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oo-hazel-oo · 11 months ago

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hey everyone, i’m back… sort of.

i know i disappeared off the face of the planet for a while and i’ve been absolutely awful at keeping in touch with so many of you, which i am so, so sorry for. i’ve been dealing with some health stuff that prompted me to take a social media break, but it was one of my new year’s resolutions to reconnect with you all. i’ve missed everyone so much. so to start 2024 off on the right foot, i thought i’d give you all a recap of the past six months! i also thought i owed y’all an explanation for why i disappeared for so long, so i included that below the cut (tw: health stuff - if you have health anxiety, don’t read - or if you’re just wanting some happy news, feel free to read the fun update instead!)

fun update

some amazing things have happened this year!

♥️ i graduated university with first-class-honors!

♥️ i got to meet some of my amazing internet friends in-person (shout out to @just-another-dreamerr <3)

♥️ i finally got my u.k. citizenship and decided to move to scotland on a more permanent basis (will be starting grad school in sept. 2024)

♥️ got to spend some quality time with my best friend before she moved across the country

♥️ rediscovered the joy of live music

♥️ received amazing recommendations from my professors for my grad school applications, which really helped validate my writing and made me smile for a week straight

♥️ i got to travel across europe with friends and family - saw some beautiful places, ate incredible food, and met some of the kindest, most generous people

♥️ got to witness my favorite football (soccer) team make it to playoffs

♥️ improved my crocheting so i now i get to make lots of little gifts for friends and family

♥️ finally found a curly hair routine i love!

not-so-fun update

(again, tw: health stuff)

so over the past year i’ve been dealing with health issues, both physical and mental, and i finally went to my GP to address them last january. they essentially told me that everything could be attributed to anxiety and low iron levels; i accepted this at first, but when symptoms persisted over spring/summer, i became a bit frustrated - i felt like once anxiety was added to my record, it was all the doctors would acknowledge. anyways, flash forward to a month ago when i finally found a symptom that was a bit more difficult to just brush off as anxiety - a painless, hard lump at the base of my neck.

as soon as i found it, i booked an appointment with my family’s doctor, as i have family history of cancer (including my mom and grandma), and have since become wary of any unusual lumps and bumps. but to be honest with you, i wasn’t that worried - i was assuming it was just a swollen lymph node. this new doctor was more thorough than any doctor i had seen in the past. she ran a bunch of tests and discovered that my WBC count was low. my iron levels were actually great, which surprised me because i had attributed lots of my previous symptoms to iron deficiency. she took a look at my neck and immediately was concerned by the size, texture, and location of the lump and referred me for an urgent ultrasound, which i have on the 8th, to (hopefully) rule out the possibility of lymphoma.

needless to say, i’m panicking a bit. on the one hand, i’m glad i’m finally being taken seriously by a doctor. on the other hand, i’m supposed to move to the u.k. on the 19th and no longer know if that will be happening. the not-knowing and waiting around is really, really hard.

so it’s been a difficult start of the year for me and i feel a bit burnt out by everything. but i’m trying to keep myself busy with the things i love and hope that this will at the very least give me some much-needed answers.

anyways, i love you all so much and hope the new year is treating you well. and if it’s not, know that you definitely are not alone. please shoot me a message, even if we’ve never really talked, i really want to catch up and hear about all the amazing things y’all have been up to! ♥️

#i’m alive!!!#hazel rambles

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harmonyhealinghub · 4 months ago

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Second Chance Shaina Tranquilino August 4, 2024

Lena had always been an artist at heart, though the world had dulled her once-bright spark. After years of struggling in the bustling city, she decided to retreat to her grandmother's old house in the countryside. The house, now hers after her grandmother’s passing, was a creaky, nostalgic haven filled with memories of childhood summers and the warm scent of baking bread. One rainy afternoon, in a quest for something to occupy her restless mind, Lena ventured into the attic. The wooden stairs groaned under her weight, and the musty air clung to her as she entered the dimly lit space. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light that pierced through the small, grimy window. She had come here before, but this time felt different—this time, she was searching for something she couldn’t quite name.

Rummaging through boxes of old clothes and forgotten knick-knacks, Lena’s hand brushed against something smooth and solid. Pulling it out, she uncovered a large canvas, covered in a protective cloth. Her heart quickened as she unveiled it.

The painting was half-finished, its vibrant strokes frozen in time. It depicted a serene, sunlit forest, but one side was incomplete, the colours fading into blankness. She immediately recognized her grandmother’s style—bold, expressive, and full of life. Her grandmother, also an artist, had been Lena’s greatest inspiration, always encouraging her to find beauty in the world.

A note was tucked into the corner of the frame, yellowed with age. Lena unfolded it carefully and read the elegant, familiar script:

"My dearest Lena,

I started this painting long ago, but never found the right way to finish it. Perhaps it is meant for you. Trust your heart and let your creativity flow.

With all my love, Grandma"

Tears welled in Lena’s eyes as she held the note close. Her grandmother had always believed in her, even when Lena had lost faith in herself. The unfinished painting felt like a bridge between the past and her uncertain future, a second chance to reconnect with her passion.

Determined, Lena set up her easel and gathered her paints. The next few days were a blur of colour and emotion. As she worked, memories of her grandmother filled her mind—her gentle guidance, her laughter, and the way her eyes sparkled with joy when she created something beautiful. Lena let these memories guide her brush, blending her own style with the remnants of her grandmother’s.

Each stroke of the brush was a revelation, not just of the painting, but of herself. She poured her soul into the canvas, finding new inspiration in the process. The forest scene came alive under her hand, the once-blank side blossoming into a riot of colours and textures. She added elements from her own life—a distant mountain, a winding path, a vibrant sunset—merging her journey with her grandmother’s vision.

When she finally stepped back, Lena was breathless. The painting was complete, a harmonious blend of past and present. It was a testament to her grandmother’s legacy and her own rediscovered passion. In finishing the painting, Lena had found her way back to the joy of creation, and in doing so, had grown in ways she hadn’t thought possible.

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chronurgy · 1 year ago

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Texture hair and favourite for Vesper please! So interesting!

Ooooo let's see, a lot of these have dual answers, one for before and one for after they lose their memories so I'll include both

Texture: Does your OC favor any specific kinds of cloth or textures? Is there anything they can't wear or don't like? What sort of fabrics do they prefer?

So pre-amnesia I think there's a big strain of "my body is the tool by which I slaughter, not something to be decorated and enjoyed" in their thinking and they're willing to wear more or less anything. They generally dress neatly in public because it attracts less attention and will put on whatever they need to get into places without notice, but they don't really tend to think of clothing and fabrics in terms of like and dislike. I think the one thing they do insist on even then is no long sleeves, because before we had synthetic stretchy fabrics sleeves often didn't have a lot of give and could restrict arm movements and as a wizard hand and arm movements are essential to them. I think once Gortash tried to get them into some fancy outfit with tight sleeves and Vesper just took a knife and cut them off above the elbow while looking him dead in the eye. They may have also implied he was trying to fuck with their casting on purpose for his amusement. After that display he made sure everything he gave them had loose sleeves.

I also think it's through Vesper's acquaintance with Gortash that they slowly start to have opinions about fabrics beyond just the practical. He's always asking them questions about what they like and are they enjoying this and putting them in fancy fabrics and that does cause them to slowly (very slowly) start to form opinions of their own. They like the cool softness of silk and don't like velvet (they hate the feeling of dried blood crusted onto velvet). They prefer looser clothes for ease of movement and don't like stiff fabrics. I think there's a lot of internal conflict for them when Gortash learns their preferences and gifts them clothes (both for parties and more everyday wear) that are exactly what they want. And then wearing whatever they would wear in the temple which they didn't notice before but now know isn't properly tailored for them and isn't made of the fabrics they like best and think longingly of the clothes Gortash had made for them and how much better they feel and how much nicer they look and are shaken by it, because this wasn't really something they thought about before, or if it was it was something they could easily dismiss. But now they're out there thinking about clothes and their body not just as necessary tools but as sites of beauty and pleasure and it isn't something they can repress anymore like they could before. They can't even escape it by studying magic (which has always been their great love and great escape) because now they notice that the clothes they're wearing aren't cut properly for their shoulders and they can feel it when they practice somatics!

Once they lose their memories, their preferences remain the same though it takes them some time to rediscover them. They're also significantly less ashamed of them because, well, they don't know that they should be.

Hair: How does your OC wear their hair? Does it have some kind of meaning?

(I have pics of their styles in their tag, if you want a visual) They've always worn their hair short, partially as a consesion to the practicality of keeping their hair out of the way, partially because they just prefer it that way. Pre-amnesia, their hair was sort of their one little vanity. They could have cut it shorter but didn't because they liked the way it looked. It did tend to slip out of its hold as the day went on and fall into their eyes just a bit so they'd often impatiently brush it back into place, often with bloody hands that would result in red-brown streaks that stood out very obviously against their white hair. They usually had to wash their hair again before going out in public because of it.

In game, their hair is a little shorter and not quite as nice looking because Kressa hacked it off to make it easier to manage while experimenting on them in the mindflayer colony. They did feel a sense of loss when they first saw their hair after escaping the nautiloid but couldn't have explained why. It's growing back out and they'll likely go back to a similar style to what they had before.

Favorite: Does your OC have a favorite article of clothing or accessory? What is it? What's the meaning behind it? Do they wear it all the time or do they wear it sparingly to keep it safe?

Pre-amnesia, it's a pair of boots that Gortash had made for them very soon after they start working together (and the first gift he gave them). I think he saw the shitty, ill-fitting shoes they wore and maybe even saw them trip during a fight due to them being too big and getting stuck in some gap in the cobblestones and was like. No. Absolutely not. Not in my house. And had a nice, well fitting, properly cushioned pair of leather boots made for them. It's a gift that's so eminently practical that Vesper was actually able to accept them without being too weird about it. The second gift they receive from him (and another piece of clothing they treasure) is a pair of the thinnest silk gloves enchanted to retain heat. This is an extravagant gift and Vesper feels that they should refuse because one practical and not massively expensive gift is one thing but this is a completely different thing and establishes a pattern, but he offers them the gloves in the middle of winter and they want them so badly because they can't wear normal gloves and cast so their hands are always freezing. So they do take them, even though they kinda feel like they shouldn't, and I do think it's this moment that both opens the floodgates for Gortash to keep giving them gifts and marks a point where their relationship really starts to intensify. Both of those gifts hold a lot of meaning for them and they wear the boots basically all the time (and the gloves all the time in the colder months).

Post-amnesia, I think it's their collection of earrings that they come off the nautiloid still wearing. They're the only things they have from their previous life so they cling to them because they have nothing else. Most of them are from Gortash, but a couple of them come from previous victims that they respected in some way (someone who fought well, someone who threw himself at them and managed to distract them long enough for his lover to escape, someone who was kind to them). They know none of this, just that they feel very protective over them for reasons they don't quite understand.

#Thanks for the questions that was a lot of fun!!#vesper #dark urge #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

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ormir · 3 months ago

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Freydis’ muscle suddenly went to butter, and she turned supple in his arms. Shock pulsed in response, as Ormir’s brain panicked, as though the figment of her had begun melting through his fingers. Instead, the very real weight of her merely sagged into him, complete and content in her trust. A sickening sense of deja-vu spread. He’d only tasted surrender so pure once before, with Orhan, and Ormir had repaid the kindness by all but picking his teeth with his bones. The phantom twitch of destruction stiffened his hands, but he pushed the frightened urge away.

Ormir cradled the weight of her skull like porcelain, as if the warrior who’d clipped the heads from the midlands’ most formidable men might slip and shatter if his grip faltered by a finger. The Hand’s thumb had squashed rumors, rebellions and decades worth of the King’s softhearted whims. Caressing the textured surface of Freydis’ cheek, the soft pad now erased the trails marked by her tears, and smoothed the wet tangle of hair from her face. The softness of youth was gone from it, but the rings of redness in her eyes made the emerald gleam all the brighter, almost gemlike. He’d seen a similar quality before in his own, how the calm storm-gray would shift to the hues of a bright, roiling sea in the heat of his passions. Familiarity snagged, just as a patch of roughness caught on his palm along the curve of her cheekbone. He tilted her head, finding the ribbon of scar tissue that arched from Freydis’ temple to her jaw, refuting her claim. The flesh was sealed, but still pink around the edges. Just healed. Anger flourished anew in him. The flare of his nostrils betrayed the stoicism he tried to keep.

“What of the Princess?” The Hand asked, reading the flash of fear she’d tried to suppress, but not knowing its origin.

Warmth settled over Ormir’s hands, a calloused thumb brushing his knuckles. She seeks to comfort, even now. Fighting the instinct to draw away, he tipped his head into the embrace, relieved that the jarl had rediscovered her bones, and had graciously removed the temptation to rend the vulnerability she’d offered. Ormir was reminded of the girl she’d been, the addled mind who’d rushed to take his hands in the castle keep, forswearing courtly manners in favor of him. She loved fiercely, and trust this deep was invaluable. Ormir couldn’t help but be fond of her, deeply so. For the two of them to survive each other, he’d have to continue to hold her at arm’s length, however painful that may be.

“And I am eager to hear all of it,” The Hand assured, itching to escape the intensity of the moment, to foster some comfortable distance. The scent of spice danced on his palette, made more potent by the chilled air. Suspicion was quick to overtake worry, molding it into something more familiar, less intimate. His hands fell to her shoulders. “But first you must see to your own needs. Eat, speak with our healer, and I confer with the other survivors while you do.” Months had passed with her assumedly kept in the hold of the darkspawn. Contact with the blight would have been inevitable. If it was the scent of death she’d wished to hide beneath the assault of spices, their witch would soon oust it. “Then I can promise you my complete attention.” Ormir’s smile flickered, attempting to convey some security, even as his hands withdrew completely.

Were that blade in Ormir’s side true and in the room, Freydis would have sooner used it to blind herself than look at the truth of it. That had always been her way. As it were, she accepted his words at their value–how could he possibly not have thought of her each day when he crossed her mind in every waking hour? And even if he did not, Freydis would not begrudge him for how navigated his grief. “Etienne told me you came for us,” she whispered, a few more tears easily slipping down the wet planes of her cheeks. But her eyes displayed much more than the emotive tears. Behind them was her blind faith in the man and her incalculable gratitude that he would put himself in such peril. Her chin quivered again and, as if it was he who had traversed hell and back to meet at this very moment, she barely managed, “Thank the gods you made it back safely.”

A moment later, something was wrong. She saw something register within her and he hesitated. Freydis knew how his mind worked, quick as it was sharp, and she knew she had returned with so much yet to lose. Fear registered in her features–could she have not been given just one evening with him before he discovered her? Was he to be ripped from her again just as soon as she had battled her way back to him? What she had done to survive would be unconscionable under the social contract of the old ways, but under what ways did they exist now? Had she cut off her nose just to spite her face? Had she ruined herself entirely in his eyes? To die broken and alone devoid of hope felt like a mercy compared to the idea of Ormir’s rejection. She could not bear to be cast away from him. Not like this. Not after everything she had endured.

Freydis’ mouth went dry and her hands went numb as Ormir withdrew from her and lifted his hands from his side. But she was shocked to find nothing on the receiving end of the man aside from comfort. The tension left her body and her shoulders slumped slightly, the figurative weight of a world she never meant to tread eased to something that felt manageable in his grasp if only for a moment. She was like a doll in his hands, allowing him to turn and tilt her face however he may like and observe her to his satisfaction. What was he searching for? She wanted to assure him he wouldn’t find anything there but her.

Her own hands lifted and settled on the back of his hands as he appraised her, much smaller than his own. One of her thumbs, calloused and cold, tread back and forth across the surface of his hand in a comforting arc. She may have been forced to survive, but she knew pieces of both of them had broken in the meantime, that they were both fragile. “No,” she assured him in a soft, low tone. “No, I’m not hurt.” Her hands floated to his face after a moment and she beckoned him to stoop slightly to press her forehead against his, something of a warrior’s embrace but which shared a deeper kinship yet. She pressed her forehead against his more firmly for a second, as if the show of gentle force would solidify the fact that she was there and her hold on life was secure.

A moment later she released him, her green eyes searching his face for a moment. She would commit him to memory–the lines of his face etched in wisdom, the exact fall of his slight curls, the precise hue of his eyes, the cant of his brows, and the shape of his lips. She would need these things seared in her memory, she feared, in the likely event his keen eye noticed she had returned more than she once was or if she said too much. She needed to remember him exactly so that when he did find her out, he was more than just a name in the recesses of her memory so that she might visit him there from time to time as she expected this cruel world with its impossible circumstances and indifferent gods to take him from her before either of their time.

“I have so much to tell you.”

#(c. // freydis.)#(l. // hrimthurs wastelands. )#srry had to cut a bit or this would never get posted alghasdlgk

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losingmymindtonight · 5 years ago

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been on a for-your-own-good imposed exile from my phone & social media since Friday, so what’s a gal gonna do except eat pizza, reread The Inheritance Cycle, and finish old fic drafts?

I humbly present: Peter can’t sleep, but Tony’s a father now, and he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve.

Peter was okay.

He was. That wasn’t even him being self-sacrificing (like May thought) or deferring some kind of PTSD (like Tony thought) or anything. Most of the time, he was totally, completely, undeniably okay.

As a general rule, he just didn’t think about Thanos. He was too busy for that, with planning for his school’s Europe trip and patrolling and learning how to be a big brother to Morgan and resettling a whole apartment with May and rediscovering the absolute thrill of being alive along with the other fifty percent.

He had a good life, and considering everything that had happened, he was so, so lucky.

So, Peter was okay. Despite what Tony and May seemed to think.

He only ever had problems when the sun fell.

Vigilante by day, anxious wreck by night, he thought, more than a little bitter.

There was a bone-aching frustration that came with insomnia. He couldn’t sleep, but he was tired. God, he was so, so tired. His eyelids creaked, his face was tight and worn. Every inch of him was screaming for rest.

And yet, well, here he was: awake, staring at the ceiling, mind swirling down the inescapable drain of death throes and battle heat and the memory of his DNA vibrating apart.

He clenched his fists, then slowly pried them apart. His wrists hurt, yet his webshooters were comfortingly cool on his bare skin.

“Mister Parker,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. suddenly said, and Peter still jumped despite the fact her volume had been lowered and pitched into her softer night mode. “I apologize for the intrusion, but per my protocols, I am to alert Boss if you or Morgan are awake for longer than thirty minutes from the hours of 11:00 pm to 6:00 am. I thought it was only fair to warn you that he is en route to your bedroom and you should be prepared for his arrival.”

There was a time when an alert like that would’ve filled him with annoyance. A time when he would’ve met Tony at the door with a sharp reminder of, I’m almost an adult, I can take care of myself, on his tongue. Now, though, he just felt a dull splash of surprise.

“Mister Stark has rules for if I’m awake?” He asked the ceiling, blinking slowly at the smooth molding. It was different than the popcorn texture in his apartment. Probably easier to deal with when it came to painting.

As if on cue, his door swung open. A soft, yellowish bar of light flashed over his sheets and then collapsed in on itself with a distant click. Huh. So Tony thought that this needed to be a private conversation.

“It’s called the Cradle Protocol,” Tony offered, and despite the fact that Peter hadn’t actually looked in his direction yet, he could hear the man’s smile in the warmth of the words, like curling into a fireside on a winter’s day. “You know, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh? Thought you spent most of your life wondering about pretty much everything.” His bedframe creaked as Tony settled down near his hip, and suddenly Peter didn’t have much of a choice but to stare up at the man, taking in the burn scars on his face and the gray in his hair and the quiet love in his eyes. “That’s what kids are best at.”

“I’m not really a kid anymore,” he whispered, but not a single inch of the words felt defiant. God, he wanted to be a kid again. He looked back on the moments he’d spent racing to adulthood and wanted to cry. Wanted desperately to hit rewind on all of it.

“All of us are kids, in the end,” Tony said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “And you’ll be my kid forever. Sorry. No exchanges or returns on that policy. It is how it is.”

Tony’s thumb brushed soothingly over his cheek as he spoke, and the contact was rough and calloused and so intensely familiar that Peter let his eyes squeeze shut against it, swallowing hard.

“I don’t want to exchange it,” he whispered, and somehow he felt a little ashamed to admit it. Like he was rearing up against the order of things. Or, like he was admitting the truth in a space where untruths were expected.

There was a pause. Peter blinked his eyes open again, and saw that Tony’s gaze had drifted away from him. He was looking up at the headboard, soft curves of sadness mellowing his face.

Finally, he breathed, eyes tracing their way back to Peter’s own, gentle yet intense.

“Why aren’t you asleep, Peter?”

It was a redundant thing to ask, and both of them knew it. There wasn’t a person in the world who couldn’t guess the why of that question. There were probably a million different people all around the world staring up at a million different ceilings, all cold-eyed and shivering because of the same goddamn reason.

“I don’t know,” he lied.

Was it still lying if everyone knew that what you were going to say was a lie before it even left your mouth?

Tony just nodded, like those three words had told him everything that he’d needed to know. For all Peter could figure, maybe they had.

“Alright.” Tony patted his thigh through the blankets, then stood. “C’mon. Get up.”

It probably said a lot about him, or maybe more about his relationship with Tony, that he was already climbing out of bed even as he muttered a halfhearted, “where’re we going?”

“On a mission,” Tony said, gently tugging one of Peter’s oldest and softest hoodies out of his closet and pushing it against his chest. “Put this on.”

He did as he was told, tottering lazily into the hallway, too exhausted to do anything but follow.

“What’s the mission?”

Tony glanced back just long enough for Peter to see the corner of his mouth quirk up. “I need to put my baby to sleep.”

If he hadn’t been so goddamn tired, he would’ve picked up on the wryness in Tony’s voice. As it was, he blinked hard, brain whirring against the fogginess.

“‘S Morgan awake?”

The question startled a bark of laughter out of Tony. “God, Pete. I can’t believe you’re even managing to walk in a straight line right now.”

They were at the front door, now, and Tony snatched the car keys off of their hook in the entryway and ushered him into the cool night air. Cricket chirps swelled all around them. Peter let his eyes drift shut at the sound, then smiled when he felt Tony snag the edge of his sleeve, gently guiding him over the gravel.

“Ought to get this paved, huh?” Tony muttered, almost to himself, but Peter let the words fall over him anyway. “Would make life a hell of a lot easier when we got those summer monsoons. Plus, less of a tripping hazards for the kiddos, especially when they’re half asleep.”

“‘M awake,” he protested.

“I know,” Tony said, almost under his breath. “I’m working on it.”

Peter heard a beep as one of the cars unlocked, and he forced his eyes back open. They were standing in front of Tony and Pepper’s minivan, something which Peter still couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Tony Stark owned a minivan. Sure, it was a nice minivan, with leather seats and F.R.I.D.A.Y. installed and parking sensors, but it was still a minivan.

“C’mon,” Tony muttered, using the hand that wasn’t braced against Peter’s back to pull open the passenger’s side door. “Slide in.”

He let Tony manhandle him into the seat, even though he could’ve easily done it on his own. The exhaustion had stripped his stubbornness away. The only thing left was a yearning urge to be protected, cradled, loved.

It was good, he supposed, that those three roles seemed to be Tony’s favorites to fulfill.

Tony got into the driver’s seat, then double-checked Peter’s seatbelt twice before starting the car. He cracked the back windows, and the cricket chirps and nature swell mixed hypnotically with the buzz and hum of the engine. Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, turning his face in Tony’s direction when he felt the man’s eyes on him.

“You’re supposed to be looking where you’re drivin’,” he murmured, knowing that his smile was all drowsy and lopsided. He could feel them moving, though, so he wasn’t wrong.

“Nobody’s out this late.”

“Still need to stay on the road.”

“Oh, hush. I’ll take no driving smack from the child with a learner’s permit.”

He yawned. “Passed the test.”

“You sure did,” Tony murmured, pride warming the words. “I’ve got that picture that May took after hanging in my office.”

“I know.” A shard of longing pierced his chest. “Felt normal that day. Jus’ for a bit.”

He opened his eyes just in time to see guilt cascade over Tony’s face. Whoops. He really hasn’t meant to make his mentor sad. He was just loopy from all the sleepless nights, wading through the detachment weighing in his head. It was hard to stay conscious and keep his filter all at once.

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” Tony said, hands gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles flashed white under the occasional streetlamp. “I wish I could take it all away.”

Peter just blinked. God, he was tired. His brain ached with it.

“You can’t.”

And Tony couldn’t. Peter knew that. Iron Man could do a lot of things, even survive the constriction of space, but he couldn’t void memories. Nobody could.

“No,” Tony admitted, and even through the fuzziness in his head, Peter found the wherewithal to be surprised, “but I can be here.”

Peter let his eyes drift shut again. Somehow, that was all the fixing that he needed Tony to do. I can be here.

That was it, wasn’t it? It was why the memories of Thanos rung so clear at night and pitched silent during the day. Because Peter hadn’t really been afraid of dying during the battles. He’d been terrified, horrified, by the thought of being left alone.

And at night, in his bedroom, walls and doors and locks between Tony or May or anybody else who would stave off the quiet, that fear was so much easier to taste.

He was so, so afraid that at the end of it all, he’d been irreversibly alone.

“Can you talk to me?” He whispered.

He just wanted words. Something substantive in the nothingness of night. And Tony was only ever speechless when there was something to be afraid of.

He’d... He’d been silent when Peter had died. Had been silent after he’d done the Snap, too. The look on the man’s face, the lack of speech in the haze, had rung in Peter’s nightmares ever since.

He could hear the roughness in Tony’s voice when he responded, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about his silence on Titan, too. If he even remembered the stillness from the Compound’s dust.

“Of course, buddy.”

And he did. He talked about Rhodey and college and the first time he met Happy. Peter found himself drifting in and out as he rambled, although he never seemed to fully wrap his hand around true sleep. He’d nearly get there, Tony’s words fading into something he couldn’t quite comprehend, and then he’d recognize the shift and jolt himself out of it.

Somehow, it was even more frustrating than what he’d been doing before. At least then, he’d known he wasn’t going to get any sleep. Here, it kept dangling in front of him. And to make it worse, every aborted attempt at sleep felt like a failure. Like he’d screwed it all up, despite all the effort Tony was putting into helping him.

“Sorry,” Peter suddenly muttered, blinking away his most recent near-rest. Tony fell silent. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Shh, Pete,” Tony soothed, right hand abandoning the steering wheel and settling on his arm. “It’s not your fault. We’ll get there.”

“‘M trying.”

“I know you are. You’re doing great.”

For a breath, Tony just rubbed Peter’s arm, breath and nature filling the car.

“I used to do this for Morgan, you know,” he finally said, voice low. “Learned it within the first month. Think I must’ve put a thousand miles on the car, driving around just for some precious minutes of peace.”

“Ben used to drive me around when I was little,” Peter mumbled, twisting until he found a comfortable position: draped over the center console, head just inches away from Tony’s elbow. The console was leather and padded, which made it a surprisingly good pillow. Plus, he was close enough to pick up the steady thrumming of Tony’s heartbeat. “I didn’t like sleeping after my parents died. Car always worked, though. Dunno why.”

Tony’s hand settled on the top of his head, and a swoosh of comfort whisked from that one point all the way down to his toes. “It’s the vibrations from the engine. Low frequencies make us tired. It mimics the sensation of being rocked to sleep.”

He smiled. Trust Mister Stark to turn anything into a physics lesson. “‘S science,” he muttered.

Tony’s thumb swiped over his temple. “It’s science,” he repeated. “Do you want another story?”

Hmm. Yes. And he wanted Tony’s hand to stay right there, too. The tips of his fingers kept brushing over the nape of his neck, and the pattern was nice. Slow. The kind of monotony that was so easy to get lost in.

“Mm.”

“How about a special one?”

“Mm.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Tony said, laughter in the words. He sounded pleased, though. Peter was too busy falling asleep to figure out why. “Y’know, I never went to Queens much when I was a kid. Howard wasn’t a big fan. And then I didn’t have much of a reason to go once I was an adult. Everything I needed was in Manhattan or Malibu. Point is: imagine how surprised I was when a web-slinging vigilante actually forced me out there…”

Peter drifted off long before he could recognize that the story was about him.

Peter half-surfaced to the quiet thud of a car door opening, and the crunch of shoes on gravel.

It wasn’t the usual way he woke up. He’d gotten used to jolting into consciousness, sweat slicking his trembling limbs and damp sheets snarling all around him. It was a violent thing, full of heartbeat and rib-ache.

But this was soft. Warm. Safe hands slid under the back of his neck, his seat tilting back until he was lying almost completely flat. On instinct, his eyes flickered open, and he grinned sleepily at Tony, who shushed him in a barely-there murmur.

“Nice and easy, Pete,” Tony said, voice warm and safe and already blurring. “Now be a good boy and go back to sleep.”

And for once in Peter’s life, it was as simple as that.

#i guess being on tumblr technically infringes on my No Social Media thing #but #a gal only hopped on to post this so #it was for humanitarian reasons #anyway i hope u enjoy my garbage #sleepy peter is all that matters #feel quite proud of how i delivered on that here #tony & peter #tony stark #peter parker #irondad #losingmymindtonight writes #tw: insomnia #tw: PTSD #tw: nightmares

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jimlingss · 5 years ago

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Sugar and Coffee [8]

Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9

➜ Words: 3.3k

➜ Genres: 99.5% Fluff, 0.5% Angst, Pâtisserie school!AU

➜ Summary: It isn't hard to be a pâtisserie chef, but it's not a piece of cake either. It seems like for you in particular, life keeps throwing in one wrench after another. It always finds ways to make your sweets bitter. The cherry on top is Jeon Jungkook — a rival with a sensitive sweet tooth who always finds ways to complain about you.

cr.

You always thought you would be happy to see him again. To come face to face with the man who you miss the most — who you’ve yearned to see so much. Like reuniting with a close friend who you’ve lost contact with. Like rediscovering a piece of yourself that you had lost. But you didn’t know it would be so painful. That your heart would be so heavy. “H-hey.” “Hey.” Seokjin smiles and your heart stutters but then constricts. It’s hard to breathe. “Are you on your way to class?” You hold your books closer to your chest as if they could do anything to protect you. Your eyes sweeping over his features, trying to freshen your memories of him. You can’t recall the last time you heard the sound of his voice. “Y-Yeah. Are you?” “I’m on my way to the library to meet up with some people for a group project,” he says casually with a good-natured smile. “Oh. A group project already?” “Yeah, I know right.” Jin sighs lightly, lips falling into a slight pout. “Well it’s my last ever semester, so it’s the last push.” “Totally. I...get it.” “I should go now before I’m late. It was nice seeing you, Y/N.” You nod and without waiting a beat, he brushes past you, continuing down the hall. You hate it. The way he looked at you, talked to you so nonchalantly, how he didn’t even blink thrice. Jin was friendly, but you know him — and he treated you the way he treats strangers. There weren't any softened gazes, gentle words. None of his actions had a trace of lingering feelings. His polite smile is the same one that’s reserved for mere acquaintances. Distant. You’re no less than a stranger to him. And as you watch Jin’s backside fading down the corridor, you quickly wipe away the tears that shed down your cheeks. // “You ran into him?” You nod, toying with the hem of your sweater. “That’s great news,” Jungkook murmurs from the corner of his mouth, preoccupied with choosing a game. “Yeah, I know, right?” You're stiff, but he doesn't pay enough attention to notice. You’re sitting on the floor of Jungkook’s dorm room, knees gathered together as you watch him set up. He’s finally cleaned up after you insulted him that he was a pig living in a pigsty, and he was offended enough to clean up after himself and do his laundry. Jungkook switches on his PS4 and flops down on his small couch with the controller. He glances up at you when there’s ongoing silence and realizes he should say something more. “That means there’s hope, right? If he’s willing to talk to you and all. I know a lot of exes who would run in the other direction.” “Yeah. That’s true, I guess.” Jungkook is optimistic. “If you keep talking to him, who knows, you might get back together before you even realize.” There’s a loud knock on the door, someone’s fist banging on the surface. The boy in his gray sweatpants and black, boxy shirt sighs, gets up and opens the door. The person on the other side glares at him. “Dude, about fucking time. Was standing out there for an eternity.” “Shut up, I literally took ten seconds.” “Yea, but ten seconds we could’ve used playing. Hey, Y/N!” Hoseok grins, plopping down on the couch and stealing Jungkook’s controller. Jimin follows in, greeting you with a smile, and Taehyung and Yoongi are the last with the former harshly nudging the latter forward. “Alright, alright,” Yoongi grunts quietly and then faces you with his hands dug into his hoodie pocket. “Y/N. I wanted to apologize for my behaviour last time.” He looks less sorry and more disgruntled and reluctant, but it’s enough to amuse you. You snort. “It’s no big deal.” “Okay, cool.” Yoongi exhales and sits beside you. Taehyung shakes his head but redirects his attention to Jimin when he steals his favourite controller. “Hey, hey, hey, paws off, bro.” “What?” “That’s mine.” “Who says?” “I wrote my name at the back in pencil. Look. See?” “You wrote on my controller?” Jungkook is outraged, snapping into their argument. In the meanwhile, Yoongi scrolls through his phone and notices you’re blankly staring at Jungkook's old flat screen — the one he stole from his parent’s home months ago and somehow set it up here. “I meant it.” “What?” “I know it looked like Taehyung made me,” Yoongi mumbles, “Which he did. But I meant to apologize anyway. Eventually. I know I’m an ass.” “You’re an honest one,” you admit with a small smile. If there was anyone who was going to be frank and truthful, it would be Yoongi. He won’t sugar coat it, won’t string pretty words together to make you feel better, so that’s why you pick him to inquire, “Can I ask you a question, Yoongi?” “Sure.” “Do you think I’ll ever be able to get back together with Jin?” “No.” His gaze connects with yours. “You won’t. Usually people break up for a reason and that reason always stands.”

Two weeks pass by as you ignore the thoughts lingering in the back of your mind. You overlook it like an assignment on your desk that needs to be done or like that messy drawer you should clean out but keep procrastinating on. And it’s easy to distract yourself when the entire school is stirred. Of course it would be. After all, the most competitive holiday was coming up. “What are you going to make for Valentines?” “Me?” You blink. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it yet….” The atmosphere hyped — even the dining hall is louder, the air buzzing. The holiday simply dedicated to love has long been replaced by alumni years ago and became a competition. After all, this was the place where everyone could make sweets after all. No longer was Valentine chocolates simply melting chocolate from the store and pouring them into molds — every single person here can properly judge the quality, taste, texture, flavour, and the presentation. According to rumours, the tradition started between three people, specifically when a girl told her two potential suitors that she would become the Valentine of whoever baked better. It sounds like some ridiculous Shakespearean tragedy, but as people went head to head to win the affections of their crushes — it essentially evolved into a competition. And at this point, it doesn’t matter who gives it to who. It’s who bakes it better. “I’m still debating if I want to do raspberry possets or raspberry religieuse,” Taehyung hums, chin resting in his propped up hand, and he turns to his side. “Which one do you like, Yoongi?” “Why the fuck do you care what I like?” “Well obviously because I’m going to make it for you,” he giggles. Yoongi glares. “Fuck off.” “Who else am I supposed to give it to? You have no one, I have no one.” “What about Jimin?” you ask, trying to hold back laughter with said brunette. “He has his mom.” “Hey,” Jimin whines, “I have the Valentine’s Day fundraiser at the hospital this year too.” “So you’re not going to make anything for your mom?” he deadpans. “Well, no.” Jimin pouts. “I’m going to make her red velvet cupcakes.” “Don’t make fun of him,” you chide Taehyung and turn to the other. “That’s really cute, Jimin.” Jimin grins, eyes crinkling into half moons. “Don’t worry, Taehyung can say whatever he wants. He’s just jealous my mom’s the best. She raised me all on her own and I wouldn’t be here without her.” “Okay, I’ll admit she’s really nice,” Taehyung has a dreamy expression. “I miss her warm hugs.” “That’s weird,” Jimin deadpans, pleasant smile switching into a face of comical disgust. “Don’t talk about my mom like that, dude.” You laugh and look over at the sleepy man lazily chewing on his mac and cheese. It’s always funny to watch Yoongi eat. He looks physically pained to chew and swallow — you wonder if he would blend all of his food to just drink it if he could. “Are you going to make anything, Yoongi?” “No. Who would I give it to?” He ignores Taehyung when he exclaims ‘me’. You direct your attention to Hoseok and he shrugs. “I might...make lemon and poppy seed cupcakes or strawberry rhubarb shortbread bars.” “For who?” Jungkook asks, brows raised. “Uh, no one.” But it’s obvious that the answer is too suspicious, so he gives in with a sigh. “I owe Y/N’s friend, Aeri, a favour, so I’ll probably make something for her.” “Ooh, I haven’t heard you talk about Y/N’s friend before.” Taehyung leans in closer, eyes glistening. “Shut up,” Hoseok quips. “What about you, Y/N?” “I...haven’t decided if I will or not. Maybe I’ll make something for Jin.” Yoongi’s eyes flicker up, brow cocking, and you stare back at him blankly. Jimin catches the quick exchange and intercepts. “You should tell Jungkook to make you his chocolate-covered strawberry cupcakes.” “Holy fuck, I remember those!” Taehyung slaps the table, startling both you and Jungkook. “Those was so fucking delicious, I thought I was going to cream my pants when I ate them. I can still taste it.” He slurps up the spit that’s accumulated in his mouth. Jungkook’s nose wrinkles. “No. It’s too much work to make that.” Taehyung bats his lashes. “You wouldn’t make it for us?” “That’s an even harder no.” “Psh. Valentine’s Day hater.” “Fuck off. It’s not my fault that the holiday is stupid.” “You just hate it because you’re alone.” You pat your friend on the back. “It’s okay, Jungkook. You’ll find love someday.” “Okay, fuck you too,” he spits without much malice, making Yoongi smirk. “Jungkook just knows his small package can’t satisfy any man or woman.” Yoongi’s insult rouses laughter from everyone and the man being grilled has his brows shot to his hairline. “For your information, I have a substantial size and I’m probably bigger than everyone here. Especially you, Mr. five foot nine.” You blanch. “Gross.” But while Yoongi doesn’t seem injured by the retort, Jimin’s the one who’s sitting straight and he whines, “Why do you have to bring height into this?” They ignore him in favour of Taehyung’s questioning, “Really? Bigger than everyone here?” “Okay fine.” Jungkook points at Taehyung. “Except you.” You look between the pair of them. “Did you guys have a dick measuring contest or what?” “We will not speak of the past,” Jungkook deadpans, making you laugh even more. // You know that you shouldn’t. With what Yoongi’s told you, with what you know yourself, you shouldn’t go out of your way to do something so unnecessary. You shouldn’t put your heart on your sleeve to get hurt again when it’s not going to be worth it. But in your life, there've been a thousand shouldn’ts and you’ve always grasped onto the one should. It never hurts you to try, and that’s how you’ve made it this far. “Hey, Jeon.” You catch up to him. Jungkook’s legs are unbearably longer than yours and when he walks fast it puts you out of breath within seconds. Luckily, he sees you and has the decency to slow down. “What?” “I need your help.” Jungkook’s steps slow even more until he outright stops in the middle of the hallway. He looks so apprehensive, you have an urge to slap that expression off his face. “Hey! It’s not like I’m not going to ask you to kill someone for me!” “Yeah, well, the last time you asked for a favour, we destroyed a kitchen trying to temper chocolate. I’d rather you kill me, thank you very much.” “Pretty please? Promise it’s not bad.” “Ew, ew. Don’t look at me like that and stop pouting, you’re not cute.” You frown at him. “Look it’s not a huge, huge thing, promise.” “What is it?” “Well, you’re Jungkook, World’s Best Chocolatier, right?” You nudge him with your elbow and it only makes him more suspicious with how you’re thickly laying down the praise. “And you know chocolate hates me. I definitely don’t know about it as well as you do either, so I need you to bestow your gifts onto me—” “What is it, lady? Get a move on! I don’t have all day.” “Can you help me make something for Jin?” Jungkook pauses. He stares at you. Maybe his brain finally died — not like there is anything to die considering it’s always been a little on the empty side. But then he finally opens his mouth. “What are you planning?” “Just something simple. Like truffles. What do you think?” Jungkook hesitates, then he looks at you. “Fine.” “Really?” “Yeah, yeah.” He waves his hand away, but you grin at him. “You know you’re my best friend, right, Jungkook?” “Yeah, well, it’s something I never really signed up for,” your best friend mutters and continues walking while telling you that you’ll owe him and that means more notes from multiple lectures. But it’s worth it. On the fourteenth, right on Valentine’s Day, you meet with Jungkook. He audibly sighs when he sees you tie up the back of your apron. “What?” “Nothing. I just can’t believe I’m spending Valentine’s with you.” “I thought you didn’t care about the holiday.” “I don’t. But that still doesn’t mean this isn’t lame. Whatever. The quicker we get this done, the quicker I can leave and avoid all this.” He motions around, but you know what he means. Love is in the air and it’s sickening — couples were holding hands, kissing each other on the tips of their noses, rubbing their cheeks against one another, dialing up the PDA to an uncomfortable amount. But you can’t blame them. You and Seokjin were once like that. “Do you know how to make ganache?” “Do I know how to make ganache,” you mimic him mockingly. “Of course I do! What am I, an idiot?!” “Well, you didn’t know how to temper chocolate so you tell me.” You glare at him. You would mouth off but can’t risk him storming out. The two of you gather the eight ounce semi-sweet chocolate, a half cup of whipping cream, cocoa powder and some vanilla. Jungkook helps you heat the cream to a simmer in a small saucepan, looking over your shoulder at every step along the way. While you’d usually mind the way he’s intruding in your personal bubble, you don’t want to get anything wrong. “Make sure it doesn’t burn.” “It’s not going to burn.” “You said that last time.” You snap. “Keep bringing up last time and this will be the last time you step into the kitchen, Jeon.” A second later, you’re begging Jungkook not to leave. But thankfully, he has enough mercy and lets you off with a warning. The pair of you continue making the ganache, placing the chocolate in a bowl before pouring the cream and adding the vanilla to it. You allow it to stand for a few minutes before stirring it into a smooth, deep mixture. You place the ganache in the fridge for half an hour to chill. In the meanwhile, you clean up the mess and wash whatever dishes you have. Jungkook, on the other hand, shows you Yoongi’s reaction of Taehyung proposing to him with some cupcakes in front of campus in which the former man straight out walks away. Jimin who’s filming is giggling hard enough that the camera is unsteady, but his laughter is infectious and makes the both of you grin. Jungkook says he’s glad he wasn’t there lest Taehyung turned to him and started to declare his fake affections and cause a crowd to gather. Apparently it’s happened before. When the ganache is ready, Jungkook helps you roll it into balls and dust with cocoa powder. You pull out a box you had prepared to place them in, and you could not be prouder when it’s complete. It looks like a product that you could buy in-store. Simple yet elegant. “All done.” “All done,” you repeat after him, viewing your final product. Chocolate doesn’t hate you so much when you’re with Jungkook, you realize. “He’ll love it.” “Yeah….” You can imagine it — calling out Jin’s name. He’d spin around, regard you with his surprise. You’d extend your arms to give him the box. You’d try to show through this small gesture that you still love him, but you wouldn’t speak the words in case the moment would be ruined. But with your courage mustered, you’d tell him that you miss him in your life. That you don’t want to be strangers anymore. Whether that means remaining friends or being lovers again. But you know that it’s just your fantasy. A delusion — your optimistic imagination running wild with the semblances of hope still left within you. A sweet dream you would have in your slumber only to wake up to reality. The grief of your heartbreak morphed into a wishful thinking. The image and scenario you’ve constructed in your mind is simply part of a chapter in your life that would never happen. “He wouldn’t take it,” you whisper. It's a truth that’s hard to face, that you’ve been running from and turning yourself blind to. But you know Seokjin. After nearly two years together, you know the kind of polite smile he gives to strangers. You know how he treats acquaintances. You know when he’s being distant, how he acts when things don’t matter to him anymore. And you know that— “He wouldn’t….” He would never take this. He would never accept the chocolates you’ve made on Valentine’s. You would never be able to muster the courage to tell him how much you miss him. And he would never agree to being friends after your extensive history together. Your head lowers, and tears drip down your cheeks. Jungkook is rendered speechless but you feel his hand on your shoulder. He squeezes comfortingly. You sniffle, wiping your face with the back of your hand, and you take a truffle to throw into your mouth. You chew in your cheek and look at Jungkook with your reddened, teary eyes. “I-If he won’t eat it, we should.” That’s how you end up on the floor of the kitchen with Jungkook beside you. The two of you are leaning against the kitchen island, hidden away from the window of the door and any intrusive eyes peering through. The tips of your fingers are stained with melted chocolate — the fruits of your labour gone in an instant. The realization sinks in. After months of what you’ve tried to keep a hold on it. Having hoped aimlessly that you could change this back around. What had shattered into sand and slipped between your fingertips, but you tried to catch it again. It hits you in an instant. Harder than it ever has. “It’s really over, isn’t it, Jungkook?” you ask in a murmur, in a broken voice. “It’s over.” The relationship ended. Any form of a relationship with Seokjin is gone forevermore. Jungkook turns his head, gazing at your profile. He pats you on the back. He’s learnt long ago that he wasn’t very good at speaking, but that his words don’t mean as much as his actions do. So in silence, Jungkook eats the truffles with you. It’s not bad, he muses internally. You’re getting better at chocolate despite how you never had a knack for it. Well, technically he made them but whatever, your effort still means something. He chews and keeps to himself how the chocolate truffle strangely tastes sweet and bitter, like both sugar and black coffee.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenario #jungkook fluff #bts fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook reader insert #jungkook as a cutie baking boy who doesn't know to deal with emotions #and oc as a person who has too many emotions lol #Y'ALL no spoilers but this is the turning point #cue the song past the point of no return

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zoomy-brain · 4 years ago

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2014 vs 2021

I rediscovered my old deviantart from when I was 11 and if I felt like my art was meh lately... WELL THAT FEELING GONE NOW

This btw is a redraw of a lil drawing I made of @helaia when I was like 18, for some colour challenge. This was BEFORE I had a tablet with pen sensitivity, my GOHD

So let’s talk about the evolution of how-to-draw-gooder!

(if I’m going through my old digital art cringe-town, I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME)

2010 (age 13)

So my first shitty drawing tablet was one my dad had found somewhere in a closet at his work, which has nothing to do with graphic design or drawing or anything. It was old, the pen was falling apart and it didn’t have settings options or anything. I just plugged it in, hoped it worked, and then got working on GIMP. Photoshop was then too complicated and too expensive.

Most of the stuff you’ll see will have quite a few things in common: no control over the pen, no width variation in the lineart, ugly or saturated colours, no full grasp on anatomy, the same stupid brush everywhere and what I did for shading was just pick the colour i did for normal light, dragged it a little towards black and just did that on a different layer. At least I actually used layers!

It’s often said that the tools don’t make the artist and in some capacity that was true... but I was definitely working with a broken machine and it was showing. What I knew, I had learned from speedpaints on youtube. (I tried to look up the ones I learned most from but they’re no more :c)

Next I did was straight up figure out how the software worked, by using manga pages, put the layer on multiply, and colour the page in. I also tried to copy what my favourite digital artists were doing, by trying to figure out how they did what they did:

Next was just loads and loaaaads of practice and keeping it up. At this point, drawing, for me, was just a hobby. Something I did to waste time instead of doing homework. But just by doing it over and over again, and drawing my favourite characters over and over again, I started to get a subconscious grasp of how anatomy worked, especially in anime and mange.

But that was only when it came to characters and how to draw them.

I hadn’t even started to think about backgrounds, colours, composition, effects, texture! That was the next step: I learned about putting a layer on multiply helped with shading, I learned how to use different kinds of brushes, I learned textures are cool and funky! I also learned how to deal with the stupid pressure sensitivity. Not well, but still. I only learned pressure sensitivity was a thing when I was... 17 or something.

And at some point, you gotta make a choice in what works for you and what doesn’t. One can say that tools don’t make the artist but my tools were actively working against me, since I was still working with a tablet that had no smoothing or pen pressure.

(PART 2)

#Doodles #Doddles #Helaia #Faun #oc #Blast to the past #Essay on how to draw gooder

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myhusbandsasemni · 4 years ago

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Malachi: Alive Again

For the writing trade with @marlynnofmany

My prompt was something along the lines of a ghost being brought back to life. What’s the hardest part of now having a corporeal form?

............................

The little ghost watched as Zoey left the room. He turned to examine the little ygg’drasil sapling she had in a magic container. There was a bit of a sheen around it as he looked.

His ghostly fingers reached out to touch it. They went straight through the unseen barrier. He had long forgotten what it would be like to touch something without having to focus on actually holding onto the object.

Malachi felt the tree hum with life, something he had not had for 2000 years. He had not even grown much emotionally since dying. He was still very much a 7 year old at heart. He had mostly dazed in a corner unless intruders had entered his castle. Intruders like Aph and Anisha. They had come in and woken him up and he had defended himself from what he thought were threats, but they had proved to be loving people and had taken him in.

The tree seemed to pulse as he touched it. He smiled. He stopped smiling when the sapling exploded, magic and a high buzzing sound filling the air. Malachi fell back in the crater the tree had made in the floor, feeling debris sinking through his body. He stared at a wall in shock, before he passed out.

………………………..

Malachi woke up to a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. Pain. He had a headache. He opened his eyes with a little whine to see his adoptive mother, Aph, standing over him.

“Malachi,” she breathed, relief evident in her face. Her hand brushed over his forehead. He startled at the sensation. It was real and clear and…. Physical. He looked at his hands, sitting up. They were real. He felt his chest and sides and face.

“I… I’m alive!” he exclaimed, his now green colored eyes bouncing to Aph’s face. She smiled, tears in her eyes and laughed as she took him in her arms.

“Yes. Yes you are.”

………………………..

Levin was enthralled with his adopted brother’s new solidity. And watching Malachi rediscover solidity again amused him as well. As a ghost, Malachi had often cut through walls on corners, even when walking along with someone living. So the first time he got up and tried to do that, Levin had laughed at him for a solid minute as he struggled to get up, finding gravity a bit difficult as well.

The first night as a human, Malachi felt the pain of hunger. It was so hard to wait to eat. The adults were putting together a feast to celebrate, and Malachi had been very grateful to Anisha when she snuck out a few rolls for him to snack on while he waited and got used to the fact he would have to learn how to open doors again. The taste of the butter and bread made him sit on the floor so he could stop focusing on balancing on his feet and just focus on the taste and texture in his mouth. He almost bit his tongue, twice.

At dinner, he ate and ate and ate and ate. Anisha was the first to notice that he was eating just as much as her and told him to stop. It was too late, though. He had eaten way more than his body could handle, but not enough to throw up. He spent the night laying on his bed and cursing the betrayal of the food in his stomach.

Still, he was very happy to have a real form. He could give Aph, Laurance, Anisha, and Levin real hugs. He could feel the dirt under his feet. He couldn’t stop touching things. He often touched things he shouldn’t, like the grating of the fire for instance. Still, he enjoyed it all, even through the pain. He had never felt more grateful for anything in his life. It was good to truly feel things again, even if it was his constantly stubbed toes.

It took him a long time, and I mean years, to learn how to like sleep, though. But, then again, he was just a kid.

The Adventurers tag list: @dowings @writeblrfantasy @artrayasnow93 @doubi-ixi @extraisthmus @thethistlegirlwrites

#writing #ghost #funny #wip the adventurers

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rdr2dd · 4 years ago

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Goals, Moving Forward, Etc.

Because I’ve gotten a few comments/questions asking about the other projects I’ve mentioned, and also for the purpose of giving myself some clear goals to work toward, I want to nail down the direction(s) that this project is probably headed. Excuse the gratuitous detail, but as is likely becoming clear from my posts, that’s how I work best :p

Project 1: Arthur’s Hidden Family

Goal 1: Finding Eliza -

Accomplished, largely, so hurrah for that. There was a lot of background work to get to this point, even beyond the details I gave in the most recent post about it, so I am beyond glad to have finally gotten it done. This step has already laid a lot of the groundwork for future steps. And also, I’m just happy to finally have a face for her.

Goal 2: Conjuring up Isaac - No progress thus far, but I’ve done some planning on how I want to handle this. No files exist for Isaac, at least not that I’ve been able to find thus far, so any models/textures for him would be entirely non-canon/custom work. There’s no element of bringing hidden assets to light here, like there was with Eliza; having a workable model for Isaac would be purely for my own heart’s sake, and for the sake of being able to do fanart renders involving him. This probably involves:

Using Jack (4 yrs old) as a base model, as I’m not talented or experienced enough to sculpt these models from scratch. Facial features would need to be altered to find a resemblance to both Arthur and Eliza.

Digging through the files to see if there are even other young children in the game to draw assets from - Arthur Londonderry’s son comes to mind, but I’m not sure if he’s the right age range, and I’m honestly drawing a blank beyond that. If anyone remembers seeing any kids in the game, please drop me a note as to where you saw them.

Possibly resizing/altering adult NPC assets such as hairstyles in order to give Isaac a fitting and unique appearance. This sounds like a headache, but may be reasonable enough to do. We shall see.

Lots of custom texture work, largely for his face, which will be especially hard/dicey if there aren’t other children’s models to borrow textures from.

Goal 3: Finding the Time - Less technical and more research-oriented, I need to nail down a timeline that I’m personally happy with with regards to when in Arthur’s life the events with Eliza and Isaac occurred. Once this is done, it’ll make it easier to decide what to do with Arthur in any renders I may want to do with the three of them. Which ties into...

Project 2: The Old Guard (Expanded)

This was the project I originally had in mind when I started scrounging around for these files. I have an unreasonably huge soft spot in my heart for the ‘curious couple and their unruly son’, but also, just the young gang in general. Hosea back when he’d steal anything not nailed down? Dutch, young and idealistic and years before his downfall? Arthur, young and broody but not yet hardened? Little John, still feral and a menace? Badass, gorgeous young Grimshaw? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes, please. Not to mention Bessie and Annabelle, who must have mattered so much to these characters, but who we hear and see so little about. I want to be able to do fanart renders with them, but that’s going to take a hell of a lot of work.

Goal 1: Nail Down the Timeline - I’ve started working on this, but there’s a lot I still need to do in terms of skimming audio files and digging deep in the lore. I want to get a general idea of when it seems folks joined the gang, that way I can get an idea of which models I even need to work with. Heavy focus on figuring out:

When Tilly joined the gang, as I lean toward her being around quite early, but would like to review the audio. I know there are some numbers dropped in a few missions, with regards to when she joined the Foreman Brothers and when she left them to join the Van der Linde Gang, and I want to get this as accurate as possible.

When Hosea went off with Bessie, and when she passed. We have some context clues, I just need to nail down the math and then feel out the dramatic timing for the rest.

What the deal was with Annabelle. Maybe I just have a passion for the ladies name-dropped once in the game, but good god do I love Annabelle despite knowing absolutely nothing about her. She should be a non-character, but this is a passion project, so there’s no way I’ll be ignoring her.

What to do about Sean. He couldn’t have joined until after 1889, but depending on what year I want to deal with for renders, I may need to account for him. That wouldn’t be a hardship, as he’s one of my faves.

Goal 2: Knock Out the “Easy” Models - By which I mean Hosea, Dutch, Arthur, and Susan. This will involve some custom sculpting work, but not a whole lot, as their base models for 1899 shouldn’t actually require that much alteration. I imagine I’ll be ironing out a bunch of wrinkles, smoothing out a bunch of normal maps, and then using the clone brush and a sampling of generic NPC face textures in order to create younger-looking face textures for this lot. “Easy” is definitely a relative term here, but I’m counting my blessings in that there are, at the very least, reference images for what this lot looked like in the early days. I still have no idea if I’ll be able to accomplish this, or how hard it will be if I can.

Goal 3: John - An intermediate difficulty step, for John alone. We have no reference images of young, 12/13 year old John, but we do have Jack’s 12 yr old model, and that will serve as a decent base to work from, hopefully. I’ll have to make sure to alter his features to be more in line with John’s, and will have to work heavily with his skin/face textures from there. Clothes will be another hurdle, especially as (referenced above), we see like, next to no children in the game for me to borrow NPC clothing parts from. I’ll need to work with what we get from Jack and otherwise resize and rework adult NPC clothing.

Goal 4: Bessie (and Others) - Stepping up the workload again, though in different ways. Bessie will be a task to work out, seeing as we have a single, not particularly great reference image of her facing straight ahead. It’s not much to work with, but it’s something to work toward matching. No two ways around it, she’ll be mostly custom work and mash-ups of generic NPC materials, but it’ll be a labor of love. Also sliding Tilly and (potentially) young Sean in here, as depending on their age there will be a lot of work to do on them, possibly including custom model work, and we don’t have references for what they looked like when they were younger. I’ll make do.

Goal 5: Annabelle - The holy grail in terms of custom work, or the ultimate slog uphill, we shall see. We have no reference images of her. No traces of her exist in the files. We hardly have any clue about how she died, let alone how she lived. And yet, I love her, or at least the potential of her. Hopefully all of my work on the ‘known’ quantities of this project will give me some hope of turning out a unique and fitting model for her, but who knows.

Project 3: Audio Directory

Goal ??? - On pause for the foreseeable future, mostly as I’ll need to do some networking before I’m totally comfortable putting this out there, and also because holy hell have I set up a bunch of other work for myself. The Dream(TM) was to find a way to set up a directory for folks to more easily find audio files on their own. There’s no way to host all of the assorted cool audio from RDR2 online, but it would theoretically be possible to set up a sort of file directory online, a list of file names and descriptions, to help folks browse their audio files on their own without having to reinvent (or in this case, rediscover) the wheel personally. I’m of the opinion that pulling apart the game files should be an all-hands-on-deck sort of situation, but there are a lot of folks who have already put in this work individually, and I don’t want to step on any toes. I also don’t want to be responsible for anyone mucking around with their game files and having trouble down the road, so I’d need to sort out a clear explanation of what precautions to take, etc. It’s a lot to consider, so I’m obviously open to input.

Wrap-Up

If you’re still reading, congrats(?) and also, thank you. This is all a bunch of planning for some real pie-in-the-sky shit, but I felt that way about finding Eliza in the files about two months ago, so I have hope. If you’ve got thoughts on any step, please, hit me! I want to hear what folks want to see, though I can’t make any promises on what I’ll deliver. Got thoughts on the timeline or headcanons for the less-referenced characters? I’d love to hear. I would also love to hear from anyone with experience on projects like this; goodness knows I’m a self-taught novice.

#rdr2 #rdr2 eliza #rdr2 annabelle #young van der linde gang #rdr2 bessie #rdr2dd bts

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lacieon · 8 years ago

Photo

euphonic

#hibike! euphonium #hibike euphonium #reina kousaka #fanart #my art #can i be reina #tbh my first drawing of her is still one of my favs #so for a long time i was afraid to draw her again :')#i gave myself a mental slap and said just do it #and im happy to say i like this one alil more ^q^#played around w/ brush textures in the bg cause i rediscovered them #why is tumblr so landscape unfriendly #pls click the pic its prettier

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queercapwriting · 5 years ago

Text

Our (Second) First Time

Maria and Carol sleep together for the first time since Carol comes home. So Soft™.

Carol was going to sleep in the guest room, but then Talos and his family were staying, too, and Carol insisted on giving them the room and taking the couch.

The arrangement lasted for a couple of weeks. A couple of weeks after Carol came home, and a week after Carol and Maria had kissed for the first time in years, desperate and passionate and breathless like teenagers who’ve never been kissed but never wanted to stop.

And then, one night - six nights gone by of Carol taking the couch because ‘we should take it slow, shouldn’t we?’ and ‘no need to rush, right?’ and ‘you are balancing two entire lives in your head and you don’t need to rush’ - neither of them could put up a front anymore.

“Sleep in my room tonight?” Maria asks, poking her head into the living room when they’re both in their pajamas.

“In your bed?” Carol blinks rapidly, sitting up from the couch with her brain desperately trying to keep up with her body.

“No, Carol, I’m inviting you off the couch and into my room to sleep on the floor.”

Carol gulps, and Maria’s humor turns serious.

“We can just sleep, Carol. I’m more than happy to just sleep.”

But Carol shakes her head, and when she speaks, her voice is scratchy and low.

“I don’t think I’d want to get much sleeping done if we were in bed together.”

It’s Maria’s turn to gulp, and she traces her fingertips up Carol’s bicep.

“Not sleeping would also be more than fine with me.”

“Oh, just more than fine, huh? One step past decent?” Carol’s eyes are shining, and Maria shoves her playfully.

“Dunno, it could be. Just a little better than okay, you know?” She kisses Carol’s neck, working her way from just under her chin toward her collarbone.

“Mmm. I think I can do better than that.” Carol arches her head back and her fingers play with the hem of Maria’s shirt.

“Do you?” Maria nips softly at Carol’s throat, and Carol moans without meaning to.

“I do,” Carol’s eyes flash, and Maria bites her lip as they pull back to look at each other.

“Carol. We can stop whenever you want to. If you get overwhelmed, or if… if you decide it’s not something you want -”

“Why would you be not something I want? Maria, I think I wanted you even when I couldn’t remember any of this.”

Maria kisses Carol’s chin. “You’re sweet, baby, but I mean it. Just because we were something six years ago doesn’t mean we have to pick up right where we left off. You have two lives floating around in your head, and I don’t want you to feel like -”

“Maria. We’ve talked about this. I’m not interested in picking up where we left off. I’m interested in picking up where we are. If you want to.”

“Mmm, Danvers. Always so good with words. When you’re not spluttering around trying to figure out what the English language is around pretty women.”

Carol chuckles and shakes her head. “Come to bed with me, Maria.”

“Did you just invite me to my own bed?”

“Oh my god -”

But Carol’s amused exasperation turns into a giggling squeal when Maria tugs on her hand and pulls her toward her bedroom. Their bedroom.

They kiss and tickle and laugh into each other’s bodies until after they lock the door, until after the backs of Maria’s knees hit the mattress.

“We can stop whenever you want.” It’s Carol to remind Maria, this time, but Maria shakes her head.

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna want to stop this,” she murmurs into Carol’s lips before acquiesing to the slight pressure of Carol’s body, scooting backwards onto the bed and laying down.

Carol stops her, moving to sweep a pillow under Maria’s head, making sure her scarf stays in place. “So chivalrous,” Maria teases. Carol blushes as Maria reaches up for her face, wrapping her legs around Carol’s body, at once tentative and confident. “You always used to panic if you thought you hurt me. Or if I didn’t have a pillow under my head.”

“You deserve to be worshipped,” Carol murmurs into her neck. Maria’s fingers tighten in Carol’s hair. “Okay?” Carol checks.

“With you? Always.” They stop and smile at each other, soft and sure, Carol’s fingers caressing Maria’s cheek, Maria tracing patterns under Carol’s hair, on the back of her neck.

“This feels right,” Carol tells her as she holds most of her weight up on one of her hands.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Maria’s fingers go to stroke Carol’s wrist.

“You’re still sure?”

“I want you, Carol,” Maria assures her, but it feels like a request.

So Carol smiles and dips back down, letting her hair spill down around Maria’s face as she kisses her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, her forehead, her chin, her lips.

“I could do this forever. Kissing you,” Carol murmurs as she kisses her way down to Maria’s neck.

“Fuck, Danvers. Me too.”

“Good.” Carol licks at Maria’s neck in a way she somehow knows will make her giggle and squirm, and they dissolve into giggles again until Carol’s lips find their way to the edge of Maria’s t-shirt.

“You can go lower if you want to,” Maria invites, and Carol practically growls.

But her movement is slow, deliberate, careful. She pulls with trembling fingers at the hem of Maria’s shirt, her lips kissing every bit of newly exposed skin, Maria’s breath quickening underneath her.

Over her shirt, Carol’s palm brushes Maria’s breast. They both gasp at the accidental contact.

“You can take this off, if you want to,” Maria prompts, because usually they were both much more sure, much more dynamic, but tonight is about letting Carol rediscover, and letting herself believe that Carol, her Carol, really is home. Really does still want her.

“You sure? You’re not um.” Carol blushes and Maria arches an eyebrow, waiting and amused.

“Yes?”

“You’re um. Not wearing a bra.”

Maria purses her lips. “Well, I was about to go to bed, so, no.”

“But you want me to take your shirt off.”

Maria bites back a teasing smile, but just barely. “I do.”

“Good.” And her lips find Maria’s again. Her fingers trace the bottom of Maria’s shirt as they kiss, and Maria’s hand tentatively guides Carol’s higher.

Carol groans as her hand warms against Maria’s skin. Maria yelps, and Carol panics.

“No, hey, shhh, it’s okay, I’m good. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t hurt me, baby. I promise, look.” She pulls her shirt up higher, pushing Carol back gently so she can see that her skin isn’t burned, that she’s alright, safe, and happy, and wanting.

“God,” Carol murmurs, crawling backward, shifting so one of Maria’s legs is underneath her, the other bent next to their bodies.

“What?” Maria partly sits up, lips slightly parted and scarf all askew.

“Nothing, just.” Carol dips down to kiss Maria’s stomach, her navel, her stretch marks. “I missed you.”

Maria bites her lip and lets herself watch Carol watch her. “You sure? Your shirt? I can…”

Maria sits up completely, and raises her arms over her head. “Yes.”

Carol scrambles forward slightly, resembling a puppy more than almost anything, and Maria both chuckles and gasps as Carol tugs her band tee over her head. They kiss immediately after Carol tosses her shirt aside, and they both groan at the new form of contact: Maria’s naked torso against Carol’s soft shirt, Carol’s hands running up and down Maria’s bare back, Maria’s neck arching back so Carol has better access.

She pushes them both back down onto the bed, kissing Maria’s lips and her throat and her collarbone, and then… and then, Carol nearly cries. Because she finally lets herself sit back to look at Maria’s body.

She shakes her head and she leans down to kiss every bit of skin she can find, barely hesitating before kissing her way up Maria’s breasts to take one nipple at a time into her mouth, marveling at Maria’s responsiveness, at the arch of her back and the whine in her throat.

“Damn,” Carol murmurs, still with tears in her eyes. “Maria, you’re beautiful.”

Her voice is reverent and low and everything Maria spent six years missing.

“I got older.”

Carol nods. “Yeah. And you’re perfect.”

She dips her head again to continue worshipping Maria’s body, drawing a mental map of the textures of Maria’s skin as she kisses and licks and nips and catalogues every single one of Maria’s responses.

“Carol,” Maria pants. “I want to touch you, too. If you -”

“Yes.”

It’s all the permission Maria needs to grin and flip Carol over, straddling her and unbuttoning her flannel while she kisses her mouth.

“You good?” she makes sure, and Carol just stares up at her like she’s her every dream come true.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Maria shifts down Carol’s body, kissing her neck and her shoulders and a long, thin scar that Maria doesn’t recognize.

“This one’s new,” she murmurs as she kisses her way across the scar, her fingers tracing it just before her tongue and lips do.

“Knife fight on Knowhere,” she murmurs, leaning up on her elbows to watch Maria press kisses into her new skin.

“Do you need to stop?” Maria checks.

“Do you want to stop?” Carol panics.

“No, baby. No, I don’t.” Carol calms and lets herself watch Maria kiss her way down her chest, button by button by button.

“Sit up?” she asks when her shirt is off except for her shoulders.

Carol obliges, almost tipping them both over in her eagerness, and they both laugh.

Until her flannel slips down her shoulders, and she, too, isn’t wearing a bra. Maria bites her lip as she looks at her, and tears swell behind her eyes.

“I’ve missed you,” Maria murmurs, kissing Carol’s mouth before going lower, her hands sliding up her stomach to her breasts. Carol hisses and arches her back at the contact. “You’re beautiful,” Maria continues as Carol’s nipples harden underneath her fingers.

“Fuck,” Carol whines, and Maria kisses her way up her stomach until her tongue replaces her fingers.

And then Carol swears in earnest.

Their reverant pace picks up as Carol’s hands continue mapping Maria’s back, as Maria’s lips continue teasing Carol’s nipples.

Carol’s hands flirt with Maria’s shorts, and Maria’s fingertips slip under the waistband of Carol’s pajama pants.

“May I?”

Carol answers by arching her hips up. Maria tries to separate pajama pants from Carol’s boy shorts.

“Both?” Carol asks. Maria’s breath hitches as she rushes to comply. Her lips trace down beneath Carol’s navel as her fingers tug her pants down past her knees, both of them kicking them down past her ankles.

“You too?” Carol’s hands fumble at Maria’s hips, and Maria braces her hands on either side of Carol’s shoulders so Carol can tug down until they’re both naked.

Their skin touches, all down the length of their bodies, and both forget how to breathe. For a moment, Carol just cries. Maria kisses her mouth, her own tears on her face, and Carol kisses her back. Their bodies both rack with years of everything that was taken from them.

“You’re beautiful,” Maria tells Carol again, their hands and feet tracing each other’s bodies, giggling as they have a foot fight to kick off each other’s socks.

“I love you,” is Carol’s only response, and it’s the only one Maria needs to hear.

“I love you back,” she whispers into her neck. “And I miss the way you taste.”

Carol whimpers and arches her hips up against Maria’s thigh.

“Damn, you’re sexy” Maria murmurs, her hands tracing down Carol’s body. “Where’s your head at, Danvers?”

“Your face between my legs, which is apparently something you missed.”

“Mmm, did I say that out loud?”

“Damn right you did,” Carol winks.

Their teasing turns to more kissing turned to more whimpering and panting and touching and kissing.

Maria kisses her way back down Carol’s body, pausing at each new scar, taking her time tracing and kissing and creating new memories with her body.

“Wait, hold on,” Carol whispers. “I want to… you. First. Please? Can I?”

“You don’t have to, baby, it doesn’t have to be reciprocal if you don’t -”

“I do. I want you. Please?”

She pouts and Maria laughs, because she definitely doesn’t need to do any convincing. Carol tugs on Maria’s hips, and Maria gasps when she realizes what Carol is doing.

“Okay?” Carol asks, eyes wide and lips parted.

“Yeah,” Maria nods, eyes fluttering closed as Carol part pulls Maria up, part scoots her body down until her face is beneath Maria’s legs.

“Goddamn, you’re beautiful,” Carol murmurs before pulling Maria’s hips down, parting her hair with one hand, bracing her thighs with the other, revelling in the sounds Maria makes as Carol’s tongue finds her clit.

“You won’t hurt me,” Carol lifts Maria’s hips to assure her, feeling Maria’s body shaking with restraint, before pulling her back down, encouraging her to ride her face, her fingers revelling in the soft flesh of her thighs, her ass.

“Carol,” Maria tosses her head back and grinds her hips down.

Carol hums into Maria’s clit and revels in the way it makes Maria barely swallow a scream.

She lets Maria grind down to get as much pressure as she needs against Carol’s mouth, her tongue, her chin, encouraging Maria with her own moans, her fingers bringing her body closer, closer, never close enough, as long as it takes but never long enough until Maria comes undone, hard and intense and murmuring Carol’s name over and over and over. Carol helps her ride it out, timing the way she moves her mouth against her with the way Maria is shuddering into her lips.

Carol’s eyes are bright as she helps Maria crawl back down the length of Carol’s body.

“I want,” Maria whispers with barely open eyes, her trembling fingers tracing up Carol’s inner thighs.

“Shhh. Soon, babe. Rest for now, yeah?” Carol hold her close. “Enjoy. We’ve got all the time in the galaxy.”

#carol x maria #carolmaria #carol x maria fic #carol x maria smut #danbeau #danbeau smut

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inkandstories · 5 years ago

Quote

I tried so hard,” she whispered. His face crinkled in confusion. “In the battle? Emma, you did everything you could—” “Not in the battle. To make you not love me,” she said. “I tried.” She felt him recoil, not so much outwardly as inwardly, as if his soul had flinched. “Is it that awful? Having me love you?” She had started trembling again, though not from the cold. “It was the best thing in the world,” she said. “And then it was the worst. And I didn’t even have a chance—” She broke off. He was shaking his head, scattering water droplets. “You’re going to have to learn to live with it,” he said. “Even if it horrifies you. Even if it makes you sick. Just like I’m going to have to live with whatever other boyfriends you have, because we are forever no matter how, Emma, no matter what you want to call what we have, we will always be us.” “There won’t be any other boyfriends,” she said. He looked at her in surprise. “What you said before, about thinking and obsessing and wanting only one thing,” she said. “That’s how I feel about you.” He looked stunned. She put her hands up to gently cup his face, brushing her fingers over his damp skin. She could see the pulse hammering in his throat. There was a scratch on his face, a long one that went from his temple to his chin. Emma wondered if he’d just gotten it in the fight outside, or if he’d had it before and she hadn’t noticed because she’d been trying so hard not to look at him. She wondered if he was ever going to speak again. “Jules,” she said. “Say something, please—” His hands tightened convulsively on her shoulders. She gasped as his body moved against hers, walking her backward until her back hit the wall. His eyes gazed down into hers, shockingly bright, radiant as sea glass. “Julian,” he said. “I want you to call me Julian. Only ever that.” “Julian,” she said, and then his mouth came down over hers, dry and burning hot, and her heart seemed to stop and start again, an engine revved into an impossibly high gear. She clutched him back with the same desperation, clinging on as he drank the rain from her mouth, her lips parting to taste him: cloves and tea. She reached to yank his sweater off over his head. Under it was a T-shirt, the thin wet cloth not much of a barrier when he pressed her back against the wall. His jeans were wet too, molded to his body. She felt how much he wanted her, and wanted him just as much. The world was gone: There was only Julian; the heat of his skin, the need to be closer to him, to fit herself against him. Every movement of his body against hers sent lightning through her nerves. “Emma. God, Emma.” He buried his face against her, kissing her cheek, her throat as he slid his thumbs under the waistband of her jeans and pushed down. She kicked the wet heap of denim away. “I love you so much.” It felt as if it had been a thousand years since that night on the beach. Her hands rediscovered his body, the hard planes of it, his scars rough under her palms. He had once been so skinny—she could still see him as he had been even two years ago, awkward and gangly. She had loved him then even if she hadn’t known it, loved him from the center of his bones to the surface of his skin. Now those bones were clothed and covered in smooth muscle, hard and unyielding. She ran her hands up under his shirt, relearning him, tracing him, embedding the feel and the texture of him in her memory. “Julian,” she said. “I—” I love you, she was about to say. It wasn’t ever Cameron, or Mark, it was always you, it will always be you, the marrow of my bones is made up of you, like cells make up our blood. But he cut her off with a hard kiss. “Don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hear anything reasonable, not now. I don’t want logic. I want this.” “But you need to know—” He shook his head. “I don’t.” He reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, dragged it off. His wet hair showered droplets on them both. “I’ve been broken for weeks,” he said unsteadily, and she knew what that cost him, that admission of lack of control. “I need to be whole again. Even if it doesn’t last.” “It can’t last,” she said, staring at him, because how could it, when they could never keep what they had? “It’ll break our hearts.” He caught her by the wrist, brought her hand to his bare chest. Splayed her fingers over his heart. It beat against her palm, like a fist punching its way through his sternum. “Break my heart,” he said. “Break it in pieces. I give you permission.” The blue of his eyes had almost disappeared behind the expanding rims of his pupils. She hadn’t known, before, on the beach, what was going to happen. What it would be like between them. Now she did. There were things in life you couldn’t refuse. No one had that much willpower. No one.

Lord of Shadows, Chapter 24: Legion

#julian x emma #emma carstairs #julian blackthorn #the dark artifices #lord of shadows #cassandra clare #los: 24

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redheadgleek · 7 years ago

Text

Klaine Advent: Season of Grace

Summary: Their reunion is only the beginning. A collection of drabbles (100 words) written for the Klaine Advent 2017. Pairing: Klaine (Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson) Rating: T

Chapter title lyrics taken from Vienna Teng’s The Atheist Christmas Carol and City Hall. Lyrics used in Day 16: Perform are from Vienna’s Never Look Away.

Masterpost: read on tumblr / AO3 or click below to read the whole collection.

When Blaine cups his jaw and surges forward in reunion, Kurt clings. He breathes in Blaine’s scent, rediscovers the texture and contour of his skin, drinks in his sigh of pleasure. In lonely nights his psyche supplied his dreams with phantom memories of Blaine’s laugh and fingers - dim in comparison to this reality.

Blaine had proposed with promises of a forever without fear; Kurt’s fears had whispered that they were too young, that their youthful attachment wouldn’t be enough to sustain them through vows of better and worse.

Wiser now, Kurt holds his love close and faces the future together.

***

Faint moonlight reflects off their bare skin, their noses brushing, breath mingling in shared space. Kurt’s hand traces hearts across his hipbone, reminding him of another November night, when they had been naive and sweet in love.

“Are you worried? About us?” Blaine flinches as Kurt’s hand stops.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I tried to live without you and it nearly killed me. Because we’re better together.”

“That’s it? That’s enough for you?”

Kurt furrows his brow, selecting words carefully. “You know I don’t believe in God. Or soulmates. I don’t believe that we were meant for each other in some cosmic arrangement, as lovely as it sounds. But... I know you and I choose you, Blaine. For now and every day and year to come.”

“Kurt. I choose you too.”

Kurt’s hand moves again. “I’m not letting go again. If we break, I’m bringing in bail buckets and duct tape with the marriage therapists, because you are it for me. The only future I’ll accept is the one where we die hours apart when we’re 102 and still fabulous.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ll only be 101. Kurt, no!”

Languid kisses quench giggles and unease as the day dawns anew.

***

Alone on the cold bathroom floor, with every carefully salvaged thread of hope collapsed into rubble, the tears stung and choked in their bitterness. He deserved this, after destroying their future. Karmic retribution for giving into his doubts and shattering Blaine’s - and his - heart.

It’s faded memory now, as Blaine, with sun-warmed eyes open with love, cradles him close and kisses him again and again. There will always be regret mixed with relief, but Kurt is more confident than ever in them; their foundation stronger now, fortified by forgiveness, trust, and faith in each other.

He smiles and kisses back.

***

Back then, before, a current of tension permeated between them, a sense of looming demise. Insecurities festering, Kurt reacted by pulling back and Blaine by clinging harder. Perhaps their end was inevitable.

So was their beginning. Though in fragments, their connection was undeniable.

Now, he drinks in the sight of Kurt, tall and framed in sun, packing pillows and trinkets, chatting easily - the kids and their sectional selections, Burt and Carole’s adventures in D.C., Rachel’s antics. Blaine’s heart stutters and thrills at the little casual mentions of plans for their life, their future, together.

Grace is a golden epoxy.

***

He returned to Ohio a failed little boy, life in shambles. Mixed with the heartache of his destroyed relationship was the mortification of slinking back home as a college dropout. Blaine spent most days in bed, with rimmed eyes that refused to spill tears.

An invitation from the Dalton Headmaster granted him asylum. His heart ached daily walking down the marbled staircase, past memories haunting a never-coalesced future. And yet, watching his boys flourish under his tutelage and example, he found redemption.

Like before, he heals, and forgives. When Kurt returns to him, his heart is open for a renewal.

***

You keep expecting there to be awkwardness, some reminder of the months spent apart. Before you shattered his heart and yours, more evenings than not were spent in stilted silence to stave off the volatile fractionation. The lingering pain of the breaking should taint this beautiful moment of reunion.

Instead, conversation is easy. He seems as eager to share his thoughts and dreams as you are in spilling yours, safe in shared vulnerability. You drink in laughter and love, intoxicated in his presence.

Warm lips and soft eyes seek yours. Embracing this gift of intimacy, you tug him to bed.

***

Lips seek yours again and again before moving to tug at your earlobe. Goosebumps rise in response to his traveling fingers.

From the first time, sex has always been easy. Together, you discovered communication with touch and passion, and over the years when words caused harsh reverberations, you relied on sex for reconciliation.

Now it feels like a sacrament, the fulfillment of the pledge to take genuine care of precious hearts.

He pauses his downward trail at the edge of your abdomen, eyes open and mischievous.

Lips part and your stomach vibrates as he blows raspberries across your belly.

“Kurt!”

***

“Maybe I should just move in here.”

“Move in?”

“I know you gave your landlord notice but is it rented already? Could we back out?”

“What?”

“We’d have to share my room at Dad’s; it’s small though. I don’t think your parents would approve of us shacking up. We could find a new place, I suppose. Sunday, after the wedding?”

“I thought. I thought you would want to wait. Take our time.”

“Living together wasn’t our problem, we weren’t ready then. We’re healthier now. We can do this.”

“You don’t mind that Dave-”

“No. No unicorns though. Okay?”

“So okay.”

***

His parents, barely blinking at the news of their reuniting, had offered to drive to the wedding. He had resisted at first, not wanting the presence of others to break their sanctuary, but relented when Pam Anderson joined the caravan.

In the backseat, Blaine inches closer as icy harvested fields flicker past the windows, until his head drops onto Kurt’s shoulder, sleep slacking his mouth. Moments like these, precious in the mundane, were the ones Kurt had missed the most.

He meets his father’s understanding eyes in the rearview mirror and curls closer into the solid weight of Blaine’s trust.

***

“Barn chic” wouldn't have been Blaine’s aesthetic choice, but he tries to withhold judgement. Gossamer-draped branches cluster charmingly around hay bales and Blaine can see elegance interspersed with the fairy lights - Kurt’s touch.

Blaine acknowledges the deep twinge of regret for the wedding that will never be - hours spent choosing colors and locations, only for those plans to vaporize. And yet, he feels no rush, no reason to push for something that he no longer needs to believe their commitment.

Kurt’s hand rarely leaves his as they greet beloved friends. Blaine answers his blinding smile with one of his own.

***

“You dress up nicely.”

“So do you. That suit is impeccable.”

“Mmm. I couldn’t have picked better. May I tie this for you?”

“Kurt. We don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

“I… I don’t want you to regret this.”

“I won’t. We won’t. Blaine. I was going to propose this time.”

“You were?”

“And then drag you to Vegas and skip the wedding entirely.”

“Not Vegas. Same-sex marriage isn’t legal.”

“Massachusetts, then. Or Indiana, I guess.”

“This is so foolish.”

“Foolishness is the key to us. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Make me your husband, Mr. Anderson.”

***

Kurt tweaks a light as he waits with Brittany. He (and Artie) did an impressive job, even with limited resources and atypical locale.

He loves weddings, the pageantry and extravagance that surrounds heart-felt vows of forever. Planning his own, however, had been months of frustration and devastation. The stress of bartering over flowers while dealing with school and work had frayed his surety in them.

They are too young; it’s a heteronormative tradition rooted in sexism; it doesn’t legitimize their love. He’s listened to reason before.

Still.

He wants to marry Blaine. Always.

Now the time is right, he will.

***

There’s a moment, walking down the aisle with Santana on his arm, that he nearly gives in to panic. He had been so certain two years ago when he had stood on marbled stairs and declared his love. Was he pushing Kurt into a decision that he wasn’t ready to make again?

Kurt turns on the step, amid the surrounding confusion dawning into awareness, and meets his gaze. Doesn’t look away.

There’s no doubt in Kurt’s eyes, misty with love, shiny with conviction. Kurt’s smile is for only him.

Apprehension vanishes. Blaine steps up and turns to say the vows.

***

There’s a moment, as Blaine glides the welcomed weight of silver over his knuckles, when everything clicks into perfect rightness.

Once he wore a ring fashioned from paper and promises which he exchanged for one representing forever without fear, a constant reminder of Blaine’s unwavering love. Against his finger, it had sometimes felt like a fetter. Only, in its absence, his hand had been both impossibly heavy and empty without Blaine’s anchoring presence.

In this moment, as his father declares them husbands, Blaine’s hands in his, nose brushing his, mouth greeting his, Kurt feels like he has finally come home.

***

The tempo changes, and Blaine - laughing, blushing, adoring Blaine - finally winds his arms around Kurt’s neck. Kurt can’t resist pulling him closer, relishing the feel of Blaine’s hips, the way their chests press and legs slot together.

Blaine tilts his head and sighs contently. “Brittany just invited us to a ‘wedding consummation ceremony’ with her and Santana.”

“An orgy?”

“Yeah. Supposed to bring good luck. You know Britt.”

“And what did you say, husband of mine?”

“I told her that there was no way that I could share. And that we don’t need luck.”

Kurt captures his lips. “Good answer.”

***

“When Blaine and I were engaged, I made a playlist of songs to perform for our wedding. Even after we separated, I kept adding to the list. Every song reminded me of Blaine, of what we meant to each other.

“One night when I was the loneliest and despaired our chances, I heard this song, and I knew. This was our song.

“Blaine, love of my life, my husband, this is for you:

“Let me uncover the silver in your dark hair The weight of your bones I want to witness the beauty of your repair The shape you’ve grown...”

***

Straw bales prick at his raw skin, but Blaine pays little attention; he pulls Kurt down firmer against him and chases his lips again.

“Isn’t it,” Kurt pants against his neck, hands everywhere, dipping down Blaine’s waistband, tugging his shirt higher, “the epitome of poor decorum to have sex at your wedding reception-”

“Uh huh.”

“With family and friends just feet away.” He lowers the zipper and pushes the cloth over Blaine’s hips.

“Mhhh!”

“How long before Mercedes-”

“Kurt, less talking, more… more… Just-”

He feels Kurt’s smirk. “I love making you speechless. Mmmph!”

Blaine grins back. “Same, my love.”

***

Giggling, drunk on romance, Blaine removes Kurt’s tie, then slides his shirt down his shoulders. Their shower is unhurried with languid kisses tracing trails of water.

Kurt brushes his teeth and washes his face, his ring reflecting back at him, new and yet so familiar. He enters the suite wearing Blaine’s favorite briefs, only to be greeted with snuffling snores.

Blaine stirs slightly as Kurt tugs down the duvet. For the second time in just twelve hours, Kurt watches his beloved sleep. He’s not sure if he could love this man more; he falls to dreams resolved to find out.

***

Awareness drifts into consciousness. Blaine opens sleepy eyes to Kurt’s soft smile. Morning sun glints off their silver bands. “We’re married,” Blaine marvels.

“We are.”

“It feels like a dream.”

“A good one, I hope.” Kurt chews his lip.

“The best.”

“It wasn’t the wedding you wanted. Not our colors or flowers-”

“It was perfect.”

“You put so much effort-”

Blaine shushes him. “I get to wake up with you, talk to you, go to bed with you. Every day, sharing our lives, together. That’s all I wanted.”

“No regrets then?”

“Only love.”

“…Dork.”

“Your dork.”

Kurt pounces. “All mine.”

***

Awareness drifts into consciousness. Blaine opens sleepy eyes to Kurt’s soft smile. Morning sun glints off their silver bands. “We’re married,” Blaine marvels.

“We are.”

“It feels like a dream.”

“A good one, I hope.” Kurt chews his lip.

“The best.”

“It wasn’t the wedding you wanted. Not our colors or flowers-”

“It was perfect.”

“You put so much effort-”

Blaine shushes him. “I get to wake up with you, talk to you, go to bed with you. Every day, sharing our lives, together. That’s all I wanted.”

“No regrets then?”

“Only love.”

“…Dork.”

“Your dork.”

Kurt pounces. “All mine.”

***

Not that Burt would’ve complained if he had to stand in line all day to make his kid’s marriage legal, but thankfully, the line’s short.

Kurt steps up to the counter, defiantly holding Blaine’s hand; Burt’s struck again by his son’s courage. “One marriage license.”

The clerk slides the application across with a smile. “Birth certificates, IDs, and $60. Just sign under the line.”

Forms completed, Burt’s attesting as officiant, and - “It’ll be mailed in 2-4 weeks. Congratulations, Mr. and Mr. Anderson-Hummel!”

Burt wipes sudden tears as Carole hugs the newlyweds. His kid’s grown up and he couldn’t be prouder.

***

They’ve been married three days, three serendipitous days surreal in their ordinariness. Kurt’s belongings are piled in boxes, waiting to be unpacked. Their apartment is tiny: a bed pushed to the corner, one dresser to share.

Once, Kurt had carved out special space for Blaine in his life, tried to fit him into defined compartments. Those boundaries, created to protect, only prevented growth and caused lingering pain.

Their success depends on variation from old patterns. Kurt opens the suitcase and dumps his clothes into the drawer.

Blaine kisses his cheek and Kurt draws him in, breath mingling, eager for more.

***

The overhead lights dim and Blaine eases up the armrest. The width of airplane seats are too narrow for comfort, but Blaine doesn’t mind having his husband pressed close.

Kurt’s already asleep, fingers curled in Blaine’s, overcome with exhaustion from their unexpected week since they made vows of forever. Giddy disbelief has faded somewhat in the realism of merging lives, but not the surety of that spontaneous decision.

Blaine knows too well how it can go wrong; this week, basking in deep happiness and reinforcing trust and intimacy, has been a testament to how good it could - and would - be.

***

Kurt tilts his head invitingly for another kiss. “Can’t we stay here forever?”

“We can come back. New York’s pretty close.”

Kurt twists in surprise, water sloshing. “New York?”

“Of course. It’s where we live.”

“But…”

“Did you want to stay in Ohio?”

“I thought a fresh start… Chicago or L.A.”

“I’ve planned to return, even before. I already applied to NYU and Juilliard and a dozen others for next year. But if you want to move—”

“No! I just— I want you to be happy.”

“I’m so happy. Wherever we make our home.”

“Let’s go home then, love.”

***

Dalton burns.

Acrid cinders sting his eyes. Beside him, Blaine stares blankly at the ruins, silent since the call this morning.

Kurt steps to the edge of the fire zone, debris crunching under his feet, and questions the observers. Arson. Only partially salvaged. Oh, yes, it can and will be rebuilt.

In the past, Kurt struggled with connecting to Blaine in times of vulnerability and grief. His tendency is to shoulder on and normalize, the opposite of Blaine’s needs. Their fights magnified this difference.

In their destruction, he’s learned better. Kurt reaches out and provides the anchor his husband requires.

Dalton burns.

Blaine chokes on ashes as he takes in the mangled steel frames and smoldering embers. Beside him, Kurt asks questions; Blaine zones out, the details of how and why less important in this inescapable reality.

Dalton had been his refuge. He remembers the first time he walked through those doors, heart bruised and heavy, scared and defeated.

He wonders if this is a sign.

Kurt’s by his side. “The foundation’s strong. They’ll be able to rebuild.”

“Rebuild?”

“There’s already a fund.”

The smoke clears. “Kurt, look. Our staircase.”

Kurt squeezes his hand. “It’s still standing.”

“Just like us.”

#klaine advent 2017 #my ficcy #season of grace #100 words #200 words #drabble #double drabble #edited version

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