#i painted my nails while watching and so clumsy thumbs

[laraslandlockedblues]

Does anyone else watch The Blacklist? Because I started around Thanksgiving and I'm only on season 4 but I've decided 2 things:

1) I will ride the Raymond Reddington is Liz's father theory all the way to the series finale no matter what

And

2) If I was ever inclined to write anything for it, it would just be Dembe x Reader fluff in which you and Dembe cuddle and watch a movie in peace.

[jordanstrophe]

Hope you don't mind but what if basement whumper’s partner decided to pay another visit to whumpee? While whumper is out? And whumper comes back mid torture session and stops it?

(I don’t mind at all! Sorry if it’s taken me some time, but I really wanted to do this one right. In fact, I’m going to have to cut this into a part 1/2. This one is the hurt, next one is going to be the comfort.) (Update: I need comfort myself after writing this)   Masterlist 

CW: Torture, knife cuts, salt water, restraining, held captive, hair pulling, dragging, escape attempt, protective whumper, hurt. It’s a whole lotta hurt. 

Whumpee heard the front door open from above as they perked up against the pole. They watched stairs, waiting for the familiar socks that would descend, usually with a hint of clumsiness to them.

Instead, it was the stomp of heavy boots, confident with pride. Whumpee's heart dropped to their stomach when they saw Whumper's partner... A heartless, ruthless being who lacked any sense of humanity.

The larger of two evils.

"There you are! How's our little hostage today? Whumper keeps you well I see." They watched as Whumpee recoiling with fear in their eyes, slowly shaking their head with disbelief. 

"Why are y-you here? Where's Whumper?" Whumpee failed to hide the nervous wreck behind their voice. "Not here, little bird. They're far far away doing me a favor. Thought I would drop by and see the goods." They belted a laugh. "Y-you... You shouldn't be h-here. Does Whumper even know?"

They slowly cranking their head back with cold eyes, digging a handful of Whumpee's hair, slamming their head against the pole as they let out a gasp.

"Little birdies been in the basement for so long they think they run the little corner, hmm? Now, when did Whumper let that happen." They hissed. Whumpee tried to pull themselves from the grasp, but every tug pulled at their scalp.

"It's just... Whumper's quite... Possessive." Whumpee whimpered.

"Possessive?" An amused smirk painted their face. "No no, darling. I think the correct word is protective, don't you think? Now I know they  went soft and all, but you're nothing but their property." They spat, throwing their head to the side. They followed the wall, their eyes tracing every shiny tool until they fixated on a knife innocently dangling from a nail.

Whumpee wrangled their wrist against the ropes, desperately trying to pop an arm out, or even a thumb. Each breath became more jagged than the next as panic built in their chest. 

A cold tip of a blade touched underneath their chin as they instantly flinched up, only to come face to face with its wielder. The knife dug into their throat, just enough to break skin as they winced. 

“Wh-why... Why are you doing this? You took me from my own home... What more could you p-possibly take from me?” Their glossy eyes didn't hold back as they stared at their attacker. If they were going to get an answer, it was going to be to their face. 

“Simple. It's to keep you in your place, little bargaining chip.” They rose the knife, slicing a line along their cheekbone. Whumpee’s breath hitched as they jolted away, feeling blood trickle down their cheek. 

They didn’t get a moment before another cut was struck, right above their collarbone as they fell back against the pole. “Aah-! Stop! Please stop!” Whumpee begged, their shirt collar was torn as a long slash was made from their neck to the end of their shoulder. Whumpee gasped as their head fell forwards, thrashing against the pole from their bound wrists. 

“Y-your... You're insane!” Whumpee hissed, gasping for air. 

“Am I?” They whispered, holding the blade up to their arm. They hardly pushed it in, letting Whumpee’s own flinching movements cut themselves against it. After each dreaded minute that passed, Whumpee had dozens of cuts painting their body as they sobbed hysterically. 

“You know, I was really against Whumper keeping you. But now, I think you’re just fun.” They flicked the blade to let the blood drip off. “Why don’t I make this a little more interesting? Be a dear and wait for me a minute, won’t you?” They smiled almost sweetly before spinning on their heel back up stairs. 

Whumpee’s wrists were rubbed raw, but something had loosened. They pulled and pulled with a desperate cry until they ripped their wrist out. They inhaled with unbelievable relief, adrenalin pulsed through their body as they stumbled to their feet. They wiped the blood from their face, as they shakily climbed the steps. 

They could hear haunted humming and running water from the other side of the door. Whumpee glanced down at their bleeding hands, forcing themselves to grab the handle despite the cut down each one. 

The partner was on the far side in the kitchen, their expression instantly turning pale. “HEY!” They hollered, leaving the sink running as they sprinted after them. Whumpee managed to get the front door open, but it slammed shut before they could make it out. Their arm was grabbed as they were thrown back against the floor, shuffling away in panic. 

The partner stood between them and the door almost tauntingly. “Well well! Looks like I was right after all! Little birdie couldn’t sit in their cage like a good little thing.” They spat. Whumpee scrambled back until they were behind the couch.

They advanced closer, but Whumpee would then run behind another piece of furniture further away. “How long are you going to keep this up for?” 

“As long as i-it t-takes!” Whumpee barked, ducking a swipe as they tried to each across. “Takes till what? Till Whumper comes and saves you?” They mocked. 

“Y-yeah! Yeah I guess I am!” Tears instantly poured down their face. The partner finally grabbed the chair, shoving it on its side with a bang. There was nothing left between them and Whumpee, they gulped as they took a step, their back hitting the wall hopelessly. They cried when their arm was taken and drug to the kitchen, the sink long overflowed as the tiled floor was soaked in water. 

They used their foot to pin Whumpee to the ground as they took a box of salt and poured it into the overfilled pot. “Get off of me! Ple-ase! What are you doing!?” They cried, fighting to get out from underneath their boot. Their eyes went wide when they saw the pot hovering over their head, their expression freezing as they shook their head pleadingly. 

“No... No no no.. Please don’t.” They quietly begged. 

The door slammed open, Whumper about breaking the door from its hinges. Both of them stared guiltily at them wide eyed, their partner still holding the pot,  Whumpee still covered an uncountable amount of cuts. 

“Don’t you dare, you bastard.” Whumper hissed, their face seething red, they clutched their car keys in hand like a weapon. There was silence for a moment, you could almost see the gears turning in their brain as they weighed the consequences.

“... You’ll thank me later.” 

“PARTNER NO- 

There was a splash of water, then a shattering scream filling the room. Whumper dropped the keys in shock, watching Whumpee’s body convulse. Their partner smirked with satisfaction as they stepped over them, shaking their hands dry from the salty water. 

As if they thought they could slip out the door unharmed, Whumper instantly grabbed their collar as their fist hammered their cheek with such force they slammed into the wall. They even flinched when they opened their eyes, expecting another blow to the head, but instead, they found Whumper crouching over Whumpee trying to sooth them. 

“Weak...” They spat out blood before slipping out the door, listening to Whumpee’s screams getting quieter and softer the further they went. 

Masterlist

(we’re coming back with a part 2 if you like comfort) 

o(^∀^*)o Thank you for reading! @grizzlie70  @alien-octopus @lave-whump @amethysts-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot  @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight @yet-another-heathen @princessofonward @whatwhumpcomments  @ill-eat-you-if-you-cross-me @mascmasochist @hamiltonwhumpdump  @as-a-matter-of-whump @whumpasaurus101 @starnight-whump @lonesome--hunter @chartreusephoenix

[the-year-i-met-you]

Anatomy of the starry night.

Vincent Van Gogh's famous painting, called the "Starry Night" was painted somewhat around in June 1889. It depicts a dreamy interpretation of the artist's asylum room's sweeping view of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.

The central idea behind my piece was to create my own storyline out of the six major colours that stands out the most in this masterpiece. Each colour in my writeup carries it's own unique moment and is set on a different timeline.

1. emerald green : i had my favorite song on loop that morning when i first laid my eyes on her/ she was scribbling her heart out in that empty bench of our colony, under the laburnum/ my eyes immediately fell upon her green painted nails and the silver ring she wore on her thumb/ "do you think I'm so clumsy that i need someone to watch over me?", she speaks and looks at me/ " well, feel free to say hi" i grin back at her/ i never said her name aloud to anyone but i swear it tasted like popsicle kissed smiles on my tongue.

2. prussian blue : my name in her mouth melts like a dead poet's metaphor/comforting in its own way/ i remember her tiptoeing across the hardwood floors of bookstore, casting a soft smile upon the verses that caught her eyes/ i shove my hands deep inside my pockets and look down at my shoes trying hard not to melt in the moment/ the sunless august afternoon called for showers/ left alone in the middle of the rain, i can still picture the moment when she leaned against my shoulder as we watched the downpour outside/ our fingers intertwined a few moments later and there i was melting in every moment that followed; falling harder than the raindrops on the windowpane.

3. cobalt blue : i am a patchwork of grey skies/ upon another heartbeats, i am just a soft drizzle/ but when i hear the sound of her heart, a hurricane storms inside me/ and i happily embrace it/ i have memorised every bit of her and have crafted them as poems upon my skin/ the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way the sun melts in her deep brown eyes/ the way she concentrates on raindrops running down the windowpanes, the way she tilts her head while waving a goodbye/ unknowingly, she started to reside in my breaths and i, i started to look for the hurricanes she blessed me with.

4. zinc yellow : the summer songs are hard go unnoticed/ i run my fingers by the edge of the ceramic mug, slipping more into the silence/ happiness blooms in her voice as she says about the letter she received from her beloved this morning/ i breathe every moment in; memorising every bit of her/ her fingers trace down the alphabets and her lips curl up to a little smile/ the pink in her cheeks carried his name/ she holds his letter close to her chest and whispers something silently which ended with a smile/ my heart wept for a summer but i was drowning in my set of winters again.

5. yellow ochre : it has been seven summers, twenty eight poems and a handful of breakdowns ever since this town has felt her heartbeat/ i often find myself in places she blessed me with, trying to relieve every bit of her (or us)/ i smile at the same old bench at my old colony where i first met her, find myself tracing down raindrops from other side of the windowpane/ i unknowingly tilt my head now - in every hello and goodbye/ there is a pink tint in the sunset today and my mind here crawls back to the day she received that letter/ "so this is what nostalgia is supposed to feel" a familiar voice speaks up/ i turn back and there storms, my most eagerly awaited hurricane inside me.

6. burnt umber : the air carries a hint of agony today/ she tucks another stray strand of her hair behind her ear/ pale, slender fingers running along the edge of her silver jhumka making their way back to the soft fabric of her beige dupatta/ the sound of the ganga echoes in my ears as the sun leaves a crimson hue upon the river/ my gaze shifts to her wrists/ that old set of rusted bangles still holds the same promise/ she clasps her hands closer to her chest, leaving a painful sigh, or maybe a silent sob/ i follow her eyes and tell her we should go home/ she closes her eyes, refusing to stand, "i have spent 38 years of sunsets with him but today, this sunset felt like a thousand silent deaths. i don't think i can make it to home tonight."

[gryffindors-weasley]

Hues of Pink

Bill Weasley x Reader

Summary: On rainy day at home, Bill paints your nails.

Requested by @am-i-space : “Hey I recently had this thought and I would love to actually read this I think it would be adorable: Bill sitting behind you and and painting your nails, and like little neck kisses and stupid giggles from both of you and him resting his head on yours when he´s concentrating.”

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: mentions of scars, fluff, kissing

A/N: Thank you for such a sweet and fluffy request, I hope you enjoy it!!

(gif found on pinterest, credits to the maker)

The rain was steady outside, no intentions of passing any time soon as it pelted relentlessly against the chilled windowpanes. Fortunately, there were no pressing plans waiting for either of you, and the inclement weather had only further decided that it would be a lax day around your home. You weren’t complaining though, work had been rather taxing on the both of you as of late and this gave way to some much needed time to spend together. You would never complain about that, because days like this seemed to be few and far between.

“What are you doing, love?” Bill asks, appearing in the doorway with a yawn. He leant against the doorframe as he watched you curiously over his mug and you smile brightly from your spot at the coffee table.

“Painting my nails,” you state simply, setting down your nail file amongst the assortment of other tools.

You hadn’t had spare minute to do such a hobby in a while and with your newfound down time, you thought it’d be the perfect opportunity to treat yourself. That, and it had always been a way to alleviate your stress when your mind was feeling rather busy. Though you will admit it does not work wonders in the department of aroma therapy. That much is very certain.

He hums and nods, stepping into the room fully to be with you. He was still dressed in his pajamas much like you were, and his hair had yet to meet a comb that day as it dusted over his shoulders in tangled red locks. You always playfully suggested a trim if he’d insisted on letting his hairbrush collect dust on your nightstand, but your attempts were always declined with an immediate frown. Not to mention the ginger strands you always found in your brush.

Moments later he had joined you on the living room floor, basking in the warmth of his drink that was steaming just under his nose freckled nose.

“Good morning,” you murmur, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. He turned his head in that moment to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, tasting of his usual lemon tea and an abundant amount of sugar. “Or should I say good afternoon?”

He scrunches his nose in a quiet protest, pulling away from you with a fond shake of his head and a soft smile. “Must you always tease me?”

You pretend to ponder the question briefly, tapping your finger on your cheek as he raises a brow at you. “I believe the answer is undoubtedly a yes, my love.”

He scoffs into his mug.

“Well, I believe I should stop calling you sunshine in favor of something more accurate then, like trouble.”

“Actually, Bill, I quite like that one,” You say with a laugh, more so when he narrows his tired eyes at you with a disapproving frown. Though no matter how much you may have teased him in good fun, you’d always be the embodiment of sunshine, lighting up his life in every way imaginable.

You tenderly ran your thumb over the pink scars that run across his cheek, his frown fading and the crease between his brows smoothing once more at your touch. “I’m only kidding,” you assure, but he knows that smile anywhere. “But you know I can’t resist!”

He huffs and hides his smile behind his mug as he takes a sip, setting the tattered old ceramic down on a mismatched coaster before focusing his attention back on you. It was something he always found himself to be doing, to him it was rather hard not to. And the way your tongue had poked out just past very kissable lips was only further proving his point; anything thing you did, no matter how simple or grand, always proved his point. He feels maybe he shouldn’t have joined in with his brothers in teasing Ron for the way he’s always gazing at Hermione, because he’s quite sure he has his little brother beat at this point.

He supposes one never truly understands the full scope of love and it’s effects until one is lucky enough have it. Well, he always knew love when it came to his family, he’s never experienced a moment in his life where he found himself without it. But this, this was far different from that. You came into his life and turned it upside down for the better, quite literally too when you had knocked his textbooks to floor outside of potions in your clumsy haze all those years ago. He’s sure he’s never seen someone be quite so flustered over him in all his life. Charlie was quick to take note and embarrass him in front of you once he knew his brother had caught feelings, and he quickly became flustered over you. Regardless, he was and still is profoundly in love with you, that’ll never change.

You loved him for who he is, not what he may or may not have. The scars stretching across his fair skin were of no importance either, for he’d always been beautiful to you. He was Bill Weasley, wonderfully awkward and exceptionally intelligent with a heart of gold. That’s what you loved.

His fingers tapped against his cheek as his chin rests in his palm, watching as you paint on the blush colored nail varnish with a practiced ease. You have a habit of making everything look easy, he’s noticed. For lack of better, less ironic wording, he always felt you seemed to possess a different kind of magic. One that makes the world go round, his world, one that makes everything all the more enamoring. Any spell or enchantment couldn’t hold a candle to you in his eyes.

“Can I do it?” He suddenly inquires, tucking his hair behind his ear even though it rebelliously fell right back into place. He’s decided he’s got to do something other than stare at you all day, though he is perfectly content to do so.

When you turn your head, he’s looking at you curiously, and a smile is quick to tug at your lips. He mirrors your expression with a lopsided grin, a pale scarlet dusting his cheeks.

You nod and he scoots in behind you, peering over your shoulder at the spread of polishes laid out on the small table. Before he started, you switch on another lamp with a flick of your finger so he could see a bit better. He snagged the bottle of baby pink polish you’d been working from, uncapping it and gingerly taking your hand in his own. When you opened your mouth to point him in the right direction he hushed you with a quiet hum and you laugh softly, leaning back against his chest as you let him take creative control.

He settled his chin on your shoulder, his head rested against yours as he got to work with unwavering determination. No matter the task, Bill Weasley will always find a way to make it seem as though it was of the utmost importance. Whether it be washing the dishes or being called off to work, that stoic look of concentration never failed to make an appearance. Yes, his hands had been a bit shaky and perhaps it was from the extra scoop of sugar he puts in his tea, perhaps it wasn’t, but so far he hadn’t done half bad.

With your free hand, you snag his mug of tea and take a sip, smiling to yourself at how obscenely sweet it was. If one thing was obvious, it was that he had the biggest sweet tooth out of anyone you’d ever known. He made a discontented protest when you moved once more and nearly messed up his progress, though it was one that was easily satisfied with a kiss.

For a while after that things were quiet, save for the consistent patter of the raindrops trickling down outside and his steady breathing in your ear. A cinnamon flavored candle had been gracing the room with its delightful fragrance, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t remind him of home. It made everything all the more cozy. The day was nothing short of peaceful and everything you’d dreamed it would be; not even Bill’s lighthearted grumbling over your constant fidgeting could take away from the moment. He was the cause after all, he couldn’t expect you to stay still with the chaste and absentminded kisses he’d been pressing upon your neck. It was only fair.

“I used to paint my mother’s nails, you know,” he murmurs then, still focused on the task at hand. You hum softly in response to urge him to continue on. “Whenever she’d gotten a cold or even just felt under the weather, I’d paint her nails to lift her spirits. It was this ruby red color she always adored. Granted I was fifteen and it looked absolutely horrendous and— love don’t move!”

You giggle out a soft apology and turn your head to kiss his cheek, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry.”

He pursed his lips with a hint of a smile and sighed softly, diligently continuing on with his work. “Now Ronnie gets to do it.”

The thought alone made you smile because the one and only time you’d let Ron Weasley do your nails, and even Fred for that matter, you’d ended up with more polish on your skin than your nails. It had even wound up on them, you recall. They had insisted you were moving far too much and that may have been a little true, but you’ll never let them live down their terrible nail painting abilities.

Bill’s hair had been tickling your skin and you fought the shiver it elicited, but you couldn’t seem to help it in that moment. The tiny brush clutched in his hand had smudged the soft pink pigment onto your skin, and he huffed out a laugh against your neck. He stuck the brush back in its rightful bottle with acceptance that he couldn’t get any more work done before his lips found your neck once more, your laughter relentless when he kissed the sensitive skin. He knew this fact very well, and used it to his full advantage as retaliation. His arm encircled your waist momentarily as he squeezed you close in a half hug, his own laughter mingling with yours in the little living room.

You manage free yourself from his embrace, cautious not to further smudge your freshly painted manicure. He was quick to get on his feet, though, grabbing your wrist and twirling you to face him as he tugged you close.

“Careful! You just might ruin all your hard work, love,” you scold with a beaming smile, but he seems to be far more concerned with you presently.

Your laughter fades considerably in that moment as he envelopes you in his arms once more, and with careful movements you wrap your own around his neck. You’d never quite gotten used to the way he looks at you and you probably never will; it was as if the very world revolved around you. It made the familiar crimson burn and blossom across your cheeks, his smile widening a fraction as you avert your gaze.

“You’ve got to stop doing that, you know,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek while you try and focus on absolutely anything but the way your blush is creeping down your neck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he chuckles, but he was very much aware of the meaning behind your words.

You cast a pointed stare in his direction, daring to look at him fully. A stubborn chunk of ginger hair had fallen from where it was tucked behind his ear, brushing over his cheek. A sigh leaves your lips and he finds himself resting his forehead on yours, nudging you softly with his nose. You were starting to feel like a moment more perfect than this couldn’t exist. The pungent scent of nail polish was something you could very much do without, but it was only a minor inconvenience. For you were in the arms of the love of your life and not a single thing could surpass that.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his eyes falling closed as a much softer smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Very much.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, not one of mocking, but one of utter joy that had been too overflowing within you not to do so. His chuckle puffs against your lips, his arms tightening their hold. “I love you, Bill Weasley,” you breathe earnestly in the closeness, nearly stealing a kiss before you let yourself finish your declaration. “Very much.”

Both your cheeks were stained in varying hues of pink as your lips melded in the most loving of kisses, and there was no greater feeling.

—

Tags: @theweasleysredhair @loony-loopy-lupinn @lupinsclassroom @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq

[deathduty]

Child || Solo

WHILE DEIRDRE’S MOTHER IS VISITING, and after THIS.

Deirdre's legs grew long first, tall and thin. Like a newborn deer, she stumbled around any patch of uneven land. Her legs quivered as they struggled to keep the rest of her steady. Her knees turned thick and hard under the constant scraping. Bruises melded into the paleness of her skin until purple was simply an undertone.

Her mother had grown gradually, like the swell of an orchestra. She blamed Deirdre’s choppy growth on her father. She should have known better, looked harder. Except this was not guilt, or ownership of something, it couldn’t have been with the way her eyes bore into Deirdre every time she fell over. Her daughter was clumsy. There was no father to blame.

Just the child.

Deirdre had been meaning to fix the odd shrieking that her door gave off every time it was closed slowly. It sounded a lot like a wounded animal losing its voice to give one last plea for help, which she might have enjoyed if it wasn’t for the way the sound sliced through her house. It also never was much of a problem unless she was sneaking into her own house, a thing she’s never done before.

“There’s a joke here about watching my daughter sneak into her own house, but I’ll let you make it,” her mother, Siobhan, smiled. She was leaning against Deirdre’s kitchen island, against her marble countertop just barely in sight from the entrance. Deirdre figured she must have done this deliberately, so that her curiosity to see what her mother was up to would propel her into the kitchen. 

And it did.

Without being asked, she stood at the threshold between her great room and the kitchen, where decadent hardwood turned into cold tile. And like always under the gaze of her mother, or merely in her presence, Deirdre felt herself shrinking. She opened her mouth to work out that joke about the sneaking in, but the words jammed in her throat, begging to be swallowed down with an audible gulp instead. 

“What--what--” What are you doing here? It was the middle of the night, and there was no one who hated eating after 6 P.M. like her mother. But Deirdre couldn’t say that either and blubbering around like a child didn’t appeal much to her so she swallowed that too and waited for her mother to offer up an explanation. 

Instead of words, Siobhan stepped aside. On the island, revealed by her movement, was a piece of paper. Deirdre knew the stationary. Her face turned pale, almost the same fairness as her mother. She tried to account for all of Morgan’s letters, all she knew to be tucked away in the safe behind the lackluster painting of a beach. She tried to account for her own, those she knew to be hidden well in the safe under her workbench in the shed. 

Deirdre inched closer but Siobhan’s voice halted her.

“It would seem like you have an admirer, actually. Though not much of an interesting read.” The older banshee shifted again, sparing a glance at the paper from over the tip of her nose. “I was looking around for that knife your great-great-grandmother gave you and that was what greeted me.”

Deirdre didn’t move. She tried to account for the letters she knew she’d stored away safely, where this sort of thing couldn’t happen. Behind the painting of a beach at night, behind a shore of a different world where the stars were bright and plentiful and the ocean waves were calm and cyclical. There were two letters. Were there still two letters there?

“Well,” her mother hummed, pulling a knife from her side with the same grace and ease that Deirdre did. “I could do you a favor---” she smiled, stabbing the knife into the letter, letting the sound of cracking marble ripple between them. She pulled a lighter from her pocket next, and flicked that open. “---and just spare you having to read it. Fates, it’s such degrading stuff.” Siobhan pressed the lighter to the end of the letter. Her eyes were set on the flame, not her daughter. “Let me get rid of it for you.” 

Deirdre, propelled by something monstrous to which she could not put a name, dove forward. She shoved her mother aside, tried to pull the knife out with one hand and stamp the flame out with the other. 

She heaved. The charred remains dangled off her throbbing fingers. The beginning of the letter was still readable, it was only near the end that the ink smudged and tearing and burning morphed the sentences. This was not one of the two she already had. 

“What are you doing?”

Deirdre spun around, clutching the letter to her chest, afraid her mother would rip it away. 

“Look at yourself, child.”

And like the child with the long, thin legs that didn't know how to keep her upright, Deirdre tumbled backwards. The cold tile slamming into her backside was more welcome than her mother's withering gaze. Her mouth quivered, and she worked around more words that had to be swallowed away. 

She imagined herself as that child, dwarfed by her mother's height and skill. When words would tumble out of her mouth without thought, and with a whimper she'd ask "are you going to hurt me?" But Deirdre could imagine the answer to that too. There was nothing more unforgivable than hurting a Fae, and her mother respected rules so greatly.

She might have held her daughter's hands steady against rods of cold iron to teach steadiness, or held her head under water to teach perseverance, but never once hit her. And she didn't need to hurt Deirdre to get her messages across. 

“Have you considered this is why you couldn’t activate that poor banshee?” Siobhan sighed. She glanced down at her daughter, decidedly refusing to move to her level or even tilt her head. "Can you imagine anything worse than never being given your gift? And can you think of a greater betrayal to who we are than not fulfilling your duty?" She turned her eyes to the bed of her nails, more intriguing a sight than her daughter quivering on the floor. "You are still such a child, aren't you?"

Siobhan picked the knife up from where Deirdre had haphazardly discarded it in her attempt to protect the letter. She tossed it between her hands, hovering over her daughter’s legs, something she’d finally grown into.

But she’d never hurt her. Deirdre believed that, even if her body didn’t.

Deirdre could remember nights spent with her cursed legs tucked under her, head pressed against the wall as their orange kitchen light streamed across scarred marble flooring. The light caught in every indent, drawing attention to each mark. She could remember trying to count them as her mother and great-grandmother's hushed whispers filled the air. She was supposed to be asleep, but she had so much trouble sleeping between nightmares and panic.

"I hate children," she'd say, "so red faced, screaming…helpless. Without you, I’m not sure how I would have managed through Deirdre."

Her great-grandmother would laugh in that wheezy way she did, as if she took too much air into her lungs and needed to cough it out. Her voice was deep and hoarse, like a woman who smoked too much despite having never touched a cigarette in her life. "Children are children. What are you going to do?"

"I hate them," her mother repeated. "Demanding. Selfish. Ungrateful. Insufferable."

Her great-grandmother, without fail, would always ask, “what of your own?”

And her mother, equally without fail, would always respond, “perfect, but still a child.”

The marble's scars always seemed larger then, deeper. Splitting apart and sitting silently on the verge of cracking apart. She knew they were the same marks, but under her mother's venomous tone, everything became a canyon. She never could if her mother knew that she sat there, listening to them, or if she didn't care either way. 

What she couldn’t remember was when her mother had left, and when exactly she’d taken from being half sitting up to curled up on her cold tile, a charred letter sitting in front of her. Or when, exactly, her great-great-grandmother’s knife had found its way into her shoulder. 

She laid in her blood, looking out across her immaculate floor. She missed the scarred marble of her home. There was nothing to count here.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m---I’m---” Deirdre, 8, knew better than to blubber like some child. She hadn’t cried this much since she was a baby. The taste of salt dripping into her mouth was odd, but she couldn’t help it. Unable to speak without floundering, she didn’t dare try. 

“You’ve been given such a great gift,” her mother reached up, a sharp smile was her attempt at comfort. She held her daughter’s face steady and rubbed away her tears roughly with her thumb. “Why are you crying? No one can love you like we can. No one can understand you like we can. No one else matters. And now you’re just like your mother.” Siobhan pulled back. The sounds of Deirdre’s  chéad scread thumped on from behind her bedroom door made of marred wood. For the first time, she heard her mother’s voice turn sharp---dissolved into the crude echo of a stranger. “What else could you want? Everything you need is right here.”

[kbstories]

Hegemony

he·ge·mo·ny (n.) A dominant influence or authority over others.

One cell, two captains and an uncertain future ahead.

(Or: Kidd’s prison makeup is flawless. Here’s why.)

Tags: Captivity, Enemies to Friends, Bickering, Fluff (?)

Read Chapter 1 here. Set in Wano. Spoiler warning for Act Two of Wano.

***

Kidd is awake before Strawhat, that first day.

Time is a nebulous concept, measured by shades of grey and shifting shadows. A mouse scuttles by, looking for scraps, and Kidd lets it nip at his boot for a bit before he shoos it away.

Outside, not a single soul moves. The stone pit will be busy soon enough.

Strawhat snorts in his slumber and turns around, sleeping off his clash with Kaido one snore at a time. He’s a mess, hair plastered in place with blood long dried, the yukata he wears torn and drenched in it, too. Blue from his fingers to his wrists, and Kidd didn’t even know a rubber man can bruise. It makes him wonder whether his metal fist would withstand whatever punches the brat dished out to get those.

Kidd smirks. Something to keep in mind for the day the shackles come off.

He leaves Strawhat to it; the guards are still a while out anyways. Instead, Kidd twists in his chains, far enough to wipe his lips against his fur coat. The thing is done for anyways, crusted with dust and filth of all kinds. There’s a handsewn pocket on the inside that Kidd reaches into, straining his wrist to grab what’s inside.

Despite the encounter with an Emperor (among other things), his lipstick has yet to break. The case is a little dented, sure, bullet worn almost to the nub – Kidd didn’t exactly count on being imprisoned for a week – but it’ll do. After years of daily use, Kidd has no need for a mirror or any sort of diligence for this, the shape of his mouth traced in one fluid motion.

Finding this shade of red in the New World was a pain in the ass to say the least: The rest of his stash is on the Punk and that’s another reason his ship better be fine and not on the bottom of the ocean. Lives have been lost over much, much less.

Kidd smacks his lips when he’s done. Repeats the process with the trusty kohl pencil he takes to each of his eyes, the black lines surrounding them reinforced with easy precision.

Much better.

His nails are a whole other story. In the dim morning light, Kidd runs his thumb over their smooth, lacquered texture; he doesn’t get very far before hitting scratches and the odd hole where crimson polish has chipped off entirely.

On any other day, it would be a quick fix. Just a matter of nudging Killer awake next to him and watch him paint on another coat with patient hands. Return the favor in Killer’s favorite blue, if needed.

Now, the bottle of nail polish is an odd weight in his hand. Kidd frowns. It’ll be impossible to get the right angle like this.

“What ya got there, Spikey? Food?”

Kidd doesn’t as much startle as throw a glare over his shoulder – only to realize that Strawhat is right next to him. Big, curious eyes are all the bigger mere inches from his face, and Kidd jerks his hand away before Strawhat can finish grabbing for it.

“Paws off or I’ll bite them off”, Kidd barks between clenched teeth. Who knew the little shit could be this sneaky? Strawhat straight up ignores him, climbing over Kidd to get to his chained hand.

“C’mon, share! I’m so hungr– Ah!”

Even clad in Sea Stone, the guy tastes like rubber and sweat. Urgh. Kidd bites down all the same, only letting go when Strawhat pushes at his head and scrambles for swift retreat on flip-flopped feet.

His arm comes away bloody, teeth marks a perfect half-circle on his skin.

“You bit me!”

There’s a grin on Kidd’s lips, growing wider when he wipes at the corners of his mouth and nothing comes away smudged. “Told ya”, Kidd spits the words out along with the dirt on his tongue. Disgusting. “This ain’t even food, you stupid fuck.”

Strawhat tilts his head at him and Kidd rolls his eyes, shows him the tiny flask held between two fingers.

“Oh! It’s that stuff for the nails. The one that smells bad.”

Look who’s talking. Kidd huffs. “Yeah. Stop bothering me.”

A moment passes and Strawhat actually stays away, sitting cross-legged and slumped with his elbows on his knees. That should’ve been the end of it: By the time Kidd has shaken and opened the bottle and balanced it somewhat precariously on his leg, Kidd’s full attention is focused on the wet shine of the delicate brush.

But so is Strawhat’s. It’s unnerving.

“What?”

“Huh? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re staring. Fuck off.”

Strawhat doesn’t fuck off. “Isn’t that kinda hard? With, um…”, a vague gesture towards what remains of Kidd’s left arm, “that. How are you gonna do your thumb and stuff?”

Kidd turns his head slowly. His pulse thrums hot in his veins. “You looking for a fight?”

“What? No.” The brat has the nerve to look annoyed. “Jeez. I’m just saying, this place is boring as hell and there’s no food. It sucks.”

Kidd stares. Waits for the connection between one and the other to make sense. “And?”

Chin on his hands, Strawhat’s eyebrows draw into an even deeper frown, cheeks puffed out. It’s… a pout. Strawhat is pouting.

“I can help with that, y’know. Robin and Nami let me paint their nails all the time.”

A laugh bubbles up before Kidd can stop it. He shakes his head, “You’re so full of shit”, turns back to the task at hand. The tip is dipped in again and–

The cuff jerks at his hand. Kidd freezes. The bottle wobbles dangerously without anything to steady it, its precious contents on the precipice of spilling all over the dirty floor.

Breathless seconds later, it stabilizes enough to screw the lid back on.

A defeated sigh. “Monkey.”

“Hm?”

Kidd tells him, “This is my last bottle”, slow and deliberate. “Break it and you will die.”

Strawhat blinks, lifts his head. A smile is quick to burst on his lips, all sunny and delighted, damn him. “Gotcha!”

A rather clumsy shuffle to Kidd’s side makes him regret his decision almost immediately but Strawhat’s fingers are careful as he takes the nail polish from Kidd, handling it like one would a fledgling bird or perhaps a rare butterfly. When Strawhat gets to work, he does so with his tongue sticking out of his mouth and a look of concentration on his face that Kidd has only seen in battle before.

Huh. Perhaps there are worse things out there than having Strawhat Luffy as a cell mate.

*

That first day in the stone pit ends with a veritable feast for both of them.

By the second, Strawhat has managed to piss off the guards enough that they hook his shackles to the wall, too, and the twisting and pulling and gnawing on the chains for hours on end had provided some form of entertainment.

On the third, Kidd catches heat right along with him for helping that old fart with not-starving, and they’re locked in two separate cells right next to each other instead. Which, as much as Kidd doesn’t care, means he can kiss the semi-functional plan he’d come up with goodbye. Strawhat attracts trouble like shit does the flies – it’s… not exactly new information. Sabaody is a little hard to forget, even two years later.

(This is the reason why Killer’s the one with the plans.)

Fuck it. He has never been the guy to shut up and follow another, no matter how many times the world will go tits up in Strawhat’s wake. No, Kidd has his own path to walk: One that will lead him to a crew to be saved and a ship to be recovered and traitors to be hunted and there, at the very end of it, to One Piece itself.

The fourth day sees Queen return to Udon under thunderous applause. By then, Kidd has slipped the guards and climbed his way to freedom without a single glance back.

*

The Wasteland is ahead, Flower Capital beyond that.

Sea Stone weighs heavier with every step, the sun too-bright in his eyes. Over and over, Kidd runs his thumb over his nails and smiles grimly.

There’s not a single crack in the polish.

[kazkazoozoo]

Misty Mauve

Pairing: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker

(open-ended ficlet. very poorly written.)

Read on AO3

So this is what her ceiling looks like. Peter muses as he lies on MJ’s bed.

His heart’s still racing, not only from the passionate sex he just had with her seconds ago, but also because of what he plans to tell her when she comes out of the bathroom.

I really like you.

Which seems ridiculously obvious, but he hasn’t told her yet.

Because they’re not boyfriend and girlfriend, just best friends who have really great sex together and decided to have some fun without labeling each other.

Friends with benefits, is what he believes how people would describe the nature of their relationship.

But he wants more. He has wanted more ever since junior year of high school. Too bad that right before the moment he finally had the guts to break up with Gwen, MJ started dating Brad, who turned out to be a jealous and possessive jerk. After the nasty breakup between him and MJ, she didn’t want to start anything serious. So Peter did what he’s best at: being a good friend and listening to her rants about patriarchy, racism, capitalism or just about anything wrong with the society. He really likes to listen to her talk, anyway.

And apparently MJ loved that. Turned on by it, even. Otherwise he couldn’t really find any explanation for MJ tackling him mid-conversation and giving him a blow job instead of watching the rest of the movie that was still playing on his laptop back in his bedroom.

The blow job lead to him eating her out, which lead to them having sex, which further lead to them agreeing to have more sex for fun.

Maybe things would have been so much easier if he had just made it clear that he didn’t just want to have fun back then.

But it’s not too late now, is it? They just had sex in her bed, which she opposed to when they first made the rules for their hookups.

She seemed pleasantly surprised by him when she answered the door, practically dragged him by his collar into her room and peeled off his clothes within seconds. The next thing he knew, she’s on top of him on her bed, stroking his dick while kissing him frantically.

Peter took all of that as good signs.

He’s still revelling in the memory of MJ moaning his name in his ear that sends shivers all over his body when she steps out of the bathroom, completely naked.

He sits right up, staring and gulping as she walks up to her closet, considering before finally picking out a set of purple satin lingerie and putting it on teasingly in front of him.

“What do you think?”

Peter feels his dick twitches a little when her thumbs lightly brushed his cheeks.

“I think you look good in anything,” or nothing.

She smiles sweetly, eyes curving into thin lines and sparkling.

His infatuation with her grows impossibly larger.

“Help me paint my nails, I can’t get it perfectly done with my clumsy left hand.”

MJ hands him a bottle of pale purple nail polish that’s previously sitting on the nightstand, then flops down onto the bed with her head positioned on his lap.

Seeing her giddily smiles up to him makes him forget they aren’t exactly dating yet. His plan of confessing his undying love for her gets pushed back on the schedule.

Now he has a mission to finish first.

“Do you think I should go with this color?”

MJ asks when they’re waiting for the nail polish to dry after he finishes the first layer, which she seems quite satisfied with.

Misty Mauve, says the tag on the bottle.

“Why not? I think it looks great on you.”

She stares at him, face inscrutable.

“Harry gave it to me.”

“Oh.”

“He asked me out.”

Oh.

“Would you mind if I go out with him?”

He wants to say yes, but he knows that MJ hated Brad’s possessive bullshit.

“I think you should do whatever you want to.”

She pauses several beats.

“Okay.”

[musingmycelium]

commission for @sunwarden​! thank you so much for commissioning me!

Pairing: Mantis Surana x Alistair Theirin Rating: Explicit Words: 1733 commission info

In the early evening, the Reception Hall is nearly empty. Sunlight filters in through the stained glass decorating the tops of the windows, spilling onto the floor to paint the wood blue and pink and green. Mantis stands next to Alistair while the last of the few petitioners make their way through the long hall. The past month has been nothing but constant work, meetings and decisions and missed meals.

Going to bed only to fall into an exhausted sleep, waking cozily wrapped in arms only to leave them for yet more councils and rulings.

Leaning down to whisper in her ear Alistair rests a hand on the small of her back, “You know, once they leave we’ll be alone.” His touch is gentle, familiar on her skin through her robe and Alistair massages a small circle before moving his hand to her hip. “Alone and nobody will need us for the rest of the night.”

Mantis covers his hand with hers, their fingers lightly twining together. “Nobody at all?” It seems impossible, there is always so much to be done and recently their workload has been enormous. But Alistair’s smile is warm and soft and bright and matches his eyes and Mantis believes him.

She tilts her head closer to his, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Then I can think of a few needs for us to address.” Fingers tightening, “Alone preferably.”

It’s easy this, years of practice at getting Alistair to blush makes Mantis a practical expert. The darkening skin of his cheeks raises a cozy fluttering in Mantis’ chest and their hands stay clasped together for the few petitioners left.

Those petitioners pass in a blur an endless rushed stream of people and questions and Mantis is already thinking about the blush under Alistair’s freckles. How it will spread.

By the time the last one is leaving the Reception Hall they’re both melting. Alistair turns with a waggle to his eyebrows and Mantis is grinning, foolhardy, as they all but dash to their bedroom. Shutting the door behind them and the moment they’re alone, truly alone and together for the first time in weeks Alistair bends down and Mantis reaches up.

Lips meeting in an unrushed kiss.  

They’re long past hurried brushes in tents, long past insecurities. Alistair smiles into their kiss his hands catching hers and pulling Mantis closer to him. Slow and warm and sure. Stepping closer, pressing together, Mantis flexes her fingers against Alistair’s and pulls them free. Lets them trail upwards, his wrists smooth under her fingers his arms strong where they start to wrap around her.

Against his neck, her nails scrapping through his hair and tilting his head. Closer. Mantis breathes and Alistair steals the air from her chest, so long. It’s been so long, duty pulling them apart even when they’re so close together. But not tonight.

Tonight Alistair kisses Mantis and unties the laces of her robe. His fingers gliding down her back, clumsy with antisipation. Her hands cupping his jaw, sliding down his neck down his chest. Grounded in a moment they don’t have to leave.

Shivers. Little tremors shaking them both, breaking their kiss as the air runs out in the other's lungs.

Sofly reaching up and untying the leather strip holding her hair in place Alistair watches her wavy ginger hair fall. Little curls falling into Mantis’ eyes only to be brushed back by Alistair’s gentle fingers.

“You are so beautiful.” Spoken like a fact, like he couldn’t believe it. Even after these past few years together. His eyes wide in the basking sunlight when they meet Mantis, so full of love she can feel it stop her heart in her chest.

Heavy breaths falling in the scant space between them. Alistair moves his attention from Mantis’ lips to her jaw, to her neck, her shoulders. Pushing her loosened robe to reveal the freckled skin beneath. Mantis herself wastes no time, pulling Alistair’s shirt up from where it’s tucked her fingertips brushing his soft stomach.

Stepping back for a moment, hearts racing, when they can’t undress each other properly any further. Mantis’ robe is halfway hanging off her shoulder and Alistair’s shirt is rumpled, his belt unbuckled. Grinning at each other.

Mantis tugs on her rumpled handful of Alistair’s shirt, “Take this off for me.”

Red tinges Alistair’s brown skin floods his cheeks and ears and spreads down his chest, only partially in Mantis’ sight. “Your wish is my command.” Alistair’s smile is soft, deliciously warm. He makes a show of it, wiggling his eyebrows at her until they’re hidden behind his shirt.

Raising a hand to cover her giggle Mantis takes the few steps back to sit on the edge of their bed. Alistair throws his shirt to the basket lying next to the door, and tries to step between Mantis’ legs. Except, his pants, already loose from Mantis undoing his belt, slide partially down his hips. Tripping him.

Alistair faceplants on the bed. And Mantis doesn’t even try to contain her laughter. It rings through the air, high and sweet and full of genuine mirth. She places a hand on his back, his skin flushed under her palm. But he’s laughing too. Muffled by their sheets Mantis can only faintly hear him though she feels his back shaking with it.  

“I’m sorry for laughing.” Mantis’ laughter overpowers her sentence even as she apologizes and she leans down to kiss the back of Alistair’s neck. “Are you- Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, more than fine.” Still stifled Alistair pushes himself up, flips himself over with a grin. “Definitely more than fine. His hand reaches up to tuck a piece of Mantis’ wayward ginger hair behind her ear, eyes gentle. Mantis leans into his touch, meets him halfway for a tender kiss tasting of laughter.

Hands falling to her shoulders, pushing her robe completely off one shoulder and Mantis slips her arm out of it. Shimmies to get the otherside free and lets the robe drop to the floor in an unceremonious pile. Her small clothes follow quickly. Alistair’s fingers pressing into her skin, lingering.

They don’t rush. Sunlight fades outside their window, gold to burning orange to violet. Violet to midnight blue. Touches and kisses and sighs, neither of them wanting this moment to end. Stars coming out to shine in the night and the two of them only notice for how they reflect in the others’ eyes.

Gently, unhurriedly. Alistair flips them over, rests his weight on his elbows by Mantis’ sides. Meets her eyes with his and the light in them is brighter than any sunset they may have missed.

Alistair kisses Mantis, follows the consellations of her freckles across her skin. Light touches, his fingertips followed by his lips, down her neck to the raise of her collarbone across her shoulder. Mantis squirms under Alistair’s attention, warmth slipping into heat in her core. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders, dragging them down his skin.

Each of her freckles is given attention and Mantis is not lacking in them, Alistair kisses every inch of her. Slowly, exploring a place more familiar than home, every single inch. Whispers against her skin, a littany of prayers made at her altar. Alistair sings her praise.

Sweat begins to bead on Mantis’ skin. Collects in the dips of her hips and the hollow of her throat like an offering. High breathless laughter on her lips.

“Please, Alistair.” Building flames licking under Mantis’ skin, teasing touches to her core. “Please!” Alistair’s lips at the jut of her hipbone and the heat of his skin so close to her has Mantis going up like a pyre.

Alistair laughs, “I can do that.” Shifts, moves back closer, higher. Mantis is liquid heat and warm familiar desire, her hands clutching at Alistair’s shoulders.

And Alistair is pressing a finger against her entrance. Slipping inside without resistence, finding her clit with his thumb and circling it. Mantis shivers, twitches with her whole body. Drips. Wanting nothing more than for Alistair to finish what they started.

Pulling back from her for a moment, a heartbeat of desire. Lining up with a kiss to Mantis’ temple, pressing in until the seam between them is continuos and Mantis doesn’t know where she ends and Alistair begins.

Steady heat, gentle pressure. Mantis arcs as Alistair bends, her hand on the back of his head pulling him down to her. Close enough there’s barely room to breathe. Tender and sweet. Hips meeting in tandum, Mantis rolling her hips in time with Alistair’s thrusts.

Time becoming meaningless. Heatbeats lasting eternities. Stretching the starlight falling on Alistair’s shoulders and into Mantis’ eyes. Languid and sanguine. Taking the time they have for tonight, for however long they can. Love made quietly in the space between lips, kisses shared under starlight.

Tracing patterns on skin in an effort to memorize constellations. Slow thrusts building flames higher and higher. Prayers in the form of breathless whispers on skin.

Burning so softly, so sweetly, so slowly. Building so tenderly. Flames reaching for the heavens and the sparks falling down to catch their hearts on fire. A pleasure Mantis sinks into, welcomes with faint laughter. Waves rising and crashing and peaking and Mantis is lost.

Surrenders.

Mantis shudders around Alistair, his name on her lips as she clenches her hand in his hair and her toes curl against the sheets. He isn’t far behind, Mantis’ name swallowed by her lips in a sated kiss.

Winding down, hips studdering and slowing. Stopping. Alistair pulls out of Mantis with care, curling himself around her to get closer. Smiling Mantis turns onto her side, cupping Alistair’s face in her hands.

Hums her satisfaction, “Thank you for addressing those pressing needs of mine your Majesty.” Smile slipping into grin at the affronted look Alistair gives her, his arms wrapping around her tightly.

“Are you sure I met them all? I like to be thourough you know.” His fingers dance across her ribs, sensitive skin ringing a laugh from her. “It wouldn’t do if I were to miss any.”

The light in Alistair’s eyes has Mantis softening, even as his tickling her causes her to squirm in his arms. “We definitely wouldn’t want that.”

Laughter and grins, soft touches and tender words. For all the time they spend apart Mantis knows in her heart they’ve never been closer together.

[acaseforpencils]

Colin Tom.

Bio: I’m a Brooklyn-based artist and doodler. I was born in Singapore and moved around a lot as a kid, but I predominantly grew up between the Bay Area, California, and Atlanta, Georgia.

Find this print here!

I received a BFA in painting and a BA in magazine journalism from the University of Georgia. As soon as I graduated, I threw all of my things in a U-haul with my friends, and moved to Brooklyn— bartending in night clubs and bars, and art handling in galleries and museums to make ends meet.

I’ve always had a drawing and painting practice while I’ve lived here, but I didn’t start drawing for The New Yorker until I saw an episode of Sixty Minutes on the submission process. I made my first batch with nothing more than the intention of seeing the inside of The New Yorker offices and having a meeting with Bob Mankoff. Once I got a taste for the rejection I kept showing up. I began submitting in 2014 and was published for the first time in 2015.

Tools of choice: I used to draw in my painting studio. Then I drew in my room. These days I’m most frequently drawing in coffee shops. I spend a lot of time skateboarding somewhere to draw, and I’d like to think that’s where I get a lot of my ideas.

When I’m drawing on paper, I keep printer paper and pens in a metal clipboard/ storage box and draw on it when I’m working on the go. I’ll use Faber-Castell Pitt Artist Pens sized Fine, Medium and Small. I’ll occasionally use a pencil for tone, or do an ink wash on bristol or watercolor paper for a finish, if the cartoon calls for it.

I only drew cartoons while watching old boxing matches for a long time (I'm a big fan). It was terrible for drawing cartoons but I did learn a lot about the history of boxing.

I’ve recently been drawing on a Microsoft Surface tablet. I initially felt like everything I drew looked too digital so I stuck to my paper and metal clip board for nearly two years after I’d gotten it. However, once I succumbed to the simple convenience of it, I adapted to the tablet after a few clumsy batches.

The ability to draw something and quickly put it in an email completely changed my writing process. Rather than doodling a thumb nail, drawing a larger rough, scanning, captioning and touching it up in photoshop, I simply draw and send. Before I can tell myself that something is too dumb, inappropriate or incriminating, I’ve pushed send and whoops it’s already in the hands of The New Yorker. Nice.

I also realized that I’m constantly drawing things on my phone and texting it to friends, so I wanted to take that immediacy and see how it worked with New Yorker cartoons.

All of that being said, paper and canvas rule, and nothing can replace it.

Tool I wish existed: My bank makes a computing error giving my debit card unlimited funds. My drawing practice is relocated to various exotic beaches.

Tricks: My toe technique to stir the creative juices:

I try to make drawing cartoons as simple and fun as possible. I limit brainstorming or preliminary sketching. I put pen to paper (or screen) and just go.

Misc: I work at an artist run bar called Beverly’s that also functions as an exhibition space, and I art handle at the Guggenheim museum. I make paintings and admire artwork outside of illustration, but there’s something refreshing about the objectivity of a New Yorker cartoon. Is it funny? Does it work? The pursuit of making a good New Yorker cartoon is a world view.

Website, etc: 

Instagram 

Website

Find more posts about art supplies on Case’s Instagram! There is a Twitter as well. I also recently created an Instagram for my own art, if you’re interested!

If you enjoy this blog, and would like to contribute to labor and maintenance costs, there is also a Patreon.

Have a nice week!

[brumalbreeze]

D. C. al fine (YukiMomo) - NSFW

Title: D.C. al fine Fandom: IDOLiSH7 Pairing(s): Yuki/Momo Rating: Explicit Length: 6,109 words

SPOILERS FOR PART 3, CHAPTERS 6.5 ONWARD. If you haven’t seen the new updates yet, please read them here!

Also on AO3. 

“… It’s embarrassing, so I’ll talk about it another time.” Yuki averted his gaze and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Another time?” Momo tilted his head to the side, curious as to why Yuki’s body language had changed so suddenly. Just a second ago, he was relaxed and open.

When Yuki looked at him again, he was smiling. “Around the time I’m on the verge of death…”

“That’s so far away!”

Yuki laughed. “Let’s go home.”

Momo grinned and trotted to his side. He took the metal bat from Yuki and hit his palm with it as they walked. “Wow, this is pretty heavy.”

“I chose one that looked like it would hurt the most,” Yuki said casually while pulling his car keys from his pocket.

“Shouldn’t you have hammered some nails into a regular bat then?”

“Didn’t have the time,” he said and unlocked his car.

Momo snickered under his breath.

The two of them got in and put on their seatbelts. The car rumbled to life with a gentle purr, and Yuki pulled away from the curb.

Momo gazed out the window as Yuki drove, feeling warm from the tequila he had. It had been high quality stuff, but it settled terribly in his stomach. The distasteful words which had slid from Ryou’s poisoned tongue stuck to Momo’s throat and nose, as if he had swallowed them. He clenched his fists in his lap.

The streetlamps painted the interior of the car with sporadic splashes of light.

“Momo…” Yuki called out, his voice soothing and even. “What did you talk about with him?”

He glanced at Yuki, paused for a moment, and let a smile pull his lips up. He loosened his hands and fiddled with the rings on his left hand. “The past,” he said. “Re:vale’s past.”

When Yuki didn’t say anything, he went on. “I thought he would change his mind about the entertainment industry if I told him about how awesome you and Ban-san were, but….” He shook his head and sighed. After taking in a breath, he started anew. “It made me feel nostalgic. Thinking about how cool you and Ban-san were… it made me remember how much strength you had given me then.” Momo smiled and pressed his hand to his chest. “Of course, it also hurt to remember how Re:vale almost ended and how hard it was to keep you from quitting, but I’m glad we’re here now.”

Yuki’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “… We made you go through a lot, didn’t we….”

“Ah, well,” he replied, “It wasn’t easy for any of us.”

“I had forgotten.”

“Huh?”

“I had forgotten how much you liked ‘The Incomplete Us.’”

“Ah….” Momo watched light cut across Yuki’s sharp features and filter through his hair. Even though the light was harsh, Yuki glowed ethereally.

Yuki’s face became obscured when he looked away to make a right turn. He glanced at Momo for a second and returned his gaze to the road. “I ran into Ban the other day, after I had finished our demo tape for ‘NO DOUBT.’ We talked for a little, and that’s when he brought it up again. I couldn’t help but think about the past too.

“Some of those memories were very painful, but many of them were precious too. In the same way we gave you strength, I think you gave me just as much,” Yuki said. “I’m glad we’re here now too. And I’m glad you’re by my side, Momo.”

Momo’s mouth dropped open at the unexpected words. Sharp prickles burned his eyes, nose, and throat, and he ducked his head. He could only nod and make an affirmative noise. It wasn’t as if he thought Yuki didn’t treasure him. Even though Yuki had gotten better over the years, he had always been bad with expressing his feelings, so Momo learned to read the other ways he showed his affection.

He knew Yuki cared when he kept passing his own water bottle to him during their concerts, always made at least one meat dish when he was over for dinner, and made sure the staff had Momorin on hand during recording sessions. They were often nonverbal and sometimes clumsy ways of expressing love, but Momo recognized them all.

But hearing Yuki say such a thing out loud made his chest swell and overflow with emotion.

Yuki pulled into the driveway of his home and shut the engine off. They had gotten back faster than Momo had expected. He had been so lost in his thoughts.

“Let’s go,” Yuki said and smiled at him.

Momo let out a breathy laugh and nodded.

The house was dark and lonely when Yuki opened the door, but it warmed up when the lights in the hallway snapped on.

Momo locked the door behind him and stepped on the heels of his shoes to get them off. When he finished, he saw Yuki lingering in the hallway. “What’s the matter?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

Yuki shook his head and hummed. He waited until Momo got close enough and then put his fingers against Momo’s jaw. He leaned down and Momo tilted his head instinctively. Their kiss was brief and tender.

It felt like coming home, and the tension he didn’t even know he was holding onto slipped from him. Momo breathed in deeply and kept his eyes closed for a second longer than the kiss. When he opened them, Yuki was looking at him fondly. He chuckled. “What was that for?”

“You looked like you needed it,” Yuki replied and kissed him again.

Momo laughed into it and wrapped his arms around Yuki’s waist. “I’ve missed you,” he muttered into Yuki’s shoulder.

“We’ve seen each other almost every day.”

“Yeah, but…” he sighed. Between his solo appearances on talk and radio shows and Yuki’s movie filming and fashion photoshoots, the two of them hardly had any time to sit down alone to talk lately. The scarce minutes they caught between the stage and the changing room were hardly enough. He hugged Yuki tighter. “Still.”

“I know,” Yuki said and patted his back. “You’ve worked hard today. Want to sleep?”

Momo nodded and pulled away.

Yuki walked toward the bathroom, and Momo trailed after him.

“Shower?” Yuki asked when they got there.

Momo shook his head. “Too tired.”

“Alright,” Yuki said. He turned on the tap to wash his hands.

They started getting ready for the night.

Sharing a small, single-person sink was something they had gotten used to ages ago, when they used to live together in a cramped, too-small apartment. But, perhaps because of the lingering alcohol in him, Momo found it a lot more intimate than usual to be shoulder-to-shoulder with Yuki as they brushed their teeth.

His heartbeat bloomed in his chest as he watched Yuki put on a headband before washing the makeup from his face. It was hardly the most flattering sight of him, but it made Momo happy to know that he was one of the very few people Yuki could act so casually around. It wasn’t like Yuki was putting on a front for everyone else, but this was a side of Yuki only Momo got to see regularly, and it felt special to him.

Yuki finished his nightly routine and left the room first. When Momo was done and went to the bedroom, he found Yuki sitting on the edge of the bed loosely braiding his hair. He had already changed into his usual bathrobe.

Momo went to their shared closet and grabbed something comfortable to wear. He was too tired to take his dirty clothes to the laundry basket in the bathroom, so he simply shuffled them into the same pile Yuki had left on the floor.

When he flopped face-first onto the bed, Yuki chuckled. “Momo, come on. Get under the blankets, at least.”

He didn’t say anything. Momo felt the blankets getting tugged from beneath him, so he groaned and rolled over.

“You’re acting so spoiled today,” Yuki laughed into his ear as he leaned over Momo. He tried to pull the covers over his shoulders.

Momo wiggled around until he was properly tucked in. “It’s been a long day,” he said, allowing a whine run through his voice. “You should spoil me today.”

“Alright,” Yuki said with a smile. He lay down too and faced Momo. “If that’s what you want.”

A blush spread over his face as Yuki’s words seeped into his chest, and he grinned. “You’re always so good to me, Darling.”

Yuki reached out and placed his palm against Momo’s cheek. He stroked his thumb back and forth on his skin. “Of course, Honey.”

Momo moved closer to Yuki and curled his hands close to his chest. He closed his eyes and breathed, letting his mind quiet down.

“Do you remember the first time we met?”

“Hm?” Momo opened his eyes at the question, but Yuki leaned in to kiss him, so he closed them again. It was a short kiss, and Yuki pressed two or three more on his lips before moving away. It was rare for Yuki to act so forward and affectionate on his own. Momo was taken off guard by this and needed a second to collect his thoughts. “The first time we met…?”

“Mmn. It was on Christmas Eve.”

“Ah….” There was no way he could forget the Bloody Eve incident. He felt his face heat up again. He had just relived that horrible embarrassment a few hours ago at Ryou’s place, and now Yuki was bringing it up again. Momo groaned and turned his face into his pillow.

Yuki laughed under his breath and moved his arm so that he was hugging Momo instead. “You were really cool then,” he said.

“I was embarrassing,” Momo countered and covered his face with his hands. “I can’t believe I went crazy on the stage like that… and that was the first time I talked to you and Ban-san too!”

“You saved us though.” Yuki kissed his forehead. “Ban and I would’ve been in trouble if not for you.”

Momo whined. “You’re so unfair,” he muttered and wrapped his arms around Yuki too.

“Is that so?” He started scratching the back of Momo’s head. “You were so shy back then. You kept running away from us. I still remember how you screamed when I tried to get closer to you.”

The pleasant pressure on his scalp made him melt, and Momo wiggled happily. He sighed, feeling pampered and embarrassed. “I couldn’t help myself.  You were both so cool…. I never thought I would have the chance to talk to you. I felt so nervous and overwhelmed just standing near you two.”

“… Did you ever think things would end up like this?”

Momo leaned back and looked up. Yuki was watching him with soft eyes. He was so beautiful.

He thought again about the day Banri disappeared, the day Yuki finally agreed to form Re:vale with him, the days they spent trying to scrape together every coin just to survive another week, and their eventual rise to the very top of the world. Nothing had ever prepared him for this. All he had ever wanted was to see Yuki and Banri happy again. He had always been ready but afraid to fade into the background when the time came. Momo would have been satisfied just being able to watch Yuki and Banri forever and cheer for them as one of the many thousands of indistinguishable faces in the crowd, and yet….

His fever dream had brought him farther than he ever dared to hope. Never would he have thought he would one day be lying in bed together with Yuki like this. He pressed his forehead to Yuki’s sternum and curled his fingers around the fabric of his own shirt. “No,” he whispered.

Suddenly, Yuki’s hand moved from his hair to under his chin. Momo relaxed instinctively and let Yuki bring his face up. Yuki had a fond and proud smile on as he spoke. “Neither did I.” And then, he kissed Momo.

“Mmn….”

It was an unhurried and tender kiss, but it seemed like it held all the affection in the world. Yuki had gotten much better with words in the past five years, but there were still things he was able to express best through actions. The meaning behind this was something Momo didn’t even have to guess to understand. His heart pounded as he accepted Yuki’s feelings and tried not to cry.

Yuki kept his touches soft but persistent. Momo didn’t want to take control of the kiss, but he doubted that Yuki would have let him try anyway. He seemed to want to take the lead tonight, and Momo gladly followed his cues.

When Yuki shifted his weight, Momo rolled on his back without prompting. Yuki leaned over him and kept kissing him. Momo tilted his chin up and let him go deeper. Tiredness still weighed on him, but it changed into something comfortable and reassuring. He liked how safe he felt with Yuki’s arms braced beside him and his weight settled on his body. He looped his arms behind Yuki’s and rested his hands on his shoulder blades. Momo sighed when Yuki stroked his face and kissed the corners of his eyes.

Yuki’s eyes were searching his face. He was watching for signs of wanting to stop, because he knew Momo was tired. From the way he rested his weight mostly on his knees, Momo could tell Yuki was ready to move away at any moment. But he wanted this. He wanted to take in all the love Yuki was trying to give him.

He pulled Yuki toward him again and arched his back. To make sure Yuki got the hint, he nipped at his bottom lip. The teasing gesture elicited a quiet laugh from Yuki, and he moved lower after one last kiss.

Instinctively, Momo bared his neck, already anticipating the lips and teeth that would suck at his skin. His pulse jumped when Yuki kissed him under the jaw and scraped his teeth against his throat. He sighed and buried his fingers into Yuki’s loose hair, loving how silky and wonderful it felt.

He sucked in a half-breath when Yuki brushed his fingertips up the hem of his shirt and over his stomach. When Yuki moved his hand up to his chest, he purred happily. The sensation of Yuki’s rough palm moving over his nipple made him squirm, and he couldn’t help the noises slipping past his lips as Yuki rubbed circles around it. Things worsened when Yuki moved away from Momo’s neck and pushed his shirt all the way up.

Yuki sat up and looked at Momo with a hooded gaze. He appeared to be pleased with what he saw, because he smiled before ducking down to suck on Momo’s chest.

His body was warm, and his sleepiness melted seamlessly with his arousal. Momo felt boneless as he lay there and let Yuki pamper him. He bent his knee when Yuki put his palm against his thigh and let his leg splay out. Yuki smoothed his hand over his muscles and dipped his fingers teasingly toward his inner thigh.

Momo started to get impatient, so he bucked his hips in hopes that Yuki would take the bait. To his displeasure, all Yuki did in response was push him back onto the mattress with a firm hand.

He looked down with bleary eyes. “Yuki….”

Beckoned by his name, Yuki stopped and glanced up. His bangs obscured most of his gaze, but it was still a potent look.

Momo licked his lips. “Please.”

Yuki kissed his chest again and moved lower. He eased the band of Momo’s pants down but didn’t remove them completely. They were pulled down just far enough to expose his hipbones and the beginning of his happy trail. Yuki teased the sensitive spots on his hips with his mouth and continued massaging Momo’s thigh with his hand.

There were a few times Yuki didn’t apply enough pressure and things started feeling ticklish, but whenever Momo squirmed, Yuki pressed harder and made him moan instead.

The languid pace was nice, but Momo wanted to be touched. He felt too warm in his clothes, and his cock throbbed in time with his frantic heartbeat. It wasn’t hard to tell how aroused he was, since his pants were tented with the obvious outline of his erection. He wanted more.

“Yuki,” he breathed, his fingers tangling in Yuki’s long hair again, “Yuki, please, please, please—” He opened his legs further and pushed his pants down. The fabric dragged over his tip as he tried to remove his underwear, and he groaned. Yuki’s breath brushed over his skin when he laughed. Momo whined in complaint when Yuki backed off completely, but then his vision was blocked by Yuki’s trailing braid and amused eyes.

“Momo, you’re cute,” he said and pressed their mouths together.

The kiss was deep and long, and Momo drowned in it. He couldn’t think straight as Yuki sucked on his tongue and ground their hips together. He let out a choked cry when Yuki’s cock rubbed against his. The bed creaked as Momo rocked up for more friction, and Yuki obliged him by pulling him closer.

Just as the pleasure started building up, however, Yuki moved away again. He leaned over the mattress and reached into the drawer of the nightstand. While Yuki fished around for condoms and lube, Momo removed his shirt and kicked his pants and boxers off.

Yuki came back and looked at him with a pleased smile. “Impatient tonight, aren’t you?” he said and uncapped the bottle of lube.

Momo pulled down one of the many pillows on the bed and tucked it under his butt. He spread his legs and breathed out harshly. “Maybe,” he said. His eyes didn’t leave Yuki’s hands as he poured lube onto his fingers and spread it around.

Yuki went between his legs and kissed his inner thigh. “It’s been a while,” he said. He moved closer and hovered over Momo’s cock. “Hasn’t it?”

Seeing Yuki’s mouth so close to him excited him, and his dick strained up from his stomach. “Yeah,” he said.

He couldn’t remember when the last time they had sex was. They had both been so busy and distracted with other things. Had it been weeks? Momo’s mind blanked for a second when Yuki wrapped his left hand around his length and kissed the base of it lightly. Yuki’s lips were so soft and gentle on him. His thighs trembled, and he swallowed. Maybe it had been closer to a month since they were able to—

A guttural cry came from his throat when Yuki dragged the flat of his tongue over the head of his cock and sucked on it hard. Precum dribbled from his slit at the sudden stimulation. Yuki didn’t even give him any time to recover before he was swallowing him down over and over again. He didn’t manage to fit all of Momo into his mouth, but the things he did with his tongue were more than enough to drive all the thoughts from Momo’s mind.

He caressed Momo’s dick with his tongue and coated it with saliva, making everything wet and sloppy. Whenever he tired from bobbing his head, he licked at Momo’s slit instead.

Momo keened and pushed his hips up when Yuki teased the sensitive spot on the underside of his cock. When he looked between his legs, he found Yuki watching him with an intense gaze while smoothing his lips over his wet tip. Yuki’s cheeks were flushed, but Momo had a feeling that his face was redder. He felt like he was going to be eaten alive.

Yuki shifted his right arm, and Momo felt warm, slick fingers slide against his hole. He didn’t have time to tense up, because Yuki chose that exact moment to open his mouth and lick his length obscenely. Overwhelmed by the visual stimulus as well as the slender fingers which penetrated him, Momo could do nothing but let out pathetic, broken little cries. It was incredible to see Yuki suck on him so messily when he was usually so cool and pristine.

“Haaa…. Yu—ki.” He clenched his eyes and focused on the warm sucking sensation on his dick and the fingers carefully stretching him out. Yuki kept teasing the inner rim of his hole, and Momo felt like he was being slowly unraveled. He squeezed around Yuki’s fingers to coax him in deeper.

“Momo,” Yuki said at the same time he pressed a third finger into him, “look at this. You’re so hard.”

He was weak and had no way to disobey Yuki’s command, so he opened his eyes and looked down. Momo groaned at what he saw. Yuki was holding his cock so it was standing up stiffly, and he was trailing soft kisses up it with the most nonchalant face. It was as he wasn’t in the active process of ruining Momo. If Yuki wasn’t breathing so hard, Momo would’ve thought he was completely unaffected.

Yuki’s fingers slid against his sweet spot, and he gasped. His thighs tensed, and more precum leaked from him. He wasn’t aroused enough to make it feel instantly good, but he was definitely getting there. With how persistent Yuki was being, it was only a matter of time before Momo would be reduced to a writhing mess on the bed.

Momo was floating on warmth and ecstasy, and his heartbeat bloomed in hummingbird pulses. He arched his back and hips off the bed and sighed. It felt so good, so good. He closed his eyes again and touched his own chest. His fingers gently rubbed and tweaked his nipples, adding to his growing pleasure.

Yuki was still sucking him off, edging him toward oblivion in the slowest way possible while his fingers focused on stretching him. Squelching noises smacked wetly through the room as Yuki swallowed around Momo’s cock and he spread his hole open over and over again. He could only imagine how he lewd looked, crying for more despite already having three fingers stuffed in him.

Electric shocks snapped up his spine every time Yuki glided over his prostate. Momo was having a hard time keeping still as his desperation for release increased. His heels dug into the mattress, and his toes curled around the sheets.

It had been so long since they did this. He wanted to feel the burn and stretch of Yuki’s cock in him, filling him up until he could take no more. The push-pull of Yuki’s fingers wasn’t enough.

Yuki pushed in as deeply as he could. “You’ve been squeezing my fingers so much, it’s like you want something else in here.” He sounded as breathless and desperate as Momo. “Just how greedy are you?”

“A-Ahn, Yuki,” he whined, feeling wet and horny, “Yuki, please, I want you in me. I can’t—” A spurt of slickness leaked from him and dripped down his cock. He keened.

The fingers left him, and he was left with the phantom sensations of being finger-fucked. He ran his hands down his torso and over his thighs. Momo rubbed his sensitized skin and tried to calm himself down. It was hard to do with his swollen cock heavy on his stomach and his hole aching to be filled. Dazedly, he reached down between his legs and rubbed his fingers around the swell of his slick hole. Yuki’s careful preparation made him feel nice and loose. He bit his lower lip and crammed his fingers into himself. His fingers were rougher and thicker than Yuki’s but, while they felt good, they still weren’t enough.

Through his haze of arousal and the dark of the room, Momo could see Yuki shrugging off his bathrobe and removing his boxers.

Yuki tried to open the condom package as quickly as possible, his eyes not leaving the sight of Momo fingering himself. He fumbled while rolling the condom on.

The anticipation of finally being penetrated thrummed through his body. “Yuki….” He looped his arms around Yuki’s shoulders when he leaned down. Yuki’s thighs forced his legs apart, and Momo wrapped them around Yuki’s waist to pull him closer. They kissed, and Momo pushed his tongue greedily into Yuki’s mouth to taste himself. He could feel the head of Yuki’s hard cock against his hole they made out, and he moaned to urge him on.

“Momo…” Yuki’s brows furrowed as he eased his hips forward.

“Aa—h….” Momo tilted his head back when he felt Yuki press into him. There was resistance for a second before his body gave way and let Yuki slide in. He had missed the feeling of being stretched apart and filled. His pulse pounded at the point of their connection, and his dick twitched in pleasure. He moaned when Yuki came to a stop with his cock buried all the way in him.

Yuki kissed the corner of his eye. “Are you okay?” he asked, sounding as overwhelmed as Momo felt.

“Mmn. It feels good,” he said. “You feel good in me….”

Yuki smiled and kissed him again. “You feel really good too.”

Happiness made his heart swell, and he grinned. Almost immediately afterwards, he gasped. Yuki had started rolling his hips against him in sensual waves. He couldn’t stop moaning and gasping with how Yuki was stroking him inside with each thrust. His motions were deliberate and strong, and they slowly drove him mad. All their dance training wasn’t for naught, and Yuki had long since figured out how to pleasure Momo with his body.

Momo whimpered when Yuki pulled his hips back and pushed in again. Yuki did this a few times and, each time, Momo bucked up to bring them closer. He loved feeling every inch of Yuki’s thick cock slide in and out of him.

He curled his fingers tightly in the loose hair at the back of Yuki’s neck and rolled his hips up. “Aah—ngh…. You’re so big today….” He swallowed and tried to catch his breath. When he managed to force his eyes open, he found Yuki looking at him intensely. He was panting too, and sweat shone on his face. Momo dragged him down for a kiss.

While Momo rubbed their tongues together, Yuki kept thrusting. The pace was deliberate and steady, as if they had all the time in the world. This was different from their frantic, post-concert quickies in the dressing room or their dizzy, giggly fucks after a glass too many of wine. It was the sincerest and most tender way Yuki knew how to tell Momo he loved him, and it always felt so special to be held and pleasured by Yuki.

A cloud of dense heat stuffed his head as he lay there. Dreamy ecstasy warmed him like sunlight, and Momo basked in it. He kept moaning to let Yuki know exactly how good he felt. Every time Yuki pressed against his sweet spot a little too hard, he squirmed and whined. His stomach was coated with precum, and it was only getting wetter with each passing minute. He couldn’t stop how much he kept leaking out.

Momo didn’t know how much time passed as he lay there and took each of Yuki’s thrusts and kisses, but the heat inside had grown to an unbearable level. He felt like he had been on the edge of orgasming for hours. Yuki wouldn’t increase his speed, but the way he kept grinding his hips and stimulating him made it impossible for Momo to calm down. His peak was so close, but Yuki was deliberately denying it from him. Desperation filled him.

“Yuki…. Yuki,” he panted, finally breaking out of his haze long enough to start begging. “I want to cum so bad. Please—” His cock strained up and let out another long dribble of stickiness. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

In response, Yuki kissed him on the forehead and jerked his hips back harshly. Momo let out a sharp cry. He had no time to recover as Yuki plunged back in without warning. The pace didn’t relent after that, and loud slapping and squelching replaced their quiet panting.

The slow fire within Momo suddenly flared to life as if kerosene had been poured onto it. Sweat mixed with his tears as he was pushed closer and closer to orgasm. He couldn’t believe how loud their fucking was. It wasn’t just how debauched they sounded as they groaned and cried out. The lewd sound of their slapping skin was incredible too. It was impossible not to hear how wet and sloppy they had become.

“G—od, you’re so deep! Ahn, ah—Yuki,” he cried out. He could feel Yuki’s cock going so deep in him, he could almost feel him in his throat. He swallowed around the lump and let out small noises in time with Yuki’s fucking. Yuki’s thrusts seemed to drive farther in him each time, and Momo could feel every roll from his hips as he used his cock to stimulate him.

He could feel his peak coming. His thighs were shaking, and Momo couldn’t control how hard he was clenching around Yuki. Tingling filled him, and he began struggling weakly. The pleasure was too much, and it felt like he was going to get destroyed by it if he let it continue. He wanted to get away, but Yuki had trapped him in his arms and was fucking him so, so deep. There was no way he could escape.

In the vague recesses of his consciousness, he could hear Yuki groaning and gasping as he drove himself in and out of his eager hole.

“Momo… Momo,” Yuki growled. His long hair had long since fallen out of its braid, and it draped around him softly. Some of it stuck to his face, damp with sweat.

The cool, mildly-amused expression Yuki usually had on his face had been replaced with a possessive and animalistic scowl, and just seeing it made Momo’s cock throb. This was an expression only he ever got to see. He was the only one who could light and fan the fire in Yuki’s eyes to this point, and he loved it.

“Cum for me,” Yuki commanded, his rough voice crumbling around the edges. “Let me see you cum all over yourself.”

Momo opened his mouth, and Yuki devoured him.

Electricity ran through his core, and for a split second, his mind went completely blank. Ecstasy slammed into him, and he came. The cry he wanted to let out caught in his throat. His whole body jerked, and his choked voice came out as a broken, guttural yells which Yuki swallowed greedily. Momo started shaking involuntarily, and hot cum shot from his cock. His hips bucked wildly with each sticky spurt.

Messy ropes splattered against his neck and streaked over his heaving stomach and chest as he orgasmed. Momo cried and clutched onto Yuki as waves of euphoria swept over him relentlessly. Yuki didn’t stop fucking his hole open for a moment.

He was nearing the end of his orgasm when Yuki’s rhythm started breaking apart. Yuki kept pushing his tongue into his mouth, and it was all Momo could do to take it.

After driving himself deeply into Momo a few more times, Yuki stiffened and cried out. He pressed their foreheads together as he shook and breathed harshly. Then, Yuki thrust languidly to ride out his orgasm before stopping with his cock buried inside Momo.

“Haah…. Fuck….” Yuki gasped. His hips and thighs twitched as he rested. When he had caught his breath, he pressed opened-mouth kisses to Momo’s lips and tangled their tongues together.

Momo felt overwhelmed and sensitive. Just having Yuki’s dick in him was almost too much, and being deep-kissed made him dizzy. His entire body felt like it was electrically charged, and aftershocks made his legs spasm. It had been a long time since they had sex but even longer since Yuki had milked him dry like this. He felt like a mess with so much cum covering him. Momo blinked away the tears in his eyes and tried to breathe without success. It was too hot. Finally, he turned his face away and broke their kiss.

Yuki pressed his forehead into the pillow Momo was resting on. His arms began to shake from fatigue, and he sat up. He groaned from having been hunched over for so long.

Momo watched him with bleary eyes as Yuki held the condom by the base of his cock and slowly pulled out. He whimpered, as even that stimulated him too much. The sound of their separation was obscene, and Momo blushed when his hole clenched needily at the loss. His body thrummed from phantom sensations of being penetrated.

After he finished throwing the condom away, Yuki brushed Momo’s hair back and kissed his forehead. “You okay?” he asked, rubbing his nose into the damp hair.

Still feeling dazed from the mind-blowing orgasm, Momo only hummed and blinked sleepily. Once in a while, his muscles twitched. He closed his eyes when Yuki got out of bed. Half a minute later, he returned. The mattress dipped when he climbed back on it.

“Momo.”

He cracked his eyes open and saw Yuki holding a face towel for him. He took it and scrubbed his face lazily. The damp cloth felt good on his hot skin, and he sighed in relief.

When something cold touched his stomach, he flinched and half-sat up. Yuki held up another towel and smiled apologetically. Once he was sure Momo knew what he was doing, Yuki started wiping him up again.

The few minutes they had to cool down helped reduce his sensitivity, but even Yuki’s gentle cleaning felt too rough. Momo couldn’t help his breath from hitching when the coarse fabric brushed over his chest and nipples. He groaned and grabbed Yuki’s wrist hard when he realized he was deliberately teasing his nipples.

“Sorry,” Yuki said while hiding his smile with his free hand and laughing through his nose. He was completely unaffected by Momo’s glare. “I couldn’t resist.”

Momo nudged him hard with his thigh in retaliation and huffed. “Yuki, you pervert,” he said.

Yuki was still laughing when he kissed him again.

Begrudgingly, Momo kissed him back. He let out a large yawn when Yuki moved away. His entire body felt fuzzy and pleasant. If he closed his eyes for a second too long, he was sure he would fall asleep. Just as he was thinking that, Yuki handed him a bottle of water. He took it, sat up, and took long gulps from it while Yuki went off to get rid of the dirty towels. The water was wonderful, since he had dried his mouth and throat out with all his panting and moaning. He finished the bottle, tossed it onto the nightstand and lay down on his side sleepily.

It must’ve only been a minute or two, but he dozed off somehow and woke up to Yuki lying down behind him and wrapping an arm around his bare waist. Momo made a pleased noise when Yuki kissed the back of his neck and nuzzled him.

“Did that feel good for you?” he asked while he nipped at Momo’s skin with his lips and teeth.

He trilled at the ticklish sensation. “Mmn. It was amazing. You were so rough in the end.”

Yuki’s breath curled into the ends of Momo’s hair when he chuckled. “It didn’t seem like you would’ve been satisfied with anything else.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You were really hot.”

He laughed again. “Good night, Momo….”

Momo let out a satisfied hum. Even though it was hot and sticky, he scooted back to get closer to Yuki. The arm around him tightened protectively in response.

“G’night…..”

Momo felt as if their hearts had synchronized, beats as intertwined as their legs beneath the thin blanket. There was nowhere else he wanted to be.

Seven years ago, when he found himself crying at a song that seemed like it was made for him, he had no idea. Five years ago, when Re:vale was on the verge of crumbling away, he never even imagined. One year ago, when his self-imposed time limit was about to expire, he thought it was a mistake.

But now, on the thin borderlines of dreams, reality, and dreams made into reality, he knew.

“… Love you.”

This is where he belonged and nowhere else.

“Love you too….”

[twoteaspoonsofsuga]

An Open Book (Thommy Fanfic) Chapter 21

AN: Sorry it took so long AGAIN! Lord knows I get too busy sometimes. Thank you beautiful kind souls for not kicking my ass. I think there will be a few more chapters. One with the rest of the sentence and the reunion. One a couple days later with the Bloomsbury meeting. Maybe another between that and the next. Then a final one and an epilogue. But for this one! Thomas starts his sentence and the two find ways of coping with the absence of the other. Smut be ahead. Previous Chapter, Next Chapter, A03.

There was a soft thud and a string of hissed curse words. Jimmy’s eyes opened to Thomas half dressed, clutching his toe and hoping around the dimly illuminated room. “You and that bed post will never get on…” he whispered to the dark-haired man. Thomas lowered his foot and smiled, quite adoring at Jimmy. “I’m sorry…I woke you up.” Jimmy leaned up, twinging a little in his abdomen, but that was always how it went in the mornings. He rested on one elbow and tugged Thomas closer by his pants. Almost a mirror of the night before, he pressed his forehead to Thomas tummy. He just rested there, eyes closed as Thomas ruffled his hair. “You alright, sweetheart?” he whispered. Jimmy just shook his head. “It’s alright. It’s just three days.” “It feels like were always being pushed apart. It don’t half put me on edge when you’re outta my sight.” “Hmm well I’m a big boy…I can look after myself, promise.” “Hmm you are big.” Thomas snickered. “You’re not so small and defenceless either…”

Instead of coming back with something else, Jimmy just lifted his head eyes open as they gazed up at him. “Not so long ago I woulda hit you for that remark…but then again I weren’t a very nice or very happy person back then were I?” “You were always nice…underneath all the fear and the sadness.” Thomas crouched by the bed and let his thumb run over his cheekbone. “Mm…and you were always braver and cleverer than I were…that’s how I know you’ll be alright on yer own.” He struggled to his knees and pulled Thomas down for a gentle kiss. / They were lazy together for a while. But it came time for Thomas to get ready. As he packed Jimmy watched him. It turned out he would be allowed his sketch book. Because he would merely be in a holding cell, a sketch book and a pencil were acceptable. And the orders the judge had given to the arresting officers had been very lenient. He would hardly be treated as prisoner more as a bit of a nuisance. “Will you think of me…” Jimmy whispered as he pulled on his shoes. “While you’re in there?” Thomas looked to him, quizzical. “Of course I will.” Jimmy stood and wrapped his arms around the elder’s trim waist. “How will you think of me…” his tone dropped an octave. “I’ll be thinking of you here…strong ‘n’ sweat covered, ploughing into me. I’ll think of you tonight…” he leant up, whispered in his ear, drawing goose bumps. “With my fingers inside and a hand on my prick.” “Jimmy…” Thomas groaned, a shiver wracking his bones. “God yes…” “Yeah?” he pressed kisses to his jaw. “I want you to do it...t’night. I want yer to touch yerself…” “Okay…yeah.” “Good…now let’s get you down there. Some of em will wanna see you off.” Thomas nodded a little dazed and kissed Jimmy’s knuckles, before he lifted his little valise beckoned his love along. / Thomas as it turned out, had time for a cup of tea and some toast before he left, though he wasn’t particularly hungry, Jimmy had pushed it toward him with a look of determination in his eyes. So, of course, he humoured him. The police came downstairs in tow of the Earl. “Thomas…I’m sorry chap it’s time to leave.” Jimmy felt a sinking feeling. It was silly and he was being so frustratingly weak. But he couldn’t help but feel sad for the three days Thomas would be confined and kept away from him. My rock under storm tossed sea, it’s why I see him so often in my dreams. Its why I cling to him. Thomas was his rock through this whole ordeal. Even when most of the ordeal happened to him. He’d have to stand on his own for a few days. He had forgot when standing without Thomas had become harder than standing with him. But right now, they stood together. A united force and Bates, Anna, Mrs Hughes and Carson waited off to the side. Thomas turned to them, sincerity buried gut deep in his eyes. “Look after him for me…he still isn’t quite there. You need to make sure he don’t push himself.” They smiled, they nodded and Anna spoke. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble.” “You all treat me like such a child.” Jimmy groaned. Thomas chuckled. And patted clapped his shoulder. “Well you’re the youngest in this room.” “Barley. By a month or so.” Thomas smiled and let himself gaze at Jimmy. Just for a moment. But in that moment the pout melted away and they had an entire plethora of silent conversations. I love you so much sweetheart. I love you too. A twitch of a smile. One in return. I’ll be okay. I know. A lingering hand. An answering hand pat. You’re mine. I’m yours. “I’ll see you in three days” Three days and I’ll be all yours. “Three days.” It couldn’t come soon enough. Thomas finally let go, picked up his valise and went quietly with officers, Jimmy watching him vanish into the hallway. The slam of the door was like another gunshot. Only this time the pain was purely emotional. The Earl neared him, clapped his shoulder and it felt all wrong. His hand was too rough, to clumsy to be Thomas. “It’ll be over soon James. And he’s a strong like you said.” He nodded with a kind smile. “He’s a grown man M’lord. I’m sure he is” he took a deep breath. “Is there anything I could do today? That wouldn’t require a lot of movement?” Bates spoke up. “I’m not sure that’s wise James. With your injury still bothering you.” Jimmy turned his eyes to Carson, an almost desperation there. “Please…anything will do.” Mrs Hughes moved her eyes up to the old man too. “Didn’t you tell me the clocks needed attention Mr Carson?” she asked him. “Oh…well yes. I suppose. Mr Barrow has shown you the ropes before, hasn’t he?” Jimmy was thrown by that. He remembered that day, how different they were. “Yeah he…he did.” “Very well. You may tend to the clocks.” / Jimmy didn’t expect to be so vexed by a clock. The very one Thomas had shown him the first time. It was like he could feel him there. The warmth of his body, cool gusts of his breath on the back of his neck that engulfed him in quivers. As he wound the clock he could almost feel the underbutler’s fingers over his. His voice low in his ear. “Let it breathe.” It must be love…Thomas had him hearing voices and feeling phantom fingers. And he had him all hot and bothered without even being present to do anything about it. / White hot and scorching, making love to liquid gold. A trophy, a carving and an open book, a million stories untold. In freckles and scars and little marks, littering a canvas of skin, and some that wait just under the surface as stories that have yet to begin. Nail marks that’ll adorn your back, my lips paint bruised on your jaw. As we groan with the mattress and the creak of the bed, as we peak at the break of the dawn Jimmy threw down his pen in frustration, his cock straining his trousers. He wondered what Thomas was doing right now, if he was sketching him on a crisp page. If the led glided as he etched the curve of his ass…and did it get him hot under the collar when he thought of him? Jimmy himself found his mind wandering to it, Thomas, long and broad, lay out all pristine underneath him, looking so delicate for a man who could burn you so harshly. Jimmy’s hands moved down, he pushed his night pants down just enough so his cock was free. Then griped it. He let out a dark, low moan. He imagined Thomas in his cell. He imagined him all lay out, face crumpled and sighing Jimmy’s name. Jimmy stoked himself steady, licking his lip. “Thomas…” he slinked off his chair and onto the floor, bending over his bed and sucking, filthily on his fingers. “Thomas!” he reached back, spread his legs wide and rubbed over his pucker soft, making it nice and slippy as he pushed his finger inside. “Hah!” he whined and pressed his forehead pressed to this sheet. “Uhn. Thomas…Thomas, fuck.” He whimpers, pressing his cheek to bed. This was absolutely depraved and he knew it, but the idea that Thomas was lay out somewhere just as needy and desperate for it as he was enough to kill the pain as he slipped the second finger in. “Ahh!” he whined. “Fuck me…fuck me Thomas. Lord I need you.” / In the tininess of his cell, he had to be near silent. His sketch book abandoned on the floor as he stroked himself urgently. For some reason, it was like Jimmy was here with him. In this tiny room. He could almost feel him gliding up and down on his cock and when he closed his eyes he saw him, those perfect curves, trim waist, those gorgeous eyes that that seemed to outshine the sun. He saw that beautiful bronzed creature, fling back his head and cum, with his fingers tangled in those perfect curls. “Fuck…fuck. Jimmy!” he breathed as the coil was pulled tight and snapped. He came so hard…so hard it left him trembling on his cot, fist stuffed into his mouth. And he panted into an empty room. “Jimmy…” / “Thomas…” Jimmy quivered, face buried in his sheets. A mess over his hand and covering the floor. He finally pulled his finger out…nice and slow, cheeks flushed and he closed his eyes. “Lord…come back to me love. God, I need you.”

[easkyrah]

An Assassin’s Affection 3

A dark-haired female locks herself up in her room and wipes away her tears, and bites down on her cracked lips, ire and bitterness darkening her dulled, brown eyes. She starts to write, back hunched over a wrinkled piece of lined paper, and there began her ascent. 

“the world you see becomes who you are”

[Nessian AU]

Nesta stared at her reflection in the mirror.

An artist perhaps would have painted her face as a moon’s pale surface, clouded and distorted with crater-like indents, her cheeks sunken in. Never had her skin touched the sun’s rays, her missions in the dead night. Mornings she slept, planned, and dreamt.

Tomas injected her with poisons so that she’d fall asleep and build her immunity.

Tomas had her concoct her next murder for a person who had dared meddle with hiss plans

Tomas allowed her nightmares, flashes of visions of tightened shackles, cold metal, and rusted bones.

She rubbed her arms, feeling the markings of where IV tubes had pumped chemical enhancements and other liquids for nourishment. The daily injections served to numb her so that the only emotion that dared to seep in was pain.

She blew a piece of hair that had fallen across her nose.

Once her hair boasted of golden brown hues, time reducing each strand to a dull, lifeless brown. Faint streaks of dirty blond and black from dye still hadn’t washed away, another part of her identity shaped from undercover missions.

She scraped her nail along the dirty glass. Watching the grime listlessly fall into the sink, Nesta scrubbed harder until a section of the mirror was clean. So much dirtiness, filthiness, and nastiness—

Her nail cracked.

She ripped it off, ignoring the sharp pain.

Pain was her friend, her lover she could count on.

Her skin prickled.

Droplets plinked against the cold floor, the hole in the ceiling breezing in drafts of cold air.

She stared at herself, watching those drab gray eyes follow every movement. The past beauty of sparkling, deep blue hints vanished from her orbs, replaced by cold malice.

Nesta washed her hands furiously, allowing the water to run over her palms. She drenched them in soap, violently scrubbing until the cuts reopened. She didn’t see the blood pouring from her skin, but the sea of blood from passing faces, bodies hitting the cold pavement, the gurgling of red and belch out of the corners of mouths.

Tomas’s leer, the triumphant smile, the whip—

“I am Nesta Archeron,” she hissed. “And I will not submit.”

No longer.

Tomas was dead.

She shrugged on the simple clothes she had bought and pulled a drawstring sweater over her head.

Nesta stalked outside of the motel, her hood flipped over her face. Pedestrians steered clear of the dark-lined figure, a creation of the night. Her gait invited a challenge that saw the streak of death incarnate.

The soft notes of melody to the driving rhythm escaping from the walls of clubs no longer appealed to her.  

The misted clouds curtained the dimly lit stars, polluted by the hands of greed, a parasite worming in every male she knew.

A little rain had begun to fall, umbrellas snapping into the air. A tall man emerged from one of the colorless buildings, a woman holding his hand. Smiles painted their faces, the man pulling of his coat and gently wrapping it around her frame.

Warm voices.

Nesta looked away, and pushed open the door to the diner, where fuzzy lights surrounded her. Settling herself onto a booth in the farthest corner, she skimmed over the menu and all the listings she hadn’t heard of.

A little smile worked her way on her mouth as she recognized a few items. Cheeseburger, fries, salad...she could taste the sweetness of strawberries at the roughness of her tongue.

The barbecues she’d participated in when she was little, the smoky smell and cheers of laughter, perhaps a game of tag or hide and sneek—

She clenched her fists as she tried to remember the blurry faces of her childhood, the ones she hid and chased, the ones she smiled freely with. Even then, Elain’s and Feyre’s outlines were far away, never quite reachable. There was another face, masculine, a voice deep and rich, that memory shielded from her, a warmth as arms cradled her surely.

Nesta remembered laughter.

But remembering was a dangerous thing.

A voice cleared its throat, and Nesta slid a dagger into her hand.

The waiter backed away as Nesta expertly wielded the blade.

“Yes?” she asked, arching a brow.

The waiter sweated, rubbing his palms along his pants. “Your order, miss?”

A presence slid into the booth across from her, and Nesta swore lowly under her breath.

The male smirked back at her.

“Nice to see you here, sweetheart.” Cassian grinned.

Her first missed shot. The first time an emotion other than pain seared through her. The way he prowled resembled a true predator’s, full of danger and threat.

The male continued to stare at her while he beckoned towards the waiter. “She doesn’t like meat, so we’ll go with the salmon and a plate of asparagus. Two strawberry smoothies for us.” Cassian reached over the table and flipped the menu closed.

Nesta seethed.

The waiter hesitantly took the menu, scribbling down the order. “And you, sir?”

“Large fries.”

The waiter scurried away.

She stared down the male, who merely shrugged off his jacket. Nesta caught the glimpse of hilts peeking out from the inside of the material. By the flares of red that flashed, he was more than the spy’s friend. Perhaps a bodyguard.

Perhaps just had as much blood on his hands as she.

“If you just wanted to eat dinner alone, then you should have said so.”

“Didn’t want to hurt your delicate ego.”

“Everything about us males are delicate, Nesta,” Cassian chided.

She arched her other brow. “What business do you have here.” A command.

An easy smile. “A man can’t eat?”

“What. Business.”

He leaned forward, a string of tension in the air. They stared at each other, neither breaking the silence. The clatter of plates and utensils faded in the backgrounded, and she swore she could have melted in those hazel eyes.

A stirring opened within her, and flashes of a once sanctuary shot down her.

“You don’t remember me?” he murmured lowly, almost huskily. Cassian slowly reached out to cradle her hand, running a thumb down her palm.

Nesta shivered as he cupped her hand.

“Who taught you how to throw your first punch?” he whispered.

A burst of memories flooded her, and Nesta jerked her hand back.

Sprinting through the teeming forest—a male pinning a tiger lily to her hair, pulling her up as she tripped over a tree root, leaning down to peck her cheek, saying she was beautifully clumsy, Nesta rubbing off the sloppy kiss, and lunging forward with her fist—

“You didn’t teach me,” Nesta blurted. “I learned how to myself.” She pressed a thumb against her forehead as if she would wash away the intruding memories.

“Oh really? Over a simple kiss?”

“Delicate,” she hissed out.

“I’m not the one who didn’t tuck in my thumb,” he retorted, and reached for her hand again. Cassian tapped the joint bone on her thumb, staring at her, daring her to break the glare. “I’m not the one who continues to run away.”

Nesta winced as the images continued to cram into every crevice of her brain.

The hazel-eyed male had gently kissed her, touching her cheek, so softly as if she were a newborn fawn, learning the beginnings of carefree caresses. She’d ripped herself from his grasp, his orbs turning into molten gold, and she’d sprinted away from the forest and its music, away from the male who saw past her walls and dared to find her when she didn’t want to see herself.

By the way Cassian was gazing at her, eyes darkening, he was remembering as well.

If Tomas had taught her anything, it was that remembering was dangerous.

Just like this male.

“You’re going to run again, aren’t you?” Cassian challenged, eyes watching her withdraw her hands and slip gloves over them.

Tomas may be dead, but that didn’t mean the scars had vanished as well.

The waiter came over, a wary look shadowing his face.

Nesta didn’t blame him. By the way she and the other male—Cassian—was armed, they could bring down this building within a mere minutes.

Setting the plate of fries in front of Cassian, the waiter quickly placed the other items in the middle of the table. Her tongue dried at the sight of the strawberry smoothies topped with swirls of whip cream, her stomach growling at the sight of seasoned food.

Then she sided with the coward’s decision, one that carried within every voice of her reason.

When Cassian reached for a fry, the waiter blocking his exit in the booth, Nesta dashed off out of the diner and into the streets, where the clouds remained heavy.

She ignored the bark of protest and the coldness seeping through her as the rain pelted against her face. Snagging her hood up again, Nesta wandered through an alley, watching the line of water stream through the cracks in the ground and slip through the gutters.

Even the rain was not free, bound to follow the laws of nature.

Nesta grabbed one of the pipe rails, and pulled herself up, skimming the side of the building. With a grunt, she kicked herself off the wall and onto the roof. Her hood fell back, the rain welcoming her by pelting her eyelashes.

She rubbed a hand across her face, and peered down at the streets. Only the tops of umbrellas greeted her, save for the quick darting shapes scurrying under the covers of shelter.

Tomorrow she’d resume her search for Elain and Feyre, but watch from afar. Her sisters and her had branched from two different worlds. Tomas had stolen her heart and replaced the hole with ice.

She’d caused too much damage, and once a hole had been carved, no amount of filling could ease the carved out blotches.

Her skin shivered, eyes dully staring at the droplets pelting and plowing down windowpanes.

She’d been snuggled into her blankets, pulling the sheets over her head. A yank had snatched her blissfulness, and he’d gathered her body into his arms. She’d punched his chest to no avail, and screeched when he raced into the night, water slithering down their skin. Despite the wind and night, she’d felt warmer than ever, even before being nestled in her bed.

Nesta flinched. Never before had she truly recoiled from pulling the trigger and slashing the blade, but her memories had changed the game. For once, an occurrence concerned her personally without the sinking of numbness.

No longer did the IV injections and mind games suppress her past.  

Her memories had warmed her with fantasy inserted into reality, but also tore her apart. Who was she, with blood on her hands? She could not retreat to the past.

“You know, there’s these things called stairs. Wondrously more convenient than shimmying up poles.”

She lost how many times she cursed today, and rather continued to stare out into the night’s darkness and slanted slopes.

“You wouldn’t be a pole dancer, would you, Nesta?”

When she didn’t answer, the voice returned, closer than before.

“You’d be the star of the of the show. Once the curtains closed, you’d dance again, blistered and all, to the ghost of the music.”

“Seems like you’ve thought this thoroughly.”

“I didn’t have to. You were.”

Nesta turned around and stared at that roughly-shaven face that bred familiarity. The warmth of her childhood—she refused to accept that it could be this nuisance. Yet...his voice held comfort and kindness, a sorely lacking facet in her new life.

“Not stripping,” he corrected quickly, holding his palms out. “A dancer. You were a beautiful ballerina.”

She stared at him.

“I was raised an orphan,” Cassian said slowly. “I thought I was alone, but you were home. You saw me and felt my pain. Shared it with me.”

Home.

Memories flooded her. Tears, rage, and violence.

Things she knew all too well. Too long she’d been homeless.

She refused for home to belong to a person.

“Don’t you remember?” he ground out. “I was your everything, Nesta sweetheart.”

Those words carved into her.

“How dare you,” Nesta seethed. “Claim to know me.”

She moved first, a crashing of waves upon the sand, lashing out with the stormy rage of a hurricane. Cassian met her first strike to his knee, managing to block the blow to his face. Nesta twirled, lowering her center of gravity as he lunged forward.

“I’m not the person you knew,” she gritted out, slamming a fist into his stomach, reminiscing the familiar inhalation of chemicals. The drugs had consumed her, had snatched her mind with deformed and dried darkness.

Seeing an opening, she drove an elbow to his neck.

“I’m a monster,” she growled out, glowering as Cassian managed to grab her wrists with a vice-like grip. He snarled into her face—demanding that she calm down—but she was far from calm.

“I’m alone,” she hissed. “Cursed.” Her first punch cracked her knuckles as the force of the blow hit his jaw. A swear pierced the air, and she moved around his form, a shadow, a viper she was taught to be.

This was a fight of strength and will, not of the blades and steel. She quelled the urge to sink her daggers into flesh, a finale to all that resisted. Nesta had a feeling this male would be back on his feet in no time even if she drove him to rock bottom.

Perhaps it was his persistence that had her appreciating him.

Cassian smirked at her before mirroring her movements, and then began their dance of sheer ferocity. A kick and a miss, a lunge and a dodge, a strike and a hold.

“Are you?” Cassian whispered, tucking the blade against her throat and kissing her collarbone. “A monster?”

Brute.

Nesta drove her body backward, allowing the momentum to have her fall back. At a split-second, she twisted her body around so that Cassian’s body hit the floor. When his gasp slackened, she jabbed his pressure points, watching his head fall against the roof, water sloshing around them both.

Nesta stared at the heart-broken face, and locked away the memories. Only the puddles remained.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I am.”

She left the boy of her childhood in the cold, the rain sliding down his clothes and over his skin, and walked away.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Simple, but needed. I don’t know about you, but tears slipped from my eyes writing this. Too many writers focus purely on higher emotions, choosing to stray from the little building blocks. Too many writers focus on the height of happiness or the crashing low points. Too many writers believe that simple scenes are boring, but to me, they are everything. 

[knightofbalance-13]

Re:RWBY Chapter 2 “Review”

http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/22649114

Remember that stupid little project that’s said to be a passion project but the writer out right insulted the original writing staff and blocked their only critic? Well, I’mma gonna point out every single flaw in each part of Re:RWBY for my followers. I would do this for the author but they've made it clear they don't want my opinion by blocking me so sucks to be them: I’m never directly criticizing them ever again.

So let’s begin:

The kind of view you could only get up close.

See, the reason here is that if this was said by a person, the weird dialogue here would be excused as a part of human speech pattern but since it’s narration, it sticks out like a sore thumb. What works as a character talking does NOT work as narration. It’s also a sentence fragement that, again, only works with casual dialogue, NOT narration.

That guy’s got a flaming staff!

See, this normally wouldn’t be a problem...but the author directly took an almost exact line from the original and decried it. So apparently they’re allowed to get away with this but the original writing staff isn’t. Hypocrisy people: it kills the enjoyment of a story. Also, the lack of a chibi Ruby makes this scene

“Just weapons?” she exclaimed in disbelief, “They’re an extension of ourselves! They’re part of our very being, and they’re really cool!”

See, this is a problem with the written style of Re:RWBY: What works in the original show does not always translate well to written form directly. This line is emphasized by the sheer emotion and speech that Ruby shows in the original. Here, it loses the charm. You’d need to be way more description to make this funny or charming.

That’s pretty deep of you.” Yang remarked with a smile. She had heard this a hundred times before.

Why is Yang saying it’s deep of her if she’s heard it so many times? had you said that Yang rolled her eyes and then smiled then it would show exhaustion on her end and thus be funny but now it’s just boring and awkward.

“Like you’re always up in people's’ faces, and Ember Celica’s all about aggression! And then you know, Dad’s not very confrontational so he’s got his whole thing, and me, well…”

Mind telling us about how Ember Celica is all about aggression because you didn’t write the trailers so for all we know, Ember Celcia is all about defense. I know that’s nitpicky but if they’re not going to be fair, I see no reason to be myself.

Also, rwde posters criticized miles for being vague...so this person just decides to be as vague as possible with Taiyang’s weapon. Yeah, even though I love Taiyang to death, that will not save this person from my knife.

“Are completely over-the-top and rip off your heroes?”

Yang’s brutal but that was just uncalled for, aswell as rather OOC for her. Goody, this writer can’t keep an already established character consistant, something any fanfic author worth their weight in ink learns day 1.

“Hey!” she said defiantly, “I love Crescent Rose for what she is, I just happen to appreciate certain amazing weapons as a base.” “So, you copied Uncle Qrow’s gimmick.” “Shh!” she hushed Yang with a pout. It didn’t exactly help that she hit the nail on the head with that comment. “I just love seeing new weapons, okay? It’s a lot like meeting new people, only better.”

Yeah, see the scene in the original worked better as it flowed faster into Ruby’s social awkwardness and made her more adorable. We also say Runy looking away from Yang, emphasizing this. Here, this is not the case.

“Actually, my friends are here. I should really catch up. You’ll do great! Just wander around and find some people! I’ll see you soon!” Yang sprinted off towards the older students who had arrived together with peers their own age. “But Yang!” “Bye!” she shouted, and melded into her circle of friends. It left Ruby rather dejected.

yeah, again this fails because Yang was talking really fast, zooming around with shadow people as friends and zooming away really quickly, leaving Ruby visibly dazed and confused with really wacky music playing in the background. All of these factors catch the viewer by surprise and thus make it funny. Here, it’s dull, flat and emotionless. And yes, it is possible to translate this to writing. Easily. Watch.

“Actually...” Yang drawled out, fiddling with her hair. All of a sudden, several people zoomed out of seemingly nowhere, the force of the movement sending Ruby into a spin, making her resemble a black and red top.

“Myfriendsarealreadyhere, Ishouldcatchupwiththem.You’lldogreat,wanderaroundandmeetsomepeopel. ‘kaybye!’ Yang rattled off quickly, zipping away so fast all she could make out was the dark sillouhtte of Yang’s friends, leaving her older sisters words to rattle around the poor girl’s skull as she desperately tried to get the world to stop spinning

“But Yang!-” She cried out, her rotations pettering out much like her hopes for the day

See? I managed to do it, keep it closer to the original and keep it funny. And it took me about thirty seconds. Not hard, at all.

“Where are we even supposed to go…?” she wondered aloud in a hushed whine. Did she have to worry about dorms? Did the school even have dorms? Well of course they had to, otherwise where would they live? She still had no idea where to find them or who to report to for a room key or even the names of anyone else in the huge place! “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Yeah, this was much funnier in the original as ruby said all of these in a paniced squeak, not a hushed whine. Also, the middle part was said not narrated, adding to the hilarity. Narration should only be used as an addition, NOT a substitute.

“This is Dust! It’s all Dust! Mined and purified straight from the finest Schnee quarries! Do you even know what the market price is for a mere ounce of this?” Little did she realize the powder spilled into the air with each reckless movement. “Uuhhhh…” Ruby sniffled. "What are you, brain-dead?" She slammed the case she held shut and dropped it back on the luggage cart. “Dust! Only the best Dust there is! You’re not gonna find a better producer on the planet and you’re out here knocking it around!” "Right, I... I know..." Ruby coughed and pulled her sleeve over her nose. “Are you even listening to me? Is any of this sinking in? What do you have to say for yourself?!"

Ah see here, the thing is this dialogue paints Weiss as your stereotypical rich girl and while she did have a few shades of it in the original, it was only her attitude that was this, not her dialogue hinting that there is more to her. So in essence: Weiss’ first lines are OOC.

Ruby, who had received enough Dust to the face by that point, finally sneezed one of the greatest sneezes of her life. The force of it blew the volatile Dust particles right back at the girl, where they ignited in a large but otherwise harmless explosion. It left her flawless white dress and fair skin covered in black soot. She began to dust it off and barely contained her rage.

Thing is: There are times to take liberty with the source material and thus you could have said that it created a crater ike it was intended in the original. But by sticking to it (for once) you’ve limited your self and contradicted your writing (”large but otherwise harmless?” me thinks this person doesn’t understand how explosions work.)

“Heiress. It’s heiress, actually,” announced a voice from afar. Both girls turned to see a dark-skinned young woman walk towards them. Silky black hair bounced with each step along with an oversized bow atop her head. “Weiss Schnee, heiress to the Schnee Dust Company” she said plainly. “Finally,” Weiss smiled smugly, “some recognition!” “One of the largest Dust producers in the world, hailing all the way from Atlas.” “Precisely.” The new girl shrugged and closed her eyes nonchalantly. “The same company infamous for its controversial labor forces and questionable business partners, not to mention the dangerous implications of a Dust monopoly on the world economy.” "Wha- How dare you- The nerve of... Ugh!”

One : Blake was pissed off in her second line, drawing a connectionto her disdain for Weiss. Now it seems like she’s just stating facts.

Two: They put the fuming after this but she starts getting angry immediately and thus should have been connected to the last line. This is basic writing technique and the author fucked it all up.

Weiss began to fume, which made Ruby chuckle. The black-haired girl offered her hand, when her tights-covered legs came into view, Ruby took it, hoisted to her feet by some hefty upper body strength. In contrast to Weiss, Blake boasted incredible height, and in contrast to Yang, all of her muscle came in toned, smooth arms.

That’s a pretty damn sexual description of Blake for an asexual like Ruby who is confirmed to not think about sex. Great, OOC and forced lesbianism. Wonderful. Would have worked if this were an AU but nope, this is meant to be a novelixation of RWBY so this is a problem. Also, “The black-haired girl offered her hand, when her tights-covered legs came into view, Ruby took it, hoisted to her feet by some hefty upper body strength” ? Couldn’t just leave out the comma? The line feels clumsy and awkward and unlike the writing staff of RWBY (specifically Miles) who was just starting out on the show, the author boasts being a better writer...despite amateur screw ups that my thirteen self would cringe at.

The rich girl scowled and snapped her fingers. A couple of servants came and collected the suitcases on the ground. She walked alongside her luggage cart as her servants rolled it off, but her thousand-yard grouchy stare stuck to the black-clad girl the whole time.

Problem: Weiss is never seen with any servants at Beacon and never mentions anything and wants to distance herself from her father. So this is still pretty damn OOC for her.

"I promise I'll make this up to you!" Ruby yelled after Weiss. With all said and done, she really did not want to make any enemies. “And thanks for the backup,” she said to the other girl, “guess I’m not the only one having a rough first day…” She turned to what she hoped could flourish into a new friend. “I’m Ruby! What’s your name?” “Oh, uh” she seemed taken aback by the question. “I’m-” “Hey! What did Sneezy get herself into over here?”

yeah, Blake walked awaynin the original encounter which left Ruby alone, making Jaune’s reach out to her all the more noticeable and making an immediate bond with her. But seeing as the author barely tolerates him, I guess I should be thankful they didn’ t ax him immediately.

Also: Sneezy? Nowhere near as funny as “Crater Face” which due to length and size is a clear parallel to “Vomit Boy” and also I assume this is a reference to Sneezy from Snow White? Yeah, wrong character: Ruby’s red Riding Hood so the reference is a screw up.

“Do they?” Asked the black-haired girl rather flatly. She put a hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow. Ruby noticed a black ribbon wrapped up her forearm.

Blake go away! You’re intruding on the best damn relationship in the show! And no I don’t mean romatically but Ruby and Jaune always had this bond with each other that made them really click as they share so much. This also helped Ruby gain some points as jaune is the Audience Surrogate and thus we feel closer to her.

Now it’s just Blake...and Ruby’s delivery with her higher voice is funnier.

“Woah! What’s that?” Ruby interjected again as she spotted what that ribbon attached to; a black rectangular sheath with a sharpened edge strapped to the back of the girl’s waist. “Is that your weapon?” “It’s, uh…” “Is it a gun? A sword? A gun-sword?!” “It’s more of a-” “And is the sheath a sword too? Wow! And that ribbon ties it all together. Is it elastic or something so you can slingshot it around?” “I’d rather just-” “You know,” Jaune cut in, “I have a weapon too.” “Don’t we all?” Ruby asked, and grabbed Crescent Rose from behind her back. She transformed it immediately and slammed the tip of the blade into the ground for balance. The gears and machinations at the base of the curved blade, as well as the Dust cartridge loaded up to the barrel made it impressive for reasons more than its size.

I am bored as shit right now. The gag of Blake trying to introduce herself is not funny, the two with real chemistry aren’t interacting and my patience is nearing it’s end!

“Is that a giant scythe?” Jaune asked, intimidated. “It’s also a customizable, high-impact sniper rifle.” “A…. a what?” “It’s also a gun.” The black-haired girl clarified. Ruby cocked the rifle’s slide to agree. Despite Ruby’s enthusiastic smile, the other girl hardly seemed as dazzled as Jaune. “Isn’t something like that a little dangerous for someone of your…stature?”

Ruined the line. The author ruined one of the most iconic lines in the series. There’s nowhere enough description for the voices to be funny, nowhere near enough build up of awkwardness to come out of nowhere, Blake bogs the scene down and the gun cock comes before the line. All of this makes it dull. The author made RWBY dull!

“Sounds like more of an heirloom to me,” Ruby chuckled. “Well, I like it. Not everyone has an appreciation for the classics. How about you, friend-” To her surprise, the black-haired girl had vanished while they conversed over Jaune’s sword. Not a trace left.

Not enough build up to be funny, don’t know enough of Blake to be meaningful thus she was completely superfluous. Blake was completely pointless, what was her poi-

“Shows concern and then runs off without warning,” Ruby mumbled, “she’d get along great with Yang. Didn’t even get her name!”

Ah, I see. A build up to a dumb joke and not even a good dumb joke and forced Bumbleby ship tease. Great.

"Hmm." Ruby looked around as students dispersed. "Hey, do you know where we’re supposed to go?” "Oh, I don't know! I was following you. Y-You think there might be a directory? Maybe a food court? Some kind of recognizable landmark?” Ruby giggled at the thought of them as two new students completely lost with zero help. Of course her day would end up like this and things would go disastrously badly! “Is, uh... Is that a 'no'?" "Heheh, hah…That's a 'no.'"

Joke falls flat because they haven’t moved a god damn inch, not enough description to be funny anyway and “disastrously badly” ? Really? Two adverbs in a row in narration?! Well, at least it ends as it started: Bad.

I mean it: This is on of the worse novelization of a series I have ever seen and I happen to be a fan of the concept. Not enough description to match the vibrancy of the original, chops up lines and characters until they kill scenes and OOC out the butt. If this is what critics of RWBY think it should be then I’m starting to think that RWBY critics are totally wrong after all. Especially if they are arrogant enough to think THIS is even close to equal to RWBY, let alone above it.

*Holds up a copy of Re:RWBY Chapter 2* Only one thing to do left. *Flings it the air, causing the pages to float down*

SILVER CHARIOT, CUT THIS SHIT TO PIECES *Silver Chariot appears and slashes and stabs all the pages with speed and precision befitting the Stand of Victory. The pages are quickly cut into pieces, then into fragements then into shreds and so on until the chapter is cut beyond repair*