#i have no idea what im doing

[craftochism]

Looooooove

A mushroom I recently made. I'm exhibiting my work at a local gallery right now and I've had a lot of time to create while guarding the exhibit.

[emakataken]

Part 4

Idea: After a chance meeting at a firefighter bar, Tommy Kinard a guarded Air Ops pilot and Buck a restless academy recruit, fall into something neither of them saw coming.

This is a long one.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

It’s Thursday night and Marlowe’s is already half full. The air hums with easy noise, music, scattered laughter, the clatter of plates and the smell of beer-battered chicken drifts through the air. Buck steps in just behind Tommy, brushing rain off his shoulders with a wince he tries to hide. The movement pulls tight across his back and something twinges wrong. He exhales slowly, blinking through it as Tommy holds the door long enough to glance at him.

“You good?” Tommy asks, quiet, without making it a thing. 

“Yeah. Just landed wrong on a drill this morning,” Buck says, voice low. “I’ll be fine by morning.”

Tommy doesn’t push, but his eyes narrow slightly. Buck knows that look, he’s on Tommy’s radar and that thought makes something warm bloom in the pit of his stomach. 

The familiar buzz of conversation draws them forward. In the back corner booth, the rest of Tommy’s family is already gathered. Mickey sprawled with a dark lager in hand, arguing with Gina about 80s sitcoms. Sal’s flipping through the menu. Gina half-turned in her seat, gesturing with a french fry as she lectures Eli about his blood pressure. 

“Hey,” Sal calls as they approach. “About fuckin’ time.”

Tommy slides in first, his shoulders relaxing in that way Buck’s started to recognize, something about these people, this table, lets him breathe easier. Buck follows, biting back a flinch as he twists into the booth. He settles beside Tommy with more stiffness than usual, and Tommy’s hand drops unnoticed coming to rest against Buck’s thigh.

“Sorry,” Buck says. “McDaniel made our last run a nightmare. We passed, but barely. Kid still can’t brace a line worth shit.”

“He’s gonna get someone hurt before he gets cut,” Eli mutters without looking up from the trivia sheet.

Buck snorts, “he won’t get cut. Kid’s the commissioner’s son.”

Gina watches him as she slides a cold pint his way. “They keep sticking you with him because they know you’ll keep him from getting hurt.” Her voice is softer now, threaded with the kind of knowing Buck’s still getting used to. Her gaze flicks from the tightness in his jaw to the way Tommy hasn’t moved his hand. “You good, kiddo?”

Buck gives her a crooked grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Always.”

It’s not the full truth, but it’s enough.

He’s been showing up for nearly two months now. Long enough that Gina has his drink waiting, an orange slice perched on the rim. Long enough for Mickey to start ribbing him mercilessly, and for Sal to toss him the trivia sheet without asking if he’s staying. They all know. Even if no one says it out loud.

Tommy hasn’t labeled anything. He doesn’t have to.

Buck sits next to him every week, knee to knee. They lean in close to whisper guesses, pass notes, and trade quiet glances across the table that no one calls out. But everyone sees it. Especially Sal, who’s known Tommy the longest. Who’s suspected the truth for years but never pushed. Now, he watches with the kind of quiet pride that comes from seeing your best friend finally stop pretending.

Tonight, Buck’s off his game. He’s too quiet, his posture is tight, movements careful . He takes a mozzarella stick and leans back too fast, something seizes in his side and he grits his teeth.

Tommy catches it. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “You need to stretch out or…”

“I’m fine.” Buck cuts in quickly. “Just… long week. And fuck.” He closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath then smiles as Tommy’s fingers curl tighter around Buck’s leg beneath the table.

“What’s the capital of Montenegro?” Eli asks, oblivious, pen hovering.

“Podgorica,” Buck answers, opening his eyes.

Sal whistles. “You cheat or are you just a freak of nature?”

Buck shrugs, reaching for another mozzarella stick. “Training and I read a lot on….” He cuts off with a sharp inhale, his shoulders seizing as his back spasms hard enough to make him drop the food.

Tommy’s hand moves from his thigh to his back, fingers pressing lightly into the tension. Buck doesn’t flinch from the touch, as he grits his teeth through the ripple of pain and forces a breath out slow.

“Jesus, you’re twenty-four,” Gina says, mock-horrified, trying to pull the mood back with a grin. “You shouldn’t even have back pain yet.”

Tommy doesn’t look at her when he answers. Just mutters it low, more truth than joke. “Tell that to the shrapnel scars.”

Mickey looks away, giving them space. Sal flips the trivia sheet like it’s nothing, asks Eli about his day just loud enough to break the silence.

Gina’s smile fades. She meets Buck’s eyes, something older and softer settling in her expression. Then, without a word, she plunks her purse onto the table with a solid thud and starts rifling through it.

“Hold on.” She pulls out a white prescription tub, the label half-peeled and scuffed, and hands it across the table to Tommy. “It’s for Sal’s neck when he fucks it up going all Boston on his firehouse. It’ll help. Apply a thin layer. No more than that or he’s gonna feel like he’s on fire.”

Tommy takes it without hesitation.

Gina reaches again, this time sliding a glass of water and two small pills toward Buck. “Anti-inflammatories. Prescription grade. You’ll sleep better.”

Buck looks at her, eyes tight but his gaze flares with gratitude. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once and pops one of the pills with a murmured thanks.

“Hey,” Gina says, reaching for another fry. “You ever need a real meal, we’ve got leftovers most nights. The kids love guests.”

Buck’s grin softens, eyes going the glossy blue that always ensnares Tommy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sal says, elbowing him. “Besides, I need someone else to argue with Gina about the MCU.”

 "What's the MCU?"

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Sal groans, squeezing his temple. “We’re putting on Iron Man. Tommy, bring your boy over for movie night next Saturday.”

Tommy watches it happen. How easy Buck has slotted himself in. How the group curves around him, how he belongs here. Not just tolerated but wanted. It’s more than Tommy thought he could have. 

Buck’s still smiling when he leans back, fingers curled around the glass like it’s something more than water. Tommy can see the pulse ticking in his neck, the wince he tries to hide when he shifts in the booth.Just smiles wider when Gina slides the fries closer to him or when Sal drops another ridiculous trivia fact into the conversation just to bait him.

The second pitcher is half-gone, the trivia sheet creased and stained in the middle of the table. Buck’s posture has relaxed, but the tension in his spine has eased under the medication.

They’re halfway through a music round when the laughter from the bar registers at first as the voice cuts through, sharp, smug, pitched high enough to reach their target. “Didn’t realize trivia night was date night, Kinard.”

Another voice chimes in, dripping sarcasm. “Must be nice. Sit around holding hands while the rest of us haul ass through brush fires.”

Buck stills and his fingers pause on his glass.

Tommy’s spine goes rigid beside him.

Sal shifts, muttering, “Fuckin’ Novak,” under his breath, like a curse. He shoots a look across the bar, enough to say cut it out without standing. “Thought that asshole lost his shield with Gerrard.”

Eli shakes his head. “Nope. Just got shuffled to Station 14.”

“You always bring rookies, Kinard?” Novak calls out, loud enough to slice through the bar. “Or just the ones you’re breaking in off-duty?”

The table goes still.

The room around them dips into a hush. Buck turns, not fast, just rotates to face them steady and blank-eyed.

“I’ve held my best friend’s hand while he bled out in the sand, whispering lies about how he was going to make it,” Buck says, voice level. “So if the worst thing you’ve got is a cheap shot about who I sleep with and who I trust at my six? Say it louder. Let us all hear how small you really are.”

The air crackles. A few tables shift. One of the guys starts to say something, but the bartender lifts a hand. “Out,” she says, already dialing the rest of the room back to peace. “Now.”

The group doesn’t argue. Just slinks out, smirks brittle, the way cowards always do when the room doesn’t back them.

Buck turns back and picks up his glass and drowns it and refills it.

Gina blinks and smiles approvingly towards Buck. Then reaches for the pen and mutters, “You handled that better than I would’ve. I’d be in cuffs.”

The tension cracks a little. Eli huffs. Sal barks a laugh that sounds like relief.

It does nothing to soothe the tension that leaks back into Buck’s spine as Tommy lets go of Buck’s back like he’s been burned. 

When he glances sideways, Tommy isn’t meeting his gaze. His jaw’s set, hand wrapped too tightly around his own glass.

They roll into another round. Elijah argues a sports question with the bartender. Gina’s laughing loud enough to make a toddler at the next table clap. Buck gets the tie-breaker question right but his grin doesn’t reach his eyes.

Tommy hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. He doesn’t need to.Because every time Buck leans just slightly into his side. Tommy feels it like static under his skin. It hits him how dangerous it is to let this become routine. Buck in his space, in his life, a little more each week. With his soft voice, intense eyes and bruised knuckles and that deep-seated belief that if he just keeps trying, people might stop leaving.

“Alright, degenerates,” Sal says, pushing to his feet. “Some of us have an alarm going off at 0600. Tommy, are you driving or is the kid crashing with you again?”

Tommy’s mouth opens. Closes. Buck is already stretching, slow and lazy, like the answer’s obvious.

“I’ll ride with him,” he says, casual. But his eyes flick to Tommy’s, asking even as he pretends not to.

Tommy nods once, clipped. His voice comes late. “Yeah. I got him.”

They don’t talk on the drive.

Buck rides with the window cracked, wind threading through his hair, eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights. Tommy drives smooth, controlled, but his grip on the wheel is too tight, jaw set like he’s chewing through every unspoken word.

When they reach Tommy’s house, Buck follows without asking, without being invited. The door shuts behind them with a soft click, and Tommy toes his boots off but doesn’t look back. He stands there, still and taut, like if he meets Buck’s eyes now, he might say something he can’t take back or worse.

Buck shrugs off his jacket. 

Tommy stays standing in the center of the room, spine too straight. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Buck pauses. “Do what?”

“Back at the bar,” Tommy says. “Put a target on yourself.”

“I didn’t,” Buck says evenly. “But I wasn’t going to let his comment go.”

Tommy finally turns, eyes sharp. “You think that matters? You think anyone gives a shit.”

Buck stiffens. “You think…”

“I think you’re twenty-four,” Tommy snaps cutting him off. “And you’ve been lucky so far.”

Buck lets out a quiet laugh. “Lucky?”

Tommy presses on, like he can’t stop now. “You act like you’ve seen the worst of it, like nothing can touch you. But you don’t know what it’s like to actually lose everything because someone decided you didn’t belong.”

Buck’s mouth opens, then closes. His chest tightens.

Tommy doesn’t stop. “"You think standing up in a bar makes you invincible? Guys like Novak don’t just run their mouths, they wait for a chance to hit back when no one’s watching. And it’s not just bruises, Buck. One wrong move, one pissed-off superior, and suddenly you’re off the roster or out of the job. You keep throwing yourself in the line like that, and eventually, there won’t be anything left but what’s broken. We’re not even..” He cuts himself off, but the words hang in the air like a spark about to catch. “This. Whatever this is. It’s not…”

“Real,” Buck says, softly finishing it for him. “It’s not real. Because if it’s not real, then you’re not really gay.”

Tommy looks away. The silence is answer enough.

Buck lets the breath leave his lungs slow. Measured. “You don’t get to decide what it means to me.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“No,” Buck shakes his head. “You’re trying to keep yourself safe. And that’s fine, Tommy. But don’t pretend I’m just some kid who doesn’t understand.”

The silence stretches long. Buck turns away, to hide the sting in his eyes. He moves to the kitchen, his gait is off, he twists open a beer and pops the second painkiller. “I know what I’m doing,” Buck says after a moment. “I know who I am.”

Tommy closes his eyes.

“I’ve had people try to erase me before,” Buck continues. “Not because I’m bisexual. Because I was too hyperactive. Too much. Spent my thirteenth summer locked in the basement. Ship out for the Navy a week after my seventeen birthday. They reshaped me, rebuilt me.”

Tommy finally looks at him. “Evan…”

Buck doesn’t answer. Just stands there, back turned, the line of his shoulders too tight to be anything but grief as he clings to Tommy’s countertop. 

“You don’t have to say it,” Buck shifts, reaches for the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale that Tommy adores and drains half the bottle, he sets it down, not hard, not loud. “I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready for. But don’t make me feel like I imagined this.”

Tommy exhales, rough as he rubs a hand over his mouth like that’ll keep everything inside. “You didn’t imagine it,” he says. “That’s the problem.” 

Tommy watches the tension knot at the base of Buck’s spine, the way he tenses to hide the flare in his lower back. Tommy crosses the room and steps close, “you’re hurting,” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” Buck says, a little breathless. “Still kinda feels like it’s on fire.”

“C’mon,” Tommy says, voice low. “Bedroom. I’ll work the ointment in.”

Buck hesitates just long enough for it to register. Like letting someone care for him beyond sex is still new. Tommy laces their fingers and gently tugs him down the hallway. 

The bedroom is lit by the lamp on Tommy’s nightstand. The bulb hums. The air carries the clean, earthy scent of laundry detergent and vanilla bean. Tommy closes the door behind them shutting the rest of the world out.

“Shirt off,” Tommy murmurs, setting the small tub on the dresser.

Buck peels his shirt over his head with care, jaw clenched against the movement. The muscles in his back pull taut. The lighting catches the scars that web across his ribs and shoulder blades, burns, shrapnel, a healed gash under his right shoulder that still drags slightly when he moves. Tommy’s seen them before. In showers. In flashes of undressing. But not like this. Not when Buck’s not trying to hide, not trying to seduce.

Tommy exhales slowly, suddenly very aware of the ache blooming in his chest. He almost lost this. Before he even understood what this was.

He dips two fingers into the jar and steps forward, palms warm with the balm. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Buck doesn’t answer, just braces himself against the mattress, and breathes shallowly.

Tommy starts at the base of his spine. His thumbs work over inflamed muscle, feeling it give under pressure. Buck hisses, then exhales, slowly unclenching.

When Tommy shifts higher, skimming along Buck’s ribs, his thumb grazes the scar under his shoulder blade.

Buck shifts, face half-buried in the crook of his arm, voice low and a little hoarse. “It was a compound outside Ghazni. Routine check, or it should’ve been. Intel said soft entry, low presence. They were wrong.”

Tommy stills, but doesn’t speak. His thumbs move again, gentle, tracking along Buck’s lower back. 

“There was a kid,” Buck continues. “Couldn’t have been older than twelve. Stood in the doorway, just looking at us. And then he ran. And we knew.”

He swallows. The muscles in his back twitch under Tommy’s hands.

“I got one Zen out. Carried him while the rest of the team laid down cover. Then the second blast hit.” He exhales, slow and shaky. “Roof came down, fire, concrete. I woke up to silence. Dust in my mouth. My ribs torn open. All I could hear was someone crying. Except it wasn’t crying, it was my squad leader, Ghost choking on his own blood.”

Tommy’s hands go still. Buck doesn’t notice. Or he does, but he can’t stop the words now that they’ve slipped past his lips. “I crawled, got to him, but my hands were shaking so bad, I tried but I couldn’t hold pressure. So, I just held him. Told him he was gonna be fine. That evac was on the way.” Buck’s voice falters. “They were but I think we both knew he was going home in a box.”

Tommy’s hand slides up, presses to the center of Buck’s back.

“I know what it means to be erased,” Buck says. “I know what it’s like to walk out of hell with someone else’s blood in your veins and nobody waiting on the other side. So yeah, when some washed-up firefighter wants to make jokes about who I am? He’s not breaking new ground. And he’s sure as hell not going to make me run.”

Tommy swallows hard, his throat tight. He presses his forehead to the space between Buck’s shoulders. “Jesus, Evan.” His hands move again, slower now, deliberate, like he’s not just tending to muscle but trying to map the damage, to know him in a way that words can’t always reach.

“I don’t tell you this for pity,” Buck murmurs. “I tell you so you know, when I say I’ve been through worse, I’m not bluffing. I’m not some kid.”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away. He just leans in closer, his chest brushing against Buck’s back, arms moving around him like shelter. “I don’t need proof,” he says, lips against the shell of Buck’s ear. “But thank you for surviving it.”

Buck’s eyes slip shut, and he breathes out. He sinks into Tommy, letting the strength there hold him together. Tommy's pulse drums steady against Buck's ear, and he turns his head just enough to glance up. "I scare you?"

“You scare the hell out of me.” Buck turns to face him, his back surprisingly forgiving. Tommy’s arms loosen just enough to let him move. Tommy’s eyes search Buck’s face in the dim light, wary and wanting and wide in a way they rarely are.

"Because of who I am," Buck murmurs, "or what we are?"

Tommy shakes his head slowly. "Because of how easy it is to be with you, of what we are becoming." His breath catches, sharp enough to be a confession of its own. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together. "I'm not good at holding onto things."

Buck’s hands find Tommy's waist. "I’m not easy to shake, kind of needy."

Tommy lets out a short, rough laugh, half disbelief, half relief, and slides one hand around to the back of Buck’s neck. He pulls him closer, mouth grazing Buck’s. "Believe me," Tommy murmurs against his lips. "I’ve noticed."

Buck kisses him again, deeper this time, his tongue curling like it can pull out every conversation they've avoided. Tommy guides him mindful of Buck's body as he moves Buck carefully beneath him. Smiles softly as Buck lets out an appreciative groan at being manhandled. 

Tommy takes his time, every kiss, touch, like he’s trying to reassure himself that Buck is still here. Still breathing. Still his, if he dares claim it. And when Buck arches up into him, gasping quietly. Tommy feels it in his bones, the shock of how close he came to losing him before he even knew what this was.

They move slowly, like time doesn’t matter, like nothing outside this room can touch them. Tommy’s weight is familiar, something Buck can press into instead of bracing for. His hands skate down Buck’s sides, over the ridges of muscle and scars. 

Buck sighs into the touch. “You always gonna be this gentle?”

Tommy kisses him. “When you're in pain.”

Buck's breath hitches. His hands slide up, dragging his fingertips across the heat and skin. “Oh,” he says, rough. “I can take pain.”

Tommy groans low in his throat, like Buck’s words hit somewhere vital. .He leans in, his mouth brushing Buck’s ear, making him shudder. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have to.” He shifts, one thigh sliding between Buck’s, and Buck’s body bows up with it, instinct and want tangled together. But when Tommy starts to press in, Buck tenses slightly, just enough.

Tommy stills. “Back okay?”

Buck nods. “Yeah. Just go slow.”

Tommy dips slowly and captures his lips. “We’ve got time.” And he means it, deeper than right now, deeper than the soft slide of skin or the heat simmering between them. He means it in the way his hand finds Buck’s, fingers threading together.

They move together again, slower this time. 

Buck arches into him, brain surging with oxytocin, as Tommy mouths down the slope of his neck, along the bend of his shoulder.

When Buck comes, his free hands tightens around Tommy’s. Tommy follows face pressed into Buck’s neck, breath rugged and uneven. They stay close after. Tommy stays braced over him, one hand pressed flat to Buck’s sternum, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat. 

Buck leans up and kisses him softly. “You staying up there forever?”

“Considering it.”

Buck hums, amused and drowsy. “That’s fine. Just don’t roll off.”

Tommy grins, breathless. He shifts, easing down beside Buck and tugging the blanket over them both.

Buck watches him through half-lidded eyes. “You still scared?”

Tommy’s voice is quiet. “Yeah. But not of you.”

Buck nods. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy presses a kiss to Buck’s shoulder, then to the scar just beneath his collarbone. “I know.”

Buck pads through the house, buzzed from the mix of painkillers and beer, and floating in the softness that only comes after an orgasm and too much trust handed over too easily. He heads for the front door, cracking it open just enough to grab the Chinese takeout he’d ordered in the dumb, blissed-out stretch of afterglow. He nudges the door shut with his foot and heads for the couch.

The living room is dim as  Love Actually plays quietly on the TV, already halfway through the part with the cue cards. Tommy’s watching, sock feet propped on the coffee table, eyes crinkling. Buck sinks down beside him. He drops the takeout onto the table, leans back with a sigh. 

The scent of sesame oil and soy sauce drifts up as he opens the bag, but he doesn’t move to eat. Just sits there, watching the flicker of the TV dance across Tommy’s face.

He turns the chopsticks over in his hands without unwrapping them. Once. Twice. The quiet stretches. He knows he shouldn’t ask. Not after everything. Not after Tommy had nearly ended it hours earlier, standing too still in the kitchen, voice sharp with fear and nearly ready to burn it all down around them. 

So he exhales, not quite steady, and risks it anyway. “Have you ever taken a weekend off?” Buck asks. Not really a question.

Tommy smirks, not looking at him. “Where are you going with this Evan?"

Buck lets out a breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. He swirls the chopsticks between his fingers, eyes on the motion, not on Tommy. “I mean like… the coast. Just sand and the ocean and a cheap motel with sheets that smell like saltwater and sunblock. The kind of place with a broken vending machine and one working ice machine down the hall.”

Tommy hums.

“Could do something crazy,” Buck says, voice tugging at the edges of a memory. “Like skydiving.”

“I’m a pilot, Evan.” That tone, that low, exasperated one laced with affection, does shit to him.

“Yeah, but have you ever jumped?” Buck drawls it now, head tipping toward Tommy like he’s chasing something he knows he shouldn’t want this much. “Flying is one thing. Jumping out of it? Whole other game.”

Something flickers in Tommy’s eyes, but he doesn’t bite.

“I could teach you,” Buck says, and it slips out before he can stop it. The longing in it is sharp and unmistakable. “God, the amount of shit I could actually teach you.”

He exhales, lets his head fall back against the couch. “Jump timing. Exit checks. How to spin without panic. How to land without breaking anything. How to breathe when everything’s falling.”

Tommy’s gaze is steady now, watching him. Really watching. 

“I miss it,” Buck says, softer. “The silence in freefall. It’s not actually quiet, the wind’s screaming past you but it feels quiet. Like nothing else matters except your heartbeat and the math. You have to trust yourself.”

He pauses. Let the silence stretch between them.

“I know I’m younger,” Buck says. “And maybe that makes it easy to think I don’t get it. That I haven’t learned the weight of everything. But you don’t even know how safe you’d be with me. You don’t know what I’ve trained for. What I’ve survived. What I’d do if someone ever touched you wrong.” He swallows, steady now. “Tonight. The bar, that was nothing.”

Tommy’s breath catches.

“I know how to fall,” Buck murmurs. “And I know how to make sure someone else doesn’t. I could be your line,” he whispers. “You’d never hit the ground.”

[eatingmarkerz]

sketch cuz idk if ill finish it teehe

[domutkniecie]

part 1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :DDDDDDDDDDDD

took me quite long to draw :// i guess i could've just made this a sketch but im too ambitious and then i'm like. why did i do this. but then im like. hell yeah i did this. but im kinda tired. lol.

Part 2

[budgieflitter]

curious brothers as disco elysium portraits

[bellyjellyfish]

she's a fun character to draw :DD

[mothsandsnails]

hi this is my first art post here

(i am quite nervous)

lmk if i’m doing this right …………………….

[pomgach]

April Fools!

𓆝 ⋆｡𖦹°‧🫧

[killer6321]

I put a cone on him (no sans was harmed during this video, he's just dramatic dw gang)

Killer belongs to RahafWabas

[ma-re-zo]

WiP muahahahahahahahaha

[star-crossed-planet]

*clears throat unnecessarily loud*

I present to you, the dps guys levels of dumbass according to me.

[after a test]

Neil: what did you get in question number 32? i got 6

Meeks: i got 4.7

Cam: no, I'm pretty sure it was 4.2

Pitts: wtf i got - 12,455

Meeks: HOW IN THE WORLD did you even get a negative number???

Pitts: ...

Cam: it was about calculating the length of a ribbon?? how could a ribbon be minus meters long?

Pitts: IDFK

Todd: i didn't even answer number 32, i just left it blank

Charlie: there was a 32 question?!

Cam: yes, in the back

Charlie: THERE WAS A BACK?

Knox: wait we had class today??

Neil:

The end *excessive applause*

[aliennarty]

My traditional/academic-arts-trained ass is FINALLY trying to learn how to properly do digital art even though I have owned a drawing tablet for literal years now

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO after hours of deliberation and being too afraid to actually show this to anyone, fuck it Here's a smug ass Shepard trying to keep serious face after hearing that reach and flexibility line from Garrus HERE YOU GO THANKURWELCOME IGOHIDEINMYHOLENOW

[tebaragi]

P1Harmony — '때깔 (Killin' It)' Concept Photos

[nikkodikko]

[Image ID: a The Magnus Archives comic in scales of greens, illustrating a moment from episode 129

The first three panels are close-ups of Jon.

Panel 1. Jon has a hand behind his head and is looking up, he has an expression of annoyance and embarassment on his face. He says "God knows what. and i can't talk to Melanie.

I suppose" and stops talking abruptly.

Panel 2. Jon lets his hand fall down his neck and looks to the side in embarassement, he makes an unintelligible sound.

Panel 3. Jon lets his arm fall down and looks Martin in the eyes, he has a sad and earnest look on his face. he says "I miss you"

The central panel is a medium shot of Martin and Jon.

Panel 4. Martin and Jon are facing each other, Martin is holding some files and has a look of disbelief on his face. he lets out a small laugh and says "Really?" Jon looks up at him with a sad expression and blushed cheeks.

The next two panels, in the corners of the page, are close-ups of Jon on the right and Martin on the left.

Panel 5. Jon looks up at martin with a look of surrender and yearning and a deeper blush. He says "yeah"

Panel 6. Martin looks down at Jon with a surprised face. realising he was actually being honest. He thinks "oh." /.End]

still trying to figure out my designs for these two but after listening to MAG 129 the worms in my brain took over

i'm vv new to tma but i sense an hyperfixation coming

[lynayru]

Process vid of this piece.

BG music is:

Music track: Tension Rising by Aylex

Source: https://freetouse.com/music

Royalty Free Music for Video (Safe)

[thewriterwithsnakes]

could you write something for Ekko, literally anything except angst pls

The Ekko of A Violin

I'd love to! This is actually a mix of two asks for Ekko and I got a little carried away, enjoy!

@wallmayo asked for An ekko x female violinist reader who joins the firelights and they fall in love 🙏

I also kinda want to write more parts to this because it isn't super romantic yet, let me know if anyone wants more parts!

Summary: An undercity violinist hears about the firelights and wants to help, how will it pan out once she becomes acquainted with their devastatingly handsome leader?

Warnings: None really

The undercity was your home, no matter how rough it was. You grew up on the streets where people got robbed and maimed daily, it was a wonder you had survived it all.

But, there was one safe haven for you, an attic. When you were younger you discovered it, abandoned for the most part. The druggies downstairs were usually out or too high to even notice your presence so you found yourself coming back to the dusty room many nights, entertaining yourself with the things you discovered inside, forgotten like the room itself. One night you stumbled upon a smooth black case covered in a layer of dust. At first you thought it could be a weapon and you stayed weary of it. But over the next few days your curiosity got the better of you, and you opened it, brushing away the cobwebs and forgotten dreams.

Inside there had been an instrument, the case had kept it preserved and it also contained rosin and a bow. After that all your curious exploration of that attic fell away, outshined by your fascination with the challenge of figuring out this violin. It took you weeks up in that attic to not make your own ears bleed, but eventually, you started to get the hang of it. And once you got going, you couldn't stop. You played any music you could remember hearing, and when you didn't want to play that, you made it up as you went. Most of your teenage years were spent in a similar fashion, slinking through the streets and rooftops of the undercity to get to your refuge. When you played, the undercity melted away as you focused on each note, on the pitches and your techniques.

You figured that was how you survived the undercity without totally losing it like most people did. So when you found out about the firelights, the people who did their best to give a safe haven to people, you had to join. You wanted to help your home and it's people, and this was the perfect opportunity.

Growing up in the undercity made everyone rough around the edges and you were no exception. You'd had your share of struggle and you knew what to expect as a firelight in general. You met up with a firelight who would bring you to their mini oasis in this desert of depravation that Silco created, a desert he branded Zaun.

Upon arrival you saw quite a few people dressed quite similarly in what you presumed to be their armor. You bit your lip in nerves until your eyes laid upon the majestic tree infront of you. Sucking in a breath, you gazed in amazement at the wonderful world they created. It seemed like a whole different universe, so detached and different from the rest of the undercity. The only detail that wasn't was the mural that sprawled put across the base of the tree. It had some familiar and unfamiliar faces on it though you knew none personally. Your heart jumped at the idea of being able to live in a slice of this paradise, you weren't sure it could get any better and you couldn't wait to help.

You met Ekko your first day their, though you didn't know that. You didn't even know his name, which was purposeful on Ekkos part. You knew that name belonged to the firelights leader and he wanted to see how you acted when you didn't know. You had your violin case clutched tightly in your hand along with a small bag you packed, this would be your new home. As you bit your lip and tried suppressing a hopeful smile, a man approached you and your guide. He simply smiled and nodded at the firelight next to you who seemed to get some sort of message and left.

"Are all firelights telekinetic or is that just you?" You shot the man a joking smile in hopes that this environment would be kinder than the undercity. He let out a laugh that took your breath away.

"Not telekinesis, sugar, just mutual understanding" He shook his head in playful disappointment before turning and motioning for you to follow. "Come on, I'll show you to where you will stay,"

"Thanks, this place is certainly going to take some getting used to," You commented as you looked around, still a little starstruck at all of it. He led you to a small room with a simple bed and small dresser in it.

"Here is your luxury bedroom madam" He gave you a playful bow as he spoke in an attempted piltover accent. "Oh here m'lady let me handle your extensive luggage" He grabbed your bag and you couldn't help but snort.

"God that accent is terrible" You laughed and set your violin case down.

"Really?" He asked sarcastically. "I thought it was simply marvelous," The matter of fact attitude combined with the horrendous accent nearly had you doubling over laughing. He caught sight of your violin case and asked if you played. After a short quip back from you about how you just liked to stare at it combined with an eyeroll, you laughed and and said yes. He asked if you would like to play for the firelights occasionally, to help boost moral. You deliberated for a moment, you hadn't really played for other people before, but you had come here to help, right?

"Sure, why not?" You smiled and he was clearly happy to get that answer.

"Alright well I'll see you around," He stepped back and swung your door open to step backwards out onto the balcony that led to the stairs.

"Wait, I didnt catch your name!" You took a quick step towards him.

"I didnt get yours either, sugar," He winked and stepped back off the balcony and you let out a short scream. He appeared in the air on a hoverboard-like contraption with a smug smirk on his handsome face before he sped off into the night. You were left standing on your balcony, speechless, and for the first time in a long time, looking forward instead of backward.