steve Rogers?” He offers a hand, the other hooked in the tag of a six pack of beers. “I’m James Rhodes. Tony’s talked a lot about you.”

Steve blinks.

“Tony Stark?”

James nods, peering shamelessly past Steve and into the living room. “Still moving in?”

Steve steps aside, nodding stiffly. The beers are from a brand he doesn’t recognise, and James is dressed casually, but his rigid posture gives him away.

“Army?”

“Airforce,” James says, peeling off his shoes and leaving them neatly by the door. “No work talk, I’m off duty.” He eyes the lack of TV critically.

“Do you have any board games?”

Steve would have felt like a killjoy, if not for the gleam in James’ eye, casual and easy-going. Like a wave could crash in and he’d simply ride it to shore.

“I have a pair of dice,” Steve says.

It’s one of the only things, along with his shield, that they let him take from his own belongings. A nice wooden pair that Bucky had carved for him, right down to the uneven dots adorning each side.

“Perfect,” James says.

He steps into the connecting kitchen, running an admiring hand over the arched doorway, a coil of rich timber that reminds Steve of the sprawling houses that he’d seen in movies at the theatre.

“Have you considered removing this cupboard? It’d make good space for a breakfast nook.” He peers around the back of it, considering. “Built in, but it wouldn’t take too much rewiring. Tony and I can help you out.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve replies, eyeing the unit critically. It would be nice to have the place feel less crowded, unique, even. It’s probably the last thing he needs, but a construction project might keep his mind occupied, at least. There were only so many times that he could think about drawing instead of picking up a pencil, and only so many laps he could take around the park.

James nods, and swipes a cup from the dish rack, rinsing it once beneath the tap before placing it in the middle of the counter. Steve watches as he takes a beer, expertly popping it open with a spoon.

“How’d you do that?”

“My sister taught me,” James says, sliding a beer over to Steve, “it’s simple physics. You just hold your hand slightly over the cap, and voilà.”

Steve tips his head, impressed.

“Now, you roll the dice,” James demonstrates, “and whatever number I get, in this case six, I have to get this cap in the glass six times in a row. If I don’t, I drink. If I do, you drink.”

“You know I can’t get drunk, right?” Steve asks.

He’s also certain he won’t miss, no matter how high he rolls.

“Yeah, but it’s friday and I can,” James replies, almost cheekily, though his face is deceptively grave.

“You can laugh,” James says after a beat, composure finally cracking.

“At funny things,” Steve retorts, relaxing, the tension held in his shoulders eased by the friendliness, the firm hold of comradely, on offer to him.

“Call me Jim, or Rhodey.”

They spend a good couple of hours playing, until Steve swallows the last of his beer, and Rhodey checks his watch.

Steve’s heart sinks. His day no longer felt droll and empty with Rhodey’s visit. It had been nice, at least, while it lasted.

“What’s your phone number?” Rhodey asks, pulling out a sleek little rectangle with a smooth surface. It alights at his touch, and Steve spots a vaguely familiar face, belatedly realising that it was Tony Stark, beaming up at the ceiling.

“I don’t have a phone.”

He had been given one when he woke up, but left it on a park bench when it hadn’t stopped incessantly ringing.

And he had no idea what a data plan was, or why he was supposed to get one.

Rhodey smiles.

“I’m sure Tony will help you out there. Here’s my address. You should stop by on Sunday. We’re having a barbecue.”

He’s out the door with another kind smile and firm handshake, leaving the faint smell of expensive cologne behind him.

—-

By the time Sunday rolls around, he still hasn’t decided on a colour for his studio, or if he really does want a breakfast nook in his kitchen.

What he has decided, after a great deal of going back and forth with himself, is that he will attend the barbecue that Rhodey invited him to. Steve refuses to think about Bucky, or his mother; dead for decades while he experiences the future. He doesn’t think of quiet dinners with his mother, or sitting in dense forests with Bucky, his small fingers expertly carving the skin from a rabbit, roasting it over the fire, a fond suspire caught in Steve’s throat as Bucky complained about boredom, wishing for Nazi’s to gut or superior officers to prank. Mostly, he remembers the smell of bodies. The nauseating amount of blood had been like drowning in a sea of pennies, a thick, overwhelming metallic smell, a horrible collision with urine and excrement.

He thinks of Bucky, who didn’t even make it to sixteen.

He pulls on his shoes, and thinks of how he had to warn Bucky about keeping his feet as dry as possible in his boots, to never assume that it was mud, or something wet in his socks. He had heard too many stories from the first war about flesh peeling off, rotting and grotesque.

Steve ignores the military uniform hanging neatly in his closet and opts for jeans and a white t-shirt, pulls the punnet of strawberries from the fridge that he was sure were going to be laughed at, before beginning the long walk to Rhodey’s residence.

Rhodey lives in an incredibly beautiful two-story house, with a sprawling property that Steve figured would cost more than he would ever see in his lifetime. There’s a small porch at the front, adorned with plants hanging from the ceiling, a mat at the door and a small, ornate table with a package of bird feed on it.

He knocks on the door, and is surprised when it’s opened almost instantly.

Rhodey grins at him, wiping his hands on a yellow apron.

“Steve! Glad you could make it. Are those for the barbecue? Perfect, they’ll go perfectly with the charcuterie board.”

Relieved, Steve hands off the strawberries, peeling off his shoes and placing them in the neat little shelf by the door, already filled with a variety of joggers, leather shoes and a strange pair with holes throughout them.

The air smells like steak, sausages and something spicy.

Rhodey leads him briskly through a wide hallway with gleaming wooden floors into a large kitchen, where Tony Stark stands, arms akimbo.

“I thought flambéing would be easier than it looked,” Tony says, with a winning smile.

It’s not the wet, dormant smile of a greedy businessman; his blue eyes are warm, and he’s rolled his sleeves to his elbows, a faint flush working his way up to his neck. He looks very normal.

“Just do us all a favour and stick to chopping, a severed finger would be better than cleaning the gunk in that pan,” Rhodey replies.

Tony shrugs, and turns to face Steve properly.

“Hi, Steve. Nice to properly meet you,” Tony says, offering a hand.

His palm is calloused and warm, with long, bony fingers that his mother would say are perfect for the piano.

“I hear you’re in the midst of a construction project.” Tony opens the punnet of strawberries, and opens a cupboard beneath the bench, pulling out a beautiful wooden board, covered in rich oils that paint the surface into a bubbling ocean. Rhodey passes him a package of brie and a small knife, which all get neatly organised on the board.

“Maybe,” Steve says, scratching at the back of his neck.

There’s a cool breeze trailing in from the deck, the huge doors thrown open, curtains flapping gently.

A British voice, possibly belonging to the pale set of legs lounging half out of sight on a chaise longue, rings out.

“Master Anthony! I’m sure somewhere along the way I drilled some manners into that head of yours.”

“Are you sure?” Tony says, whisking the small platter out the door. “I don’t recall.”

Steve follows, assured by Rhodey’s benign smile as he inches around the barbeque. Rhodey lifts the lid, smoke escaping the confines and filling the air, and pokes at the sausages sizzling away alongside a row of vegetables.

“I enjoy my days off, but I don’t enjoy watching your abysmal attempt at cooking,” the older gentleman says, arranging his feet on a small table.

“Jarvis,” Rhodey replies, “stop flirting.”

Jarvis sniffs.

“Anthony, I wasn’t joking about your manners.”

Tony claps a hand over his shoulder, grinning. “Jarvis, this is Steve. Steve, this is Jarvis. He’s known me since I was in diapers.”

“You were just as stubborn about those as you are about bread,” Jarvis demurred.

“I’m not a snob for not eating white bread,” Tony defends immediately, handing a cracker piled with olives, tomatoes and cheese over to Steve.

The cheese had an interesting layer of crust, a creamy, white texture underneath.

“Are too,” Rhodey says, “you couldn’t see the looks of disgust sent my way when I dared to grill cheese on white bread.”

“There’s a perfect way to make grilled cheese, Rhodey,” Tony says, “it’s a sacred art.”

Steve’s lips twitch, and Tony grins widely at him, nodding towards the cracker.

“That’s brie. It’s okay if you don’t like it, it can be a bit rich.”

He eats it in one bite, the rich flavours exploding across his tongue immediately. Steve had been used to stale, thin waifs for crackers, and in the army, hardtack, eaten in the dark to remain ignorant about the presence of weevils. These crackers were crumbly, with hints of thyme and garlic, and complimented the tangy tomato and olives, the interesting taste of the brie eluding his palate until the last minute.

“I don’t mind it,” Steve says.

“Have you had a chance to try any other new food, Steve?” Rhodey asks, smiling charmingly, one hand pressing warmly against the small of Tony’s back as he shuffles past, offering another loaded cracker to Jarvis, before holding the other to Rhodey’s lips.

“Not really.” Steve scratches his head, darting his eyes between the three of them, no judgement in their eyes, merely curiosity. “I don’t really know where to start.”

Tony clicks his fingers. “We can remedy that, Steve. Can’t have you going to any old Cantonese restaurant. I know a place. Tiny, no signage, just a window filled with roasted duck. Best you’ll get in the city.”

Rhodey wipes his hands on his apron, a dab of oil on his lip from the olives, wiped daintily off by Tony’s gentle finger. He sucks the remnants off, and turns to gaze at Steve inquiringly.

“It’s a date, right?”

Rhodey nods, before Steve can even open his mouth.

“We’ll pick you up Wednesday night. That work for you?”

Steve, who so far had a grand total of zero friends in the future, nods reluctantly. It sounded better than sitting alone, firmly telling himself he doesn’t need company, or someone to write letters to, or listen to music with, or go to a baseball game with.

“I’ll be there,” Steve says, forcing what he hopes is a personable smile on his face.

Tony and Rhodey angle identical grins at him, exchanging a silent, pleased glance.

Steve blames the blazing sun for the prick of heat that spreads rapidly down his neck.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

I’ve felt kind of off about my book recently, I’ve had a lot of rejection and I’ve started to think maybe I should just quit.

But then I think: what if one day it’s real? What if one day there is an actual book in the world, with a real cover and real pages and my name written on the real spine? And what if people read it? Maybe one day there’ll be people who want to keep it perfect, who don’t even want to crack the spines, who will lament over the slightest crease to the pretty pretty cover, who’ll keep their copy on a clean, beautiful shelf so pristine and perfect, who’ll share with the pages their favourite book mark with it’s pattern or it’s quote or it’s ribbon or the thousand other things that could make it special; maybe one day there’ll be people who will fold the pages, who’ll crack the spine, who’ll panic because they accidentally dropped it in the bath, who’ll underline their favourite quotes with their favourite pencil that they always have to tell themselves to stop chewing the end of; maybe one day there’ll be people who’ll put pen against the pages, who’ll draw stars and hearts in the margins, who’ll share their every thought on every page that was worth something enough to them to write on; maybe one day there’ll be people who’ll choose the perfect coloured tabs to match the cover, who’ll create a key, who’ll deem me worthy of their favourite highlighters, who’ll be able to look at the pages of their closed copy, run their fingers over those perfect coloured tabs, and see their thoughts as they read laid out before them; maybe one day there’ll be people who’ll borrow it from libraries, who’ll wipe dust from the cover, even if it’s slightly faded with time beneath the plastic sheath who’ll write their names on a card glued neatly into the front so they are part of it forever.

What if I am lucky enough to one day see a book that is not just my soul, but the souls of readers as well?

Keep writing my loves, keep writing 🖤

[naturedways]

first time drawing chickens🐤🐔 so I'm still figuring it out! and everything else was an experiment too 🌟

i think i will get my coloured pencils out for this challenge, as i am liking those more than my usual highlighters, and more colours too. OH MAYBE IT'S TIME TO DUST OFF MY ALCOHOL MARKERS!!!!!

thanks for making these prompts 🤗🍁🍂💕🧡

[mia-ugly]

Cardiac

Epicardium

The outermost layer of the heart, mesothelial cells and fat, a cushion of protection with TOM written on it in sharpie. He joined my class in Grade 6, chisel-tipped and quiet and an easy choice when asked which Boy I Liked. Which Boy I had a Crush on. That was the year my mom drew eyelashes on me with thick black pencil before a play where I was meant to be  beautiful. I wasn’t, but I tried to make myself fit into a beautiful shape, just as I tried to fit the indent in your couch cushions, the foot of your bed, the pillows on the floor, a burrowing owl who would say the right names, make the right choices, pretend I knew who was Hot and who was Not, pretend I knew which house was Tom’s, that I walked past it on my way home from school with my heart like an electric peach, so bright he could see it from his bedroom window.

Brian was the Backstreet Boy I chose from thin air, bad answer, should’ve picked Nick, but at least I didn’t say Kevin, sorry Kevin, he seems like a pretty great dad these days, maybe we all chose wrong.

You would peel apples and read the future in the shape they left on the floor: what is the first letter of your husband’s first name? Light candles and ask the ouija board ‘does he like me? Does he love me? Is he the one?’ Commune with the spirits just to beg them for love stories, and spin a globe and close your eyes and put your fingers down to find out where we’d meet the man-of-our-dreams.

But I wasn’t dreaming about anyone.

My dreams were glass and silver, like the colour of the only eyeshadow my mother owned, brushed powdery and stale up to my eyebrows in a play where I had to sing and a prince had to fall ruinously in love with me in front of everyone I knew. I shone pale blue with shame, and that night, I was the only one at your house who didn’t know the macarena - sat in your basement, watched you dancing, like I was looking into an aquarium filled with strange fish. Later, you’d teach me the steps, like you taught me to fold paper into those fortune-telling finger games, salt-cellar, snapdragon, pick a colour, pick a number, 1-2-3, who will I marry, who will I marry, who will I marry. You put on “Kissing You” by Des’ree, told us to listen in silence and think about the boys we loved, and I wore my longing like a mask that didn’t know it was a mask. Thank you Tom, thank you Brian and Robert and Adam, thank you every boy who let me hold his name in my mouth like an ice cube. The letters burnt my tongue, but at least my mouth wasn’t empty. 

Myocardium

The thickest of all three layers, muscle that makes the heart contract, lets it beat beat beat like a kickdrum. I told my first girlfriend that I’d been in love with my best friend growing up, but it wasn’t true, it was just a rhythm I wanted to replicate, to awkwardly dance to. I’d seen the movies and I thought all gay kids had to say it, like it was a shared purple ache in the flesh of us, a thumbprint on a plum. I wanted to feel that bruising early love like everyone told me I should, but it wasn’t like that with us. I wasn’t lying awake looking at the hair on your face, the fascinating black sideburns that you shaved off, like you shaved off the hair on your arms, like I did too.  It wasn’t like that, and the night we said we would travel the world together after college, wouldn’t get married or have children, was also the night you said you were glad you didn’t have any gay friends, and remember that book we found at the second-hand store? The air was drowned with dust and Loving Someone Gay shocked us out of papery silence, made you laugh so much that I laughed too, and then I took that book and rolled it up and shoved it down my throat, got paper cuts under my skin, shredded my trachea like tissue paper wrapped around a present.

I wasn’t carrying any torches. Not even a candle or a match.

Your fingers were never in my hair as you pinned it back, you never leaned in and pressed an eyelash to my cheek so that I could wish on it. I wouldn’t have let you touch me. My face my hands my hair, I hated being touched, cringed away from it like a shameplant, and the not-wanting felt almost worse than not-being-wanted. Felt lonely, always the first person awake in your silent basement, bodies scattered like petals on the floor all around me. There was nothing I could do but wait, wait and read your parents’ headache-coloured paperbacks, Louis L’Amour and Danielle Steele, Christ, I hated them, but I would still sit there, paging through Haunted fucking Mesa or whatever, counting down the minutes on the clock, waiting waiting. Sometimes I would hear your father praying in the kitchen but it never woke you up, and I wanted to ache like Courtney Love ached, wanted to feel anything at all except bored and choking on paper, I wanted a drumbeat underneath my skin but it was all silence and darkness and purple muscle, and your father kept praying, ringing bells like they were birds, and I kept waiting to hear music.

Endocardium

Before the world ended, you pressed play on a discman and flooded my life with the Cranberries.

Before the world ended, I looked up at the ceiling and found it strung with hanging lights, each one of them a city in between us. Before the world ended, I asked you if people could yearn in their thirties, if that was allowed, and I didn’t know the steps to this dance but maybe you could teach them to me. Suddenly there was an electric peach in my mouth and it was shining through the spaces between my clenched teeth, anyone could see it, even you. I thought my skin was too thin, my bones too brittle, thought anything I felt would tear through me or grind me down, and maybe it still will but I’d let you press our hips together, iliac crest to iliac crest, let you paint Valentines in red against my lips and mermaids on my cheekbones, let you braid my unbraided hair. Even if it meant you had to touch me

I would let you make me over. 

Sometimes the distance feels less like miles, more like inches. Like it could be the space separating your eyelashes from the tip of my nose, could be a hand’s width on a sleeping bag where I’m still awake because you’re lying next to me (and we watched an awful movie with Drew Barrymore in it.)  Before the world ended, everything was cold metal and antiseptic, we were hunkering down for the longest winter, planning, preparing, frantic, scared, surviving, sick and I was still the first person awake in a strange basement but suddenly finally now of all the goddamn times I was waking up watermelon-flavoured. My mouth was hard candy, glossy-sweet, and suddenly finally now I was the girl with the most cake, I was peony season, I was Nick Drake and the whole moon shining and the whole sun rising I was pink pink Pink PInk PINK.

[self-indulgent-writer]

sadie sink with a fem!singer reader? like she wrote a song for sadie and she sings it for her?

Sadie sink x reader

You sat at a desk with your guitar, notepad, and pencil. You were strumming chords and writing them down along with lyrics that came to your mind whenever you thought of her.

Sadie is your girlfriend for almost a year. For your one year anniversary, you wanted to write a song for her. Except now you are kinda starting to regret making that decision because you are coming at a loss for words.

You got startled out of your focus by your phone ringing. You looked up and saw that Sadie wanted to FaceTime, so you answered.

“Hey baby, what’s up” Sadie said before you could say hi.

“The sky,” you snickered as she glared at you “no I’m just joshing ya. I’m writing a song.” You smiled at her.

“Oh. I thought you just finished your album though.” Sadie quirked and eyebrow. You nodded your head, half listening to her and half writing down more words in your notebook. “Ok. Well I have to go now. They’re calling me to film. Love you”

“Love you too, babes.” You kissed the camera on your phone. When Sadie hung up, you started to strum more chords that went along perfectly to the words.

;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;

You were at the last concert of your tour. It was your anniversary today and you planned to sing the song now. Luckily this concert started at 9 pm, so you had the morning with Sadie and the afternoon preparing for the concert. Sadie was in the front row looking up at you.

(For the sake of the story pretend you made Stop the World I Wanna Get Off with You by Arctic Monkeys)

“Hey guys,” you were so desperately trying to catch you breath. “Uh, so we are at the end of the tour, and this is my last concert of it. So because of that I wanted to officially let you guys hear my new song that I made for my girlfriend and out one year anniversary.” The crowd cheered.

Open Sesame

(We've places to go)

We've people to see

(Let's put 'em on hold)

There's all sorts of shapes that I bet you can make

When you want to escape, say the word

Well, I know that getting you alone isn't easy to do

With the exception of you, I dislike everyone in the room

And I don't wanna lie, but I don't wanna tell you the truth

Get the sense that you're on the move

And you'll probably be leaving soon, so I'm telling you

Stop the world 'cause I wanna get off with you

Stop the world 'cause I wanna get off with you

Eyes the colour of

(Water left in mud)

Icing sugar dust

(Crazy green flashes)

It's a funny thing that I cannot explain

Don't you know the train keeps a-rolling?

Stop the world 'cause I wanna get off with you

Stop the world 'cause I wanna get off with you

Well, I know that getting you alone isn't easy to do

And I don't wanna lie, and I don't wanna tell you the truth

And I know we got places to go, we got people to see

Think we both oughta put 'em on hold and I know you agree, yeah

Stop the world 'cause I wanna get off with you

Stop the world 'cause I wanna get off with you

You finished the song and the concert ended. As people started filing out, you jumped off the stage and Sadie ran to you. She engulfed you in a strong hug and squeezed you tight.

“Thank you so much for that..” she sniffled “you didn’t have to do that for me you know.” Sadie wiped her tears of joy. You patted her head and returned the hug twice as strong.

“I love you, Sadie”

“I love you more”

[noctomnis-art]

Respite (2014 - 2015)

Watercolour, coloured pencil

This is getting quite old now! It's still one of my favourites, I remember how much persistence it took to fill in each segment of wing. :'D This depicts a very old character or mine, a dragonfly called Marigold! Maybe I'll dust her off soon and give her a new, updated look.

[lala1267]

Is it wrong (Part 4)

Summary: Priscilla knows and gets her revenge

Warnings: slight blood, glass, mentions of cuts, violent imagery, age gap.

Notes: Idk if this is good.

Legs swaying and smile lurking on her dimpled cheeks. Lolita's hand muffled her childish giggles as Elvis ran across her little mind. He was like a haunting melody, a lovely life saver. The way his big hands felt around hers, the way his back velvet hair hung in front of his face, the way he puffed on his cigar, the way his head tipped back against the sofa, relaxing. The visible dust molecules floated around her in the sunlight. Her long blonde curls seeped over her upper body like a golden waterfall. Her black shiny school shoes tapped against the wooden floorboard. The pencil in her hand scribbled against the white paper, leaving a trail of grey led. She couldn't wait to see Elvis. She was like she was a magnet to him. She just couldn't seem to pry away from his rose red magnetic field.

She walked out of the school gates with a skip in her step. She quickly rushed home.

The next few weeks

Lolita and Elvis would send flirtatious letters to eachover. Sometimes, Lolita would even sign the paper with her cherry red lipstick kisses. She would spray her floral beach scented perfume on the thin paper before sending it. Elvis's heart would ache and dim into a cold grey as he spent more days from his little Lolita. Lolita's violets would whimper in agony as the colour disappeared from the once purple petals. Her flowers were hauntingly delicate. The green stem that was now a rusty brown was weaping over, bent over like a sorrowful willow tree. Lolita would run across Elvis's mind like a shooting star, making its way through the galaxy. Lolita was so cheerful and happy. It was like the sun lived inside of her golden heart that was glittered with glowing pixy dust. It was almost as if you could hear a twilight twinkling sound whenever you were around her. You could hear the echoe of her childish giggles that filled the pollenated summer air. As Lolita was a burning desire, Priscilla was a captivating darkness. Her long black hair and foxy eyeliner accessorised her alluring sexyness. She had a mystery to her dark void. She was a secret witchy mistress trapped in such a small body. She was underestimated often. She was a woman of destingtion, calm and calculated. Even though Priscilla's nights and seas were colored black velvet, she would unfold a core of sweetness. If you pick at her petals and shower her in diamonds, of course.

One windy night

Priscilla sat on the cream lever couch that was situated in the lavish living room of Graceland. Her fingers that were covered in shiny sparkling rocks rummaged through the bag of popcorn that sat in her lap. Her eyes softened as she saw baby Lisa gently fall asleep in her high chair. Priscilla lifted herself from the couch and placed the popcorn aside before picking Lisa up. She cradled her and admired her cuteness. She placed tone little pink kisses on her soft cheeks.

"Oh my baby, I think it's your bedtime."

Priscilla whispers as her tone lifts to talk on a baby voice. She places Lisa in the downstairs cradle gently before sitting herself back down. She is distracted at the sound of the letter box ingraved into the front door. It clangs. Her eyebrows furrow as she looks as the small white letter that is swiftly floating towards the ground.

"Post man, at this time..."

Priscilla seems to be worried, but her emotions die down once she remembers that it is probably Elvis sending her a little letter. A smile appears on her face as she walks over to the note. She eagerly picks it up and tears the envelope off. The rubbish travels to the carpet as her eyes scan the letter.

"To my little Lolita.

I will be coming back tomorrow, I can't wait to see your pretty face again. I have a big suprise for you honey, you will be so happy when you see it!

-E.P."

Priscilla's once cosy living room crumbles and sucks her into a black void. Her breath is snatched from her as spicy salty tears seap down her tense throat. She feels her heart burn and crackle like a bonfire in a dead forest. The once bright red apples that hung from the green trees were now rotting and decaying as the rusty brown leaves fell off onto the muddy ground. A waterfall of tears gush down her tournamented face like oozing blood from her stone grey heart that is gradually burning into a red flame. Her tears dropped to the floor as her fist strangled the letter. She instantly sprints up the stairs. The sound of her heavy footsteps rang like a doorbell.

Lolita sat in the dimly lit guest room of Graceland. The cold night wind blew the cottage white curtains away. A smile plastered on her pretty face as the black ink wrote flirtatious words onto the lined paper. Her delicate hands moved around over the paper. Her feet kicked as she tried to contain her energy. Her heart thumped a sweet melody against her ribcage. The moonlight shot stars into her tangled hair, leaving behind sparkling fairy dust. It was as if there were rivers sweetly perfumed with vanilla in her bright soul. Her big blue orbs scanned the black Inc words that were tattooed onto the page a thousand times. Suddenly, loud footsteps echoed throughout the hallway, quickly getting closer to the door that separated her and the rest of the house. Without warning, the Swan white door flew open and hit the wall, leaving an indent. Priscilla's face was glistening with her warm salty tears whilst her clenched fist grasped the white love note. Her teeth grunted against eachover, and her eyes were bloodshot. She was like a baulk of fury that would explode any minute. She stood in the doorway before pointed to the crinkled letter in her hand with her quivering finger.

"What is this?"

She asked through her teeth, trying her best to remain calm. Lolita's eyes widened as they met with the letter that was suffocated in Priscilla's now white nuckles. She was filled with an ocean of apologies, but not a word escaped her pretty pink lips. She was silenced. Priscilla took a dangerous step closer to Lolita, who cowered like the pathetic little girl she was. Lolita's head hesitantly tilted up to Priscilla, who was now towering over her seated position.

"I said what the fuck is this!?"

She yelled before throwing the scrunched up paper at poor Lolita's face, causing her to flinch like a scared puppy with its tail in between its legs. Lolita's watery eyes looked back up to Priscilla, who was at her boiling point, but still, not a word escaped.

"If you don't wanna talk, we can handle this another way."

She grunted under her hot breath. Priscilla's hands aggressively grasped Lolita's precious, lininen curls. The sting and pain on her scalp caused her to yelp helplessly. Priscilla pulled her powerless body to the cold, hard ground before jumping on top of her. Her long nails clawed at Lolita like an animal, scratching, hitting, punching, anything. Lolita's cries and screams meant nothing to Priscilla. She felt no remourse, no mercy. Priscilla was filled with rage. Her hands curled into a tight fist before landing numerous blows on Lolita's bright red face.

"Who the fuck do you think you are bitch!?"

She shouted at the top of her lungs like a mad woman.

"Huh!? I can't hear ya!"

She yelled causing her lungs to burn like a cigarette. Her face lit up red as she carried on her vicious attack on the small teen.

"Elvis is mine!"

"I'll make sure you'll never meet again like goddamn vegans!"

She yelled. Her shouts echoed around the dark room like a haunted melody. Priscilla stood up from weak Lolita, who was whimpered and sobbing like a baby. She turned around to rummage on the messy desk. She finally got her hands on an expensive perfume that Elvis had recently brought Lolita. Priscilla's grip was tight on the glass bottle as she turned to look at Lolita. Her arms raised in the air, holding the glass perfume filled bottle up. She aggressively threw it straight at Lolita. She watched as sharp shards of glass smash all over Lolita's poor body, leaving cuts for the perfume to seep onto like pink venom. Lolita let out an ear deafening scream as she felt the burning sensation of the perfume travelling into the bloody openings on her body. This only added feul to the fire. Priscilla wasn't going to stop until her screams would dissappear into the dense air. She wasn't going to stop until she was dead. She needed to feel every one of Lolita's bones crush. Priscilla quickly turned back around and grabbed anything she could from the table. She threw glass, makeup, decor, and hairspray at the weak little girl. The wooden floor was now decorated in little blood stains and glistening glass peices that shimmered like diamonds.

Her hands pushed the stool over. She needed to hurt Lolita badly. She stood for a few seconds, thinking. The screams and cries of Lolita just clouded the room. Priscilla looked at the desk before man handling it. She dragged it closer and closer to Lolita's beaten body until it finally fell on top of her. Lolita's screams and breaths were snatched from her as she felt the heavy wooden table crush her ribs, and the tall mirror break into sharp shards on her body. Immense pain coursed through her veins as her mouth was locked shut. The sound of glass breaking rang in Priscilla's ears as Lolita was deafened by the white noise.

Priscilla just towered over her, looking at the mess that she had made with her bloodshot eyes. Her chest heaved up and down, and her red nuckles relaxed. Her eyes looked at the painted red floor. Her brows furrowed as tears streamed down her face.

"J-just, leave my relationship alone, please."

She whispered breathlessly before rushing out of the room and into the darkness. Lolita's breath left her body as her consciousness also followed. Her glassy eyes fluttered shut as her blood oozed out of her body like slime.

Next morning

The smell of perfume lingers around the room. Lolita's eyes slowly drift open. Her blue eyes scan her position. The heavy table feels as if it is cutting her waist in half. Her body aches. She slowly lifts the table up. She sits up with slight pain before she gets up. She tries to stop her tears as she sees the number of nightmare blue bruises that were decorated on her body through a shard of the mirror. She gasps as she continues to examine her beaten body. She feels like a punching bag. She was quickly taken back by the sound of the front door opening and closing.

"Where is my beautiful baby Lisa!"

A manly voice excitedly shouts from the living room. Lolita's heart races as she has a feeling of ecstasy wave over her. Panic courses through her veins. She needs to hide this scene and her bruised body. It was only a matter of time before the truth came out.

[skullandbowties]

*blows dust off blog*

I've been trying to decide how to announce I'm cautiously switching from 'hiatus' to 'low activity', and then @thesundowncrew posted this DTIYS for Nightshade! It was perfect! Except that I was out of town at the time, so I've had to wait for half a week to try and get this done.

I also decided to be smart and use a different brand of colouring pencils for this, which meant my normal shading tactics went out the window. Still, I had to celebrate the precious little lady and how far they've all come since I first met Samhain and Co!

(Bonus under read-more, hastily coloured with my normal pencils):

[crooked-hourglass]

Unloading some thoughts about my art under the break

Scroll on if you don't want to read grumpy art thoughts, hastily scrawled out on a phone

I feel like I've been off doing art side quests for the past couple of months. I've enjoyed trying different styles and subjects, but it's just starting to feel chaotic. I'm so glad people loved the pumpkin ghouls, but that doesn't really feel like my style. It worked for that series and was fun to figure out and use for a time. I've been feeling a bit lost with my art lately, and I think it's starting to show, and it bothers me. And it's hard to ignore the numbers, even though I know they shouldn't matter. So I want to finish the year by dusting off the digital pencils and going back to realism portraits and maybe some flowers?

My inconsistent art style is starting to bother me slightly (my IG grid bothers me so much, seeing how chaotic it looks). And I feel like maybe I need to focus on one thing and do it well? I don't know, but I think I just need to control and curate my stuff a bit more. Currently, I'm working on adding Phantom to my Language of Flowers series, which feels like a start in the right direction. Thanks for sticking around whilst things got weird. I'm planning out some ideas for the rest of the year, and I'm looking forward to drawing them!

I've loved something about everything I've made this year, but I think I just need a bit of structure to what I'm doing rather than hopping around and trying random stuff. Also, in terms of subject and colours, a lot of my stuff has been really dark lately (sometimes literally) and my art used to be a lot brighter as it was my happy place. So I want to try and brighten things up a bit, and hopefully, it brightens me up a bit too 😊. It's hard to explain, but that's the jist of it.

If you've read all of this or ever liked, reblogged or commented on anything I've made - I appreciate it so much, you have no idea 🖤

[giacosketch]

Hi, I'm back and I drew a Chasmosaurus!

Hey hi!

It's been a while, huh? I'm going to dust off this old blog and see how things go. I like being able to archive my work, and having the opportunity to talk about it is also pretty nice :)

So anyways here's something I drew recently;

The Chasmosaurus!

Known for its huge, square like head, the Chasmosaurus is a ceratopsid dinosaur from the Late Cretaceous Period in North America.

Recently i went to the Royal Ontario Museum to film a project for school. While i was there i was looking at the Chasmosaurus mount they had on display.

I've seen it before. I love going to the ROM, and I've always liked this mount. It has a nice bit of motion in the pose. When I saw it, it looked as if the left front leg was raised, like it was mid-stride, and the head being slightly cocked down, as if it was grazing or showing off its massive frill.

Looking at it now, I can tell it's more of a flat pose, but the damage was done. I wanted to draw this!

I went home with the idea in my head, and a day or so later, I whipped up this pencil drawing.

I added a few things that the original fossil didn't have, such as the Chasmosaurus's horns. I'll admit I wasn't sure whether this was a male or female fossil, nor that the horns could've been lost to time on this specimen. I also added spikes/horns on the side of the frills that the original fossil also didn't have. I also included small hints of picpycnofibers on the back of the animal, a trait that many ceratopsians had.

when I was happy with the pencils, I moved onto the inks

I had fun with this. I live streamed the inking process over on my Instagram (@giaccosketch) i used two zebra brush pens to ink this.

and then I cleaned it up in Photoshop

BAM!

Blacked out some of the cross-hatching, as it didn't really translate well in the scan. I also cleaned up some of the lines and scan debris. I think I did a good job!

After I was done, I sent this over to Procreate and coloured it all in. I used a colour palette I made a while back for some fan art.

After some time, the final product came out, and I was really happy with it! This was the first time in a long while that I went through a whole process like this for a piece, and I think I'm going to do it again really soon.

Thanks for reading; I hope you liked what I had to say. See you next time!

[fizzyxcustard]

Covert Eyes (18)

Prologue| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6| Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Fandom: Spooks

Pairings: Lucas North x OC (Amy Holland)

Warnings: Stalking behaviour, anxiety, language, sexual references, angst, smut, heartbreak, gunshot wounds and recovery.

Summary: Lucas takes notice of a young woman, Amy, but his obsession and want to get to know her begin to spiral out of control. Amy knows that her recovery won’t be quick, and she now has another decision to face. 

Official soundtrack list:  here

Comments/Notes: If you wish to be tagged in any of my tag lists for fics or characters, please let me know, and stipulate what you want to be tagged in.

It was the day before Christmas Eve, and Amy was lay in bed on her day off. She had been asked to remain on call over the Christmas period in case important work came in which she would undertake with Tariq. Lucas was working that day, but was hoping that he would be able to slip away early for a cosy night in. 

Lucas left a mug of coffee and some hot buttered toast on the bedside table next to Amy and then kissed her farewell, leaving the flat. 

Amy sighed and took a bite of her toast. She felt content, peaceful and the closest to happy that she had been in years. In fact, she was sure that she was happy. Her relationship with Lucas had gone from strength to strength since being shot back in August, and now that they were working together, it gave them enough time together and apart. Work, currently, wasn’t overbearing. However, she knew that this would soon change. Once she had her initial training under her belt, then she would be given her own working times and be expected to work more independently than she was now. 

The day began quite slow; Amy tottered around the flat, washing dishes, vacuuming, dusting, and then decided to head out to the local hairdressers for a trim. She kept her hair short, but it was now curling up and growing towards her shoulders. Maybe a quick trip to the local artist shop was also in order. She had been so tempted to begin experimenting with coloured pencils and pastels more. 

The sun was setting, dipping below the horizon of buildings as Amy stepped back into the flat. Just as she closed her door behind her, her work phone rang. 

“Hi, Amy,” Tariq chimed. “A big operation is underway. It’s from the Spiller case. Lucas and Jo are needed out in the field. Can you come in? Lucas is coming to pick you up now in time for the brief at half six. Looks like it might be an all-nighter, so bring plenty of food.” 

Amy chuckled. “I’ve always got food in my bag. You should know that by now, mate. I’ll get ready.” 

In the flat and Amy gathered together a fresh set of underwear, basic toiletries and non-perishable food such as chocolate, a tub of Pringles and some Hob Nob biscuits. This case had been on the team’s radar for a good couple of months, and now their main subject, Robert Spiller, was moving. 

Shortly afterwards and Lucas arrived, grabbing his own, already prepared, bag of clothing. Amy noticed that his jaw was clenched and he seemed to be half throwing things, rather than placing them down. “Are you okay?” she asked. 

Lucas sighed. “I wanted a night in with you tonight. Maybe order some food, watch shit TV and do all the normal things, instead of this. Now it’s not only me that’s going to be out all night, but you.” 

“We live and work together now. We see each other three parts of the time. I get that you want some free time, but this is the nature of our job.” 

“Fine,” Lucas snapped. 

“What do you want me to say?” Amy exclaimed. 

“Maybe that you want to spend time with me, too.” 

“Of course I do! This was supposed to be my day off, remember. Look, we’ll be able to spend plenty of time together over the new year when we go up to Coventry.” Amy scooted up against Lucas, winding her arms around his waist. She stood up on her tip toes as he began to move his head down, chuckling. He enjoyed teasing her. “Look, just kiss me!” she hissed playfully. 

They kissed for a few seconds and then Lucas nudged his nose into the crook of Amy’s neck. He inhaled her scent and sweetness. 

“I love you, Gigantor,” Amy giggled. 

“And I love you, Munchkin.” 

“Oh, fuck off!” Amy laughed, slapping Lucas’ arm for emphasis. 

Back at Thames House, Amy and Lucas made their way through security. Then they made their way up to the second floor, dropping their bags at their desks. Tariq, Jo and Ruth had already gathered together, chattering. 

“Coffee?” Jo asked, smiling to Lucas and Amy. 

“Please,” Amy chirped. 

The team all gathered together in one of the meeting rooms, with Harry at the head of the table. “I’m afraid this operation may mean working over Christmas, so I want to thank you all for being available. Robert Spiller is back in the UK. Intel has led us to believe that he’s going to be in Southampton tonight when an importation of illegal weapons and potentially radioactive matter arrives on our shores. Lucas and Jo are going to head out tonight and keep watch at the dock. Tariq, Amy and Ruth, I want you to keep track of his movement and audio, as we’ve already bugged his car. More intel will be coming in so we’ll need you all on hand for that.” 

“What happens once he leaves the dock?” Amy asked. 

“We follow him. Not sure where he intends to go, but we’ll have to follow him as far as we can and report back regularly,” Jo explained. “Ros will also be with us and intends to go undercover as a customs officer. We also believe that staff on the docks may be being paid to let the import slip through with no checks. Radioactive material usually sets off an alarm at all ports, so our guess is that someone on the inside will switch off the alarm just long enough for the shipment to get through with little to no checks by customs and Border Force.” 

The briefing was fairly vague, but held enough information for the team to know what they were doing and what was expected. Amy would be assisting Tariq and Ruth, keeping checks on vehicle movement and also audio from inside the vehicle, and check ins from Ros, Lucas and Jo. She felt like a drifter, having no specific role. 

Come seven ‘o’ clock, Lucas approached Amy’s desk and gave her a sad smile. “I hope to be back at some point tomorrow, but I can’t guarantee it.” 

“You keep safe,” Amy replied. “One way or the other, I’ll make sure you eat a Christmas dinner.” 

“I’m already looking forward to it.” Lucas embraced Amy. “I just want something normal for once, and eating turkey and stuffing with you sounds a lot more appealing than this.” 

“Shh. Remember what I said. We’ll have all of new year. Now get to work and remember that I love you.” 

They both kissed one last time and then reluctantly parted. 

Tariq couldn’t help but chuckle behind Amy. “I don’t know whether to say that you two are cute or nauseating.” 

“Probably nauseating,” Amy replied, grinning. “And on that note, fancy something to eat?”

“I thought you were never going to ask!” Tariq exclaimed enthusiastically. 

For almost three hours, while the surveillance team travelled, the rest of the office team remained on standby, eating Pringles and chocolate. Amy began twirling on her chair, becoming bored. Lucas couldn’t use his personal phone while out, so Amy couldn’t even text him and remain in contact. The wait for them to arrive at the dock was agonising. 

Suddenly at around ten ‘o’ clock, a faint and crackling line came through the computer speakers. Ros’ voice confirmed that she was now in place and on standby, ready to go when the shipment came in. Lucas and Jo radioed in five minutes later, giving the details of their observation point. 

On the dock and Lucas remained quiet, sitting in the passenger seat of the silver Lexus they had signed out of the work garage. Jo was sipping on a coffee that she had picked up from a motorway service station. She smiled at the taste of gingerbread pouring through behind the bitter coffee. 

“This arsehole could have at least waited until after Christmas for this,” Lucas groaned. 

Jo smirked. “You know how it is. People seem to think that they’re least likely to be watched over Christmas, so that’s when they’re more likely to plan things like this. I thought you already knew that.” 

“I did, but it doesn’t mean I can’t hope. I’d rather be at home, under a blanket and watching cheesy Christmas films with Amy than sat here. No offense.” 

“None taken,” Jo chuckled. “I have noticed that since Amy started with us you do complain more. You were never like this before.” 

Lucas sighed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t be that obvious. I suppose now that I’m with Amy, I just want to be with her more and doing normal stuff at home.” 

“You’re in the wrong job, Lucas, if you want that. This job will never bring any kind of normality to your life. I don’t know why you’re only just seeing that.” 

“When I first started seeing Amy, I could step into her world and taste that normality. I could then step back into our world when I needed to. But now she’s in it too, I just feel like nothing is normal anymore. Okay, on her days off, I bring her coffee and toast in bed, but that’s about it.”

“I know relationships are hard to maintain, especially when you work together. I mean, look at Adam and his wife…”

Lucas sighed, shivering at the thought of Adam Carter and his wife, who had both died in the line of duty. “I dread the idea of her ever going out into the field, Jo. I couldn’t live with myself if I let her do that.” 

“But that’s the point, you’ve got to let her make her own decisions, and build your own sense of normality from being together. You’ve got to define what you both think is ‘normal’, and not go by what everyone tells you is normal. Do you have a problem with Amy now being a part of your world? You said that you could slip in and out of hers, but now she’s fully in yours. Does that threaten you?” 

“Of course it doesn’t!” Lucas exclaimed, taken aback at Jo’s comment. “If anything it means that we get to share more than we ever did before. I don’t have to hold anything back from her.” 

“Then you need to remind yourself that when you get annoyed at times like this when you’re apart. She understands you now more than she ever did before. Not many people get to experience that, so embrace it.” 

Back in London and Amy could feel her eyes closing. Tariq and Ruth were chatting away next to her as she doodled in a notebook in pen. It was now nearly midnight, only half hour from the intended shipment landing on UK shores. Every few minutes and the radio line would open, either Jo or Ros confirming no change in their observations. 

Once activity started and Amy could feel her adrenaline pumping and keeping her awake. She listened to the voices on the radio and watched in fascination as Tariq kept track of Spiller’s vehicle on the computer. As her first live surveillance case, Amy found that it seemed fairly simple. Jo and Lucas were now following the shipment, and Ros had taken down the details of the customs officers who had allowed all the activity to take place. The police would soon be notified. 

Harry kept a keen eye on Amy, noticing how she gave her input without being overbearing. She was someone who thought outside the box, who came up with the odd idea that no one else would have considered. Amy was a true thinker, an analyst. The longer the operation went on, and Harry noticed Amy’s confidence swell; she spoke more, asked questions, was interested. With a weak smile, he took a sip of his coffee, and silently hoped that Amy really was the right candidate for the job. However, he trusted Ros’ judgement, as it was she who had made the call in hiring Amy. 

Morning came. Dawn broke over London at around half seven, a sure sign of the winter season being upon the country. Amy was waiting for Lucas to come home; the operation had been fully completed and stood down at around five in the morning. The police had been notified and arrests could now take place. 

Ruth and Tariq had already left the office. Amy was waiting for Lucas, who would no doubt need to file a few pieces of paperwork, such as handing his weapon back in. Logs would need to be signed, diarising the events and the officers on plot. 

As Lucas and Jo stepped back into the office and onto the Grid, Amy was waiting patiently with fresh coffee and pastries that she had grabbed from the local café. Both Lucas and Jo smiled and thanked her. And then Lucas gave her a kiss, promising that he wouldn’t be long and they’d be out of there soon. Meanwhile, Ros disappeared into Harry’s office, organising a debrief time for when everyone would be more alert and awake after pulling an all-nighter. 

“I heard Harry say that he might be organising the debrief on a conference call later this afternoon,” Amy told Lucas and Jo as she tucked into her pastry. 

Lucas smiled as he saw some of the flakes of pastry fall onto Amy’s jumper. The little things about her still enthralled him just as much as the big ones, like watching her eat, having complete disregard for falling crumbs while she was talking.

“Conference call is a good shout. It’s Christmas Eve, after all,” Lucas replied. 

Once all paperwork had been completed, Lucas took Amy’s hand in his and the two of them walked out, taking the lift down to the ground floor. Jo wasn’t too far behind, and called to them both, wishing them Merry Christmas. 

***

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[rainbowfractals]

First art in about 4 years. The reason her hair and eyes look weird was because I started out sketching then puting colour. I realised quickly erasing the pencil hair then using coloured pencils made more sense, But I'd already started. I couldn't get the pen to work over the eyes, which are light blue though image quality is bad so you might not be able to see that. I forgot how to draw faces so I used some tutorials. I used for monolid eyes but they did I think where they faded it a lot so I kind of skipped that not knowing how to replicate it and it didn't come out right. I tried to re do it but eventually kept the last attempt as why I have thick paper I didn't wnat to be endlessly erasing and rerasing. Its kind of out of proportion. This is meant to be Shallan, in that fashion plate havah though pink and gold not black. I wanted to go for a differnet colour than blue or green for Shallan fanart, I don't have any purple coloured pencils which work, orange or red would clash with the hair, I wanted a bright colour so I went with pink. Though I did a few red panels, which the skirt flares out. I 'm going buy some good art suppiles and get back into this again. I forgot how much I missed it. Last time I did a face. Not a cartoon face but trying to draw a realistic face was 8 almost 9 years ago now. My sketchbook had dust on it when I went to get out and had to wipe it off. I dug out of a pile with my old books most of which are dusty and shoved away. So yeah. That's all for now. I have a meta for Renarin which I haven't figured out how to end. I menat to have it poste d neraly 2 weeks ago, I'll get to that in time.

This is fashion plate by Dan Dos Santos. I think I'll try doing some of the other ones later.

[ashwithapen]

dearest little sister,

(CW for referenced/implied self-harm, (underage) alcohol abuse, referenced/implied suicidal ideation, brief use of f slur, r slur, and t slur)

i realised, very recently, that as the older of us two, i am the one who is going to have to be proud of you. 

i know, our age difference isn't staggering, but those, what, two years, four months, and two weeks between us is all the difference in the world sometimes. i wonder, deludedly, in the dark of the nights, if it's our age that made me gay and you straight, and me trans and you cis, and me autistic and you not, and me a redhead and you a brunette. two years, four months, and two weeks, and somehow, despite us being siblings, i have never known two so dissimilar people. 

i see you, 14 years old, and i see your 15th birthday coming up in a little less than two months. i see you and your trendy cropped tank tops and your loose-fitting jean shorts. i see your tan lines and your mascara and your colour-changing lights. i see you and your mannerisms and your diction and your dances. i see the way you smile and frown, for nobody, and for everybody, but seemingly never for yourself. 

i've wondered, over this past year, how you've been so happy, and so successful, and so okay with yourself all this time, never faltering. when i was your age, it was screwdrivers and pencil sharpeners colliding atop the ledge of my shower, greedy, desperate fingers twisting and turning and pulling until silver lept free and fell harshly across my skin the night before halloween. when i was your age, it was the taste of vodka that knew me best, that outlined my midmornings and evenings and late nights and midmornings again and again for the better part of two years. when i was your age, it was instagram group chats with other fangirls who also fancied the idea of death. it was therapy sessions with a woman i didn't like, and forgotten homework that played ocean and tried to drown me repeatedly, and hoodies in the summertime, and realising that christmas lights didn't make me smile anymore. 

i wondered, recently. if maybe you are less okay too, but just in your own way. i talked to a boy who plays golf with you. i asked him: "weird question, but how is my sister?" because i didn't really know, not for lack of trying. i think that's what made me ask: every time my question was directed to you, you would ignore me or, more commonly, tell me to kill myself. when i brought that up to the golf boy, who called you his little sister, he laughed, and the girl sitting beside him—a friend of mine—looked up and seemed taken aback. even with all the wildest stories she'd told me about her own family, somehow she said mine was the worse.

i didn't know it was that bad. 

i thought it was normal between us. i thought we were the same as other siblings and i thought that their banter of "but we love each other, really" was only that—banter. a joke with linked limbs and cheesy smiles for the camera accompanied by our own similar brushing off of 'dust' and fixing of clothes afterwards. i didn't think it was unusual for your sister to actually hate you.

but also, i've always hoped, ever since you learnt some choice slurs, that really you did love me, deep down. i hoped, maybe even assumed, that your curled lip and scrunched nose that came for free with every glance you tossed me over your shoulder was just the same as your tank tops and jeans: something that, as a straight, cis, newly teenage girl was necessary for you to wear. then, when i let it slip two weeks later in a park with some other boys that you liked calling me a faggot, they looked surprised and mad and put off in a matter of moments. i had thought you still loved me despite it all, but they said it right there and then how uncool that was. "family doesn't do that shit."

i was glad for the dark; i could have cried, bowing my head as they backed me up out loud, smoke spilling from their lips between remarks. she still loves me, i thought silently, stubbornly. "she's just a kid," i said as if it was some god-compelling excuse. when they heard she was fourteen, they exchanged a certain glance and my heart sunk lower. and that was before i told them about the death threats, the sharpness of her nails, the other words that i'd never heard fall from her lips until after she learnt that i was trans and that i was autistic and that i was just a little bit different from her. 

and so i'm stuck. i want to believe that how you hate me is the same as everyone else: that you don't actually hate me and truly love me deep, deep down, and also that everything you've done to me is just a right-now-teenage-phase thing that's been going on for the last 3 years. 

i wonder, writing this now, where an 11-year-old learnt to be so determinedly hateful. we live together, we went to the same school, and even share some of the same friends. who taught my own sister that who i am is something sinful?

you won't read this. you don't believe in reading unless it's the bible nowadays. 

you may never change your mind. you may never get past this moment, and there may come a day, frighteningly soon, that ends up being the last time i ever see you as i prepare for university a year from now and you try for your early golf scholarships. i need to come to terms with the fact that i may never have a relationship with my sister, i guess. and what a thing to admit to myself!

know that i don't say this to guilt you or to pitty myself. i only wrote this because i saw a video of an older sister reacting to her younger sister's wedding dress for the first time and i realised that, more likely than not, at least as things stand now, there is a good chance that i won't see you get married, and neither you, i. i probably won't get to see you slowly walk down the aisle and be proud of you. you would never invite the retarded, faggot, tranny to your perfect wedding. and i'm not going to marry, not that you'd rsvp. 

i hope you look stunning in your dress when the time comes, little sister. i hope that you really love him and that he makes you happy and treats you well. i hope that i'm wrong and you don't hate me, that i'm right and you do love me. i hope you are okay, now and for the rest of your life, because for as shitty as i've gone through and for as shitty as you treat me, i can't help but care for you, and i will never hate you back.

that's all.

all the best,