#ink's slightly shitty art

[ink-the-axolotl-rabbit]

Do you like my mx mx

My diamond mx mx mx

You cannot afford afford

My diamond mx mx

No I don't actually have diamond mx in pillar chase, I only have bronze

[Extra stuff under the cut]

Anyways here's my silly ass roblox avatar

And the og meme this is a redraw of

[cryoculus]

— imagine being loved by me! ⟢

pairing: xiao | alatus x reader

summary: the one where your best friend gives you ten tattoos over the next ten years. the problem? you fall deeper in love each time the ink stains your skin.

word count: 7.1k words

tags: modern au, tattoo artist!xiao, childhood friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, relationship study, non-explicit smut

warnings: emotionally stunted xiao but i fink everyone knows that already, mentions of needles, there's smut but it isn't detailed

notes: this blog's been dead for Months but i thought i'd revive it with this fic that my beloved @delvalentine commissioned me to make! i love u to DEATH, v, i hope i did your requests justice :')

header art cr: yuca7302 on twt

01.

“Ow, fuck! Can you be more careful?!”

“I am careful. You just have a shitty pain tolerance.”

“Wow, that’s not something you should say to your first willing client,” you huff, trying not to pull away as Xiao repeatedly punctures the skin of your forearm with pen ink and a not-so-sterile sewing needle. “My family could sue you if I die from a blood infection, you know.”

Xiao rolls his eyes. “Something this small won’t kill anyone. Plus, you came here on your own volition, so stop complaining.”

“Are you saying you’re just going to let me die of sepsis if everything goes to shit?”

“Pretty much.”

You didn’t know what to expect when your best friend of several years asked if you wanted a tattoo of your favorite constellation. It’s been a running joke between the both of you that the two moles on your forearm looked a lot like two-thirds of Orion’s belt, and that maybe, in another life, you would’ve been born with all three of its stars on your skin. 

You should’ve known that Xiao likes to blow your expectations out of the water—whether he intends to do so or not.

It’s sundown when he finishes embedding black pen ink beneath your slightly inflamed skin. Xiao doesn’t comment when you repeatedly complain about how much that fucking hurt, and that you’re never agreeing to do it again, but you don’t miss the way his eyes occasionally flit up to the starry sky before shifting to your new ‘tattoo’ as he walks you home.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget that night. How you admired the amateur handiwork in the soft glow of your nightlight while thinking about the boy who gave you a star fashioned with his own fingers where others would’ve given flowers instead.

But then you remember Xiao is nothing but your best friend, and it’s a little…weird to be thinking about him like that. 

Must be the sepsis fucking with my head, you muse before flicking off your nightlight, and the room is plunged into pitch black darkness. 

02. 

You’re eighteen when you realize Xiao is completely serious about this tattooing business.

It comes as a not-so-pleasant surprise to you one day when your high school’s guidance counselor approaches you while you’re hurrying over to your next class—asking if you’ve seen Xiao around these days because apparently, your best friend hasn’t been attending his classes for a better part of the semester. 

Of course, you receive the news with a scowl. While you don’t exactly see him all that much at school because of how different your schedules are, you never expected to find out he’s been playing hooky all this time. 

You don’t particularly like sticking your nose into other people’s business—especially not Xiao’s, since you know how he likes to keep to himself better than most. But for some reason, you aren’t able to resist, and end up calling him after excusing yourself from your two-hour Biology lecture. 

Once your classes are done, you head over to a nearby tattoo parlor whose address Xiao texted to you right after you squeezed his whereabouts out of him during that phone call. It’s located in one of the more run-down parts of town that your parents would’ve detested Xiao for inviting you to. But whatever prejudice you might’ve had about the denizens of this district all go up in smoke once you meet the owner herself.

“You should’a seen Xiao practicing with our machines a few months ago!” Beidou, as Xiao had sheepishly introduced earlier, barks out a laugh before slinging an arm around your best friend’s shoulders. “Said there’s someone he wanted to give permanent tatts to. I’m guessing you’re the guest of honor?”

“Beidou,” Xiao groans. “It’s not a big deal. I already practiced on her before.”

You don’t completely catch it when Beidou makes an inappropriate joke as a response to what Xiao just said—eyes trained on the fading dot on your forearm. It’s been two years since Xiao gave you your first ‘tattoo’, and even if the receding ink makes it look like one of Orion’s stars are starting to die out, it’s still there.

“Okay,” you say in the middle of their bickering, startling both Xiao and Beidou in the process. “I’ll let him ink me if he wants to.”

Xiao stares at you with brows furrowed. “You sure?”

No, you’re not sure because as much as you want to support Xiao in what seems to be a budding passion of his, you’re certain that your father is going to kill you when he sees a full-blown tattoo on any part of your body. You barely got away with the artificial mole that Xiao did for you a few years back.

“Positive.” You back your words up with an indignant huff before sifting through the pre-made designs on Beidou’s catalog. “You just have to put it somewhere not everyone can see, I guess.”

Beidou snorts out another jarring laugh when Xiao clicks his tongue to alleviate the embarrassment that’s painting his face just a touch of red. 

Earlier in the day, you intended to scold your best friend for not taking his studies seriously, but ended up going home that day with a new piece inked onto the skin of your left hip: a little spruce twig that you last remember seeing in your old hometown—years before you even met Xiao. 

There’s no particular meaning behind it, apart from a hint of sentimentality and rebelliousness. It’s your first actual tattoo, and one of your best friends gave it to you, free of charge. Even if it hurts ten times more than Xiao’s novice needle method from two years ago, you end up loving it more than you thought. One time, you stare at Xiao’s intricate handiwork in the mirror for so long that you nearly run late for your first class of the day. 

(Another thing that makes this particular piece memorable is the process itself.

Xiao is a person who’s always been startlingly precise in everything he decides to put his head into. When you learned that he wanted to become a tattoo artist, you instantly felt like there’s no other path more perfect for him than this.

Yet you couldn’t help but notice how his fingers sometimes trembled as he gave you your first piece—with you lying chest-down on Beidou’s tattoo chair in nothing but your shirt and underwear. It shouldn’t have been strange. Xiao has seen you dressed down like this dozens of times before. 

But when all’s said and done, he refused to meet your eyes, and you don’t have the slightest clue why.)

03.

You just can’t stop staring when you see Xiao’s half-sleeve for the first time.

It’s meant to be a phoenix, he said, but you can’t really see it because the patterns are too abstract to make sense of. Still, the azure ink sits nicely on top of his built bicep, and you have to tell yourself that you’re just trying to find the stupid phoenix as an excuse to keep ogling him.

Thankfully, your weird fascination lasts for only about a week until you’re back to shitting on him like you always do. 

By some miracle, Xiao manages to graduate high school despite being on probation from his excessive absences. He’s actually smart if he makes the effort to hit the books, but you’re not sure if he’s planning on going to college with how comfortable he is with being one of Beidou’s most in-demand tattoo artists. 

You ask him about his future plans at a party being thrown by the previous captain of the football team in his parents’ lavish penthouse somewhere uptown. It took a great deal to force Xiao into tagging along with you as your plus one, and you’re going to make good on his acquiescence by interrogating him about things he normally skirts around.

“I told you, I didn’t take any entrance exams,” he grumbles against the rim of his red cup. “I’m managing just fine working for Beidou, so I don’t see any reason to go to college.”

You’re about to argue that Beidou’s tattoo parlor won’t be open forever, and that he needs to think about broadening his career options until a bunch of girls with linked arms shuffle closer to where you and Xiao were lounging on the couch. You don’t talk to them a lot, but everyone in your grade knows the infamous Pyro Trio.

“Hey, Xiaooo,” Hu Tao drawls with a smirk, pushing up her sleeve to reveal the branches of a cherry blossom tattooed on the delicate skin of her arm. Behind her, Xiangling and Xinyan snicker like it’s some sort of inside joke. 

You intend to shift your gaze elsewhere. Clearly, you’re not the person these girls want to speak with. But the sight of the ink on Hu Tao’s skin makes the back of your neck prickle with misplaced irritation. Xiao must’ve been the one who did her piece, which shouldn’t be a surprise. Though he’s this year’s most notable absentee, rumors about Xiao’s handiwork haven’t gone unnoticed among the students in your (now) alma mater. 

That doesn’t mean you have to like the idea of your best friend inking other people that aren't you, though.

You decide to excuse yourself from Xiao’s company—given that Hu Tao is giving him plenty of attention already as is. Your best friend utters something you don’t quite catch as you walk away, and you don’t bother turning around to ask him to repeat himself.

(As you stuff your face with shot after shot, you force yourself to just keep dancing to the rhythm of whatever song is blaring to the speakers. You didn’t give two shits about the fact that Hu Tao keeps feeling up the stupid phoenix tattoo on Xiao’s arm. Nor did you care about the fact that your best friend—who’s normally evasive when it comes to casual contact—seems like he doesn’t mind at all.)

The night ends with Xiao begrudgingly getting behind the wheel of your car, since you’re obviously in no state to be driving anyone home. When he announces that he’ll bring you back to your apartment, you slur out a drunken protest—asking if he can take you to the tattoo parlor instead.

“What?” he asks incredulously. “Why?”

You huff, curling in on yourself on the passenger seat. “The cherry blossoms you gave Hu Tao were ugly as shit. You can do a better piece on me. Y’know, as practice.” 

Both of you know that you’re bluffing. Xiao’s pieces are one of the most intricate you’ve ever seen, even if he is a rookie tattoo artist, and that you don’t have a lot of points of reference to compare to. But instead of taking offense at your mindless jab at his work, Xiao slots the keys into the ignition with a defeated sigh.

“Fine. You mentioned wanting spider lilies a while back,” he says before propping his arm against the car seat as he backed up on the street. It’s the perfect angle to moon over his not-so-phoenix tattoo, and if you were any more intoxicated, you would’ve reached out and squeezed his arm. 

“Where do you want it?”

You know he meant to ask where you wanted him to put your prospective tattoo, but the question sends your mind straight into the gutter. Thankfully, you still have some semblance of coherence lingering in your drunk thoughts, and you answer with:

“Right hip. Opposite end of the spruce twig.”

When Xiao heaves another sigh and steps on the gas pedal, you don’t think much of it—still convinced it’s completely normal to expose such intimate parts of yourself to your best friend so he can tattoo a fucking flower just above the swell of your thigh.

04.

“You have been watching way too much anime.”

“Come on! At least I’m not having you tattoo the names of my shitty ex-boyfriends on my ass, right? Just give me my modified Tanjiro hanafuda and Fullmetal Alchemist flamel!”

“...Is this your way of coping with taking up a nursing course? Is it that stressful?”

You whine as you hold your phone closer to your ear, already picturing the look of disbelief in Xiao’s face when you asked when he’s free to give you your next tattoos. You still go to college in the same city, but it’s been weeks since you last saw him. 

“You have no idea,” you groan. “It’s like my first year, and I’m already burned out! How is that even possible?”

Your best friend grunts on the other line. “Maybe if you stopped being such a perfectionist, then maybe you’ll learn to be more content. Less stress on your part, too.”

“Ah, no can do. I never do anything that isn’t perfect,” you chuckle. “

“Yeah, I saw you score at the top of your class during your, uh… what was it again? Biochem exam?” 

For someone who doesn’t exactly give a damn about anything outside tattooing and other similar forms of artistry, you find it endearing to know Xiao actually remembers all the things you rant about in the wee hours of the morning. You don’t hate biochem, but if you have to draw another chemical configuration, you might just pop a vein. 

“Okay, let’s say I agree to tattoo those weird doodles you sent,” Xiao propositions, “do you even have any free days? You usually study on weekends, right? I don’t think you’re free to drop by the shop even if you wanted to.”

Fuck. He’s right. You still have a few major exams coming up in the next two weeks. If you wait that long until you get your silly weeaboo tattoos from Xiao, you would’ve already gotten over your momentary hyperfixation on the TV shows that were salvaging your sanity in the middle of the semester. It wouldn’t feel as thrilling to get them anymore.

“I’m free…” You trail off, eyes darting to the digital clock by your desk then to the course notes you have opened on your laptop. You haven’t studied as much as you wanted to for your upcoming anatomy test, but…

“Right now, actually. Can you pick me up?”

You can hear him frowning. “Don’t you have a car?”

“I do, but I don’t wanna drive when I have plastic wrap all over my body.” 

“You’re exaggerating. It’s not all over your—”

“Jesus, get the hint, Xiao. I miss my best friend, and I want to have a quiet evening cruise on his motorcycle before he gets me inked again!” 

Xiao falls silent, and this time, you’re having some difficulty picturing what expression he’s wearing on his face. You like to think you’ve startled your un-startle-able best friend, but that’s pushing your influence too much. 

“Okay,” he says, more agreeable than you thought he’d be. “I’ll be there in thirty. Don’t you dare fall asleep on me.”

05. 

When you introduce your first serious boyfriend in a while to Xiao, you’re a bit annoyed with how prickly he’s being. 

Sure, it’s wired into his system to be the snarky asshole everyone knows and loves, but if there’s anyone else who knows about the tragedy that is your love life better than yourself, it’s Xiao. When you finally land a decent guy to settle down with, you at least expect him to be a bit more supportive.  

“Actually, we came here ‘cause we planned on getting matching tattoos,” your boyfriend, Yin, explains with a dimpled smile. “Isn’t that right?”

You stifle a soft laugh, a bit embarrassed to agree, but too in love with your boyfriend to protest. 

A few years ago, you distinctly remember drunkenly rambling to Xiao about how stupid it is to get couple tattoos especially when relationships these days are built on flimsy foundations. 

If you break up, what then? You have a physical reminder of that person on your body for eternity? No fucking thanks!

“Sorry, we’re closed right now, as you can see,” Xiao grunts before jabbing his thumb at the sign he just turned at the door. “You can try some other time, though.”

At the time, you were pissed at Xiao for denying your little request. He always agreed to ink you during ungodly hours of the day, but now he’s playing the ‘shop’s closed’ card just because he doesn’t like your boyfriend?

But then, you end up grateful for his attitude exactly a month later. 

“Fucking cheated on me with some bitch from his Physics lecture,” you sniffle on Xiao’s ratty sofa as he makes you some tea in his kitchen. “I can’t believe I nearly tattooed our anniversary on my wrist! I would’ve had to fucking amputate it in the end.”

Xiao sighs before placing a piping hot cup of honey lemon in front of you on his coffee table—crossing his legs together. He doesn’t tell you I told you so, like others probably would if they were in his shoes. Your best friend just stares at you with withering understanding, no matter how stupid the choice that got you here in the first place turned out to be.

That’s one of the many things you loved about him. 

“You were supposed to have ‘XV’ inked together, right?” he asks. 

You huff before tossing some of the soiled tissues you used into the bin. “Yeah. We made it official on September 15th.”

“Well, if you still want the tattoo, you could just give it a different meaning.”

Scowling, you stare at Xiao as if he just grew a second head. “What the hell are you talking about?” Is he really suggesting for you to get the same tattoo that he denied you and your ex a month ago?

Xiao shrugs noncommittally before taking a sip from the tea he prepared for you. “It’s been fifteen years since we became best friends. That’s worth commemorating, at least. Unless you suddenly don’t give a shit about that, too?”

Your jaw hangs agape at the sudden reminder. October 15th. When you were four, you accidentally spilled orange juice all over Xiao’s teletubbies backpack, and when he forgave you on the spot, you crowned him as your first bestie. 

That was fifteen years ago. Holy shit.

He startles when you abruptly shoot back to your feet, earning yourself a perplexed stare from Xiao who just wants you to sit down and drink your damn tea—

“Is Beidou’s shop open?” you ask. “I want her to do our matching tatts.”

Xiao grimaces. “Our?”

You nod brusquely, tugging at his arm. “Yeah, I’m allowed to have matching tattoos with you, ‘cause you’ll never walk out of my life, right, Xiao?”

He’s always been a stubborn little shit, so you don’t really expect Xiao to relent as quickly as he does. You nearly stumble to the carpeted floor when he lets you pull him up—faces hovering so close to each other, you nearly choke on your own breath.

It doesn’t help that Xiao has definitely…put in a few inches of height. Back then, you used to tease him a lot for being taller than him, but now?

“Never,” he whispers so softly, you wouldn’t have heard it if you weren't as close to him as you are. “Now drink your stupid honey lemon tea so we can head to the shop.” 

About two and a half hours later, you’re sitting on the vacant seats in the shop’s waiting lounge—a familiar sting still sizzling beneath your ribcage from where you had your first matching piece with Xiao permanently inked. You made him swear to have his own ‘XV’ tattoo made on the same place, and he makes good on his promise when he emerges from the workroom, wearing nothing but his dark-washed jeans.

Unlike yourself, you rarely see Xiao in various states of undress. The most skin you could get out of him on most days is the lean muscle of his tattooed biceps, and sometimes those are enough to have you staring dumbly at him for several minutes.

Now, though?

You learn that he has several tattoos on his torso—spread across his skin like patchwork. It makes you wonder if he did some of them himself, or if he had Beidou work on them for him. Still, despite the plethora of new ink stains to gawk at, his weird phoenix tattoo remains as your personal favorite.

Along with the newest piece he got not five minutes earlier—the tattoo he shares with you.

“Are you happy now?” he grumbles, letting you marvel at the perfect roman numerals just below the jut of his ribs. “It’s a good thing Beidou gave it to us free of charge, you know.”

You giggle. “All of my tatts so far have been free of charge.”

“That’s only because you’re special to me,” Xiao sighs before freezing up in the next moment—like he didn’t mean to let that slip aloud.

You smirk. “Mm? What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“Fuck off.”

06. 

Much to Xiao’s disappointment, your shitty taste in men doesn’t exactly end with Yin.

About three months after getting the tattoo to commemorate your fifteen years of best friendship, you meet Kaeya. He’s an exchange student, and you know better than to form any sort of attachment to someone who isn’t going to be in the same continent as you by next year. 

But you let him in anyway. 

You allow Kaeya to get to know you in ways that not even Xiao is familiar with. The smooth-talking foreigner likes to kiss every single one of your tattoos—lamenting the fact that they’re all inked in spots hidden from view. You laugh every time he brings it up, saying your parents are going to kill you and Xiao if they saw any of the pieces your best friend did for you over the last six years. 

“That best friend of yours…” Kaeya muses once he’s done bringing you to paradise and back, smoking a cigarette that makes you wrinkle your nose with distaste. He would’ve been perfect, if only he wasn’t such a chronic chainsmoker. “He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”

You nearly fall off the bed at his bold declaration.

“W-What the fuck are you talking about?” you stammer. Xiao? In love? With you? 

Kaeya shrugs. “I dunno, sweetheart. If I was a tattoo artist, I wouldn’t let anyone freeload my craft as many times as you did—even if you are my best friend. Unless I was down fucking bad for you, of course.”

Xiao doesn’t like Kaeya, but the reasoning behind it is a bit different from why he doesn’t like your ex. He knew Yin wasn’t a good match for you. Kaeya, though? The two of you had inarguable chemistry. The only problem was he was a free spirit that didn’t like to be tied down by commitments—something you clearly struggle with. 

When you reassured Xiao that Kaeya is nothing but a way to scratch a passing itch, he merely scoffed and told you to do whatever you wanted.

Could his dismissiveness be because…he’s in love with you? 

That can’t be right. You’re the one who knows Xiao best. If he hypothetically does catch feelings for someone—much less, you—you’ll surely be the first to notice, right?

Right?

Kaeya chuckles before tracing the XV tattoo along your ribcage with a cold finger—almost like he’s teasing. You roll your eyes before crawling back on top of your midnight lover, kissing him just to shut him up. 

When you drop by Beidou's the next day, Xiao is nowhere to be found.

“Didn’t he tell you?” She gapes. “Our boy’s starting his own shop downtown! He had the soft launch and everything a week ago. I was wondering where you were.”

“Uh…” 

You’re not sure how to break the news that Xiao has been giving you the cold shoulder ever since you got together with Kaeya. But finding out that he put up his own tattoo parlor without even telling you? 

If Kaeya turns out to be right, and your best friend really was in love with you, he sure as hell wasn’t acting like it. 

Deciding to play along with whatever game he’s playing, you make an appointment to get a new piece inked under a fake name. Xiao accepts it right away and schedules you for an early evening slot. You make it a point to arrive twenty minutes late just to get a rise out of him. 

When he sees you at the entrance to his shop, you almost let yourself feel smug about the unadulterated surprise on his face. Almost. You’re still pissed off that he didn’t invite you to one of the most important milestones of his life.

He fulfills your request in silence—the French word for green inked unassumingly on the underside of your shoulder blades. Xiao doesn’t say a word about his evasiveness, nor does he address the fact that you, his literal best friend, are standing in the shop he’s kept a secret for god knows how long. 

When he still refuses to talk, you slam your payment on top of a nearby table—intent on storming out of the building even if he hasn’t wrapped your newest piece in a protective layer of plastic yet. Xiao barks that he doesn’t want your fucking money, and you end up throwing your hands in the air, asking:

“Then what the hell do you want?”

You expected him to blow up in a fitful of rage. He’s never been good at anger management, you knew this well. But instead, he crosses the distance separating the two of you and crushes your mouths together.

“You,” he whispers hoarsely, desperately against your lips. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Kaeya calls you multiple times that night—even leaves a text message asking where you are and if you’re free. You aren’t able to answer any of them though. Not when you’re busy being railed into the next life by your best friend of fifteen—going sixteen—years in the same bed that Kaeya just had his way with you a week ago. 

When Xiao’s lips graze each and every tattoo he personally inked onto your pliant body, it’s leagues different from when Kaeya does it. It’s like your best friend is leaving a trail of fire sizzling beneath your skin everywhere his mouth trails along your hypersensitive flesh. 

Even the way he makes you fall apart from a blistering orgasm is ten times more intense than every session you had with Kaeya and Yin combined.

There’s no affection nor is there adoration in Xiao’s gaze as he fucks into you—golden eyes fueled by something carnal and zealous, but you knew better than to call that love. 

When morning comes, Xiao isn’t here with you, and you don’t know which emotion to feel. 

Kaeya, at least, has the decency to leave a note whenever he has to depart early. But all that your best friend leaves you with is a sinking feeling in your stomach, and a glaring realization that you did not want to make when you’re crying all alone in your apartment at the crack of dawn.

Kaeya was wrong. Xiao isn’t in love with you.

You’re in love with Xiao, and you immediately know you’re in deep fucking shit because of it.

07.

It’s two weeks into your mission of complete radio silence when Xiao finally breaks.

You’re in the middle of a pharmacology lecture when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You knew it wasn’t Kaeya because he’d already packed his things last week and headed back to his home country. The bastard even asked you for a quick farewell fuck, but you turned him down right away and gave him a kiss goodbye instead.

When you find out it’s a text message from the same person you’ve been trying to avoid all this time, you’re all too quick to parse through its contents.

Xiao: I'm sorry. Can we talk?

That’s how you wind up standing right outside of his new tattoo parlor. 

You haven’t been able to take a good look at it the last time you were here—too frustrated with your best friend to really make sense of your surroundings. But he’s put up his new shop in a pretty good part of town. You wonder how Xiao managed to afford it all. 

Then again, he’s been working at Beidou’s shop for years. You knew he had a decent number of regulars, as well as potential clients that are highly interested in his work. 

For once, you let yourself be proud of him. Even if he didn’t put your name on the guest list for his soft launch.

Xiao looks a little sheepish when he lets you inside and flips the sign on the front door to give the two of you some privacy. You aren’t faring any better. The last time you saw him, he was balls-deep inside of you—fucking you like you’re the most despicable woman in the world.

“So there’s this…collage piece I wanted to try,” he starts, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. 

Of course when Xiao invites you over to talk, you shouldn’t have expected any actual talking to take place. That’s just not his style. He’d rather make up for whatever mistakes he made by inking another stupid tattoo on your body, but honestly? You’ll take whatever you can get.

When you saw his sketch of a Statue of David peppered with four-leaf clovers, you couldn’t even dream of parsing the meaning behind the piece. The only thing that makes you relent is an old memory of you and Xiao hunting for four-leaf clovers in your mother’s garden—even putting the effort to plant whatever you could find in a pot in hopes that they would grow bigger.

It takes him hours to complete the entire thing. This one is probably the most realistic piece he’s done for you, and you can’t help but watch the intense concentration on his face through the mirror on the wall as he inks it a few inches above the last tattoo he did for you. 

You’ve never really realized how…breathtaking he looks like this.

His fringe falling across his pretty gold eyes, the comfortable set of his jaw as he focuses on his work, and the soft slope of his cupid’s bow despite how harsh the words that come out of his mouth can be.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You really are in love with this guy.

When he’s finally satisfied with his work, Xiao puts down his machine before wiping a sheen of sweat off his brow. He already looks so fucking good while he’s working. How is it fair for him to look even more gorgeous right after the entire process?

“Come on, let’s wrap it up,” he says before stretching his limbs. The action makes the cropped shirt he’s wearing ride up his torso a little, and you’re teased with a glimpse of the tattoo he matches with you.

Your heart nearly leaps to your throat, and if it weren’t for the dull sting of your newest tattoo, you would’ve been entranced by the sight of him entirely.

“Sure,” you say, even if your heart is begging for you to just be honest with him. To let him know how you’ve felt all this time because frankly, you can’t keep carrying the weight of your own feelings for much longer.

But then you remember how…apathetic Xiao looked like the night he dared to tell you he wanted you. There was no love to be found in his animalistic gaze, and you fear that he’ll turn you even further away at the slightest hint of more-than-friendly affection from your end. 

You can live with this. His fleeting yet heated touches. His deep, piercing stares. 

You’ll do anything to preserve what you have with him now—even if that means sacrificing everything else you could still dream of.

08.

Sometimes, you think Xiao is making you hope on purpose.

Sure, your friendship was more or less salvaged after offering your Statue of David tattoo as a quiet apology. You’re back to teasing him for all the most minuscule things, and Xiao is back to being your voice of reason in no time.

These days, though, you don’t really have much time to hang out with him like you usually do. You’re in the last year of your nursing degree, and your shifts at the hospital on top of your regular academic workload render you much too exhausted to catch up with any of your friends. Xiao included.

But there comes a night when he visits you in your apartment when you’re busy studying for a tricky surgery exam—a bucket full of fried chicken, and a bottle of sparkling water in hand. What kind of fiend would turn away an unannounced blessing like that ? 

You munch through the midnight snack Xiao brought for you all while forcing him to do your flashcards with you. He knows the drill, anyways. Though he’s been out of school for years, Xiao is still familiar enough with your study habits to be of substantial help during these trying times.

While you’re in the middle of differentiating the different types of sutures, though, he proposes an idea.

“It’s been a while since I inked you with a sewing needle and pen ink, isn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes, taking a swig of your carbonated drink as your gaze flickers to the pseudo-Orion’s belt on your right forearm. The third star has all but faded from view over the years.

“Yeah, why are you asking?”

Xiao rummages through his knapsack for a few seconds before bringing out what seems to be a small sewing kit, and a jar labeled ‘Indian ink’. You gulp in equal parts dread and anticipation.

“I figured out how to make the tatts stay longer,” he says, a gentle smile settling over his face. “You want me to give you a new one? I can even revive good old Orion, too.”

You sigh. Who are you to turn the love of your life down anyway?

Xiao gets to work while you’re lying sideways on your bed, flinching every now and again because he decided to outline the spitting image of the flower vase sitting on top of your nightstand along the curve of your waist. 

Unlike your first experience with manual needling, your pain tolerance is much better. The only reason you’re squirming every time Xiao embeds the ink into your skin is because you’re fucking ticklish. All those years of being intimately acquainted with Beidou’s tattoo machine were all the sensory training you needed, it seems. 

When Xiao is done with this piece, he pulls you into an upright position, making you hold out your arm so he could resurrect the first tattoo he ever gave you. You roll your eyes, but let him do as he pleases anyway.

At this point, you’ll let him do anything with you.

It’s nearly three in the morning when you’re putting away the dishes and glasses you and Xiao used for the night. He’s kind enough to throw out the trash while you clean up in the kitchen, and when he meets you back in the living room to exchange farewells, you don’t really want him to go.

“You have morning classes tomorrow, right?” he murmurs as he pulls you into a firm embrace, careful not to press down too hard on your new tattoo. “Take care. Don’t burn yourself out too much. All your hard work will be for nothing if you end up keeling over before graduation.”

You can’t help it. The soft timbre of his voice coupled with the fond look in his eyes tears all your defenses asunder. As you look up to meet Xiao’s uncharacteristically doting gaze, your chest twists more and more as you keep yourself from lunging in for a kiss.

“You’re such a pessimist, it’s almost funny how caring you sound,” you chuckle. “Go on, now. Shoo. It’s late.”

Before you can push him out of the door, however, Xiao catches you by surprise when he leans down to peck your lips. You stay frozen in place even as he pulls away—smiling so prettily, you can hardly believe this guy is your perpetually pissed off best friend.

“Good night.” 

Unlike the last time he left you all alone in your apartment, you’re filled to the brim with an emotion you can’t quite name. It’s far from the emptiness that made a home in your heart when you thought you were in love with someone who didn’t love you back. But you’re not about to call it happiness either.

Whatever this strange feeling is, you let it sit in your chest for a while longer, and it lingers even when the memory of Xiao’s lips stops prickling against the skin of your own.

09.

On the day of your graduation, Xiao asks you to drop by his shop after the rites have concluded. You tell him that he’s self-centered as fuck, and that this is your day, so if he wants to use your body as a practice canvas again, he’s going to have to wait tomorrow.

You don’t tell him that you’re sulking because he didn’t even show up to congratulate you for surviving four gruesome years of nursing. But you suppose that someone who never went to college in the first place wouldn’t be the best at sympathizing with this particular milestone in your life.

He shows you his latest sketch when you make it to his shop the next morning—and you can’t contain the look of disbelief that colors your features when you realize what it is.

“A bouquet that’ll never wilt,” he chuckles, one finger expertly pointing out the flowers he’s drawn on the neat page. “Orchids and hydrangeas: your favorite. Violets: you press a bunch of these in books every summertime. Pink baby’s breath ‘cause you wouldn’t stop gushing about them at your sister’s wedding.”

You aren’t able to stifle the flattered giggle that spills from your lips. “Can’t believe you actually remember all that. What’s the lily of the valley doing there though?”

“Oh, this?” Xiao hums with one brow raised. “Your mom had lots of them in her old garden. Those are my favorite.”

“And, pray tell, why is your favorite flower going to be permanently tattooed on my body?”

Xiao doesn’t humor you with a verbal answer right away. Instead, he wheels his revolving seat closer to you so that he’s close enough to press your foreheads together. Your breath hitches when his mouth curves into a loving smile you’re starting to get used to seeing.

“Because you’re mine,” he says simply. “Now, are you going to tell me where you want me to ink your eternal bouquet or not?”

10.

You’re a complete sap when it comes to weddings. Everyone knows this.

It’s for that reason that none of your guests are surprised when you end up crying in the middle of exchanging vows with your fiancé. Xiao sighs before taking out a handkerchief from his front pocket, dabbing at the tears streaming down your face. For someone who comes on so tough to other people, you’re awfully sentimental.

“Sorry, sorry—” you sniffle, thanking every single god out there for the invention of waterproof mascara. “Okay, I’m ready now.”

The rest of the session proceeds swiftly. You get to kiss your best friend of more than two decades and call him your husband in front of some friends and family. The matrimonial rites were held in a private resort at the base of a mountain. Both you and Xiao wanted to preserve the intimacy of your wedding as much as you could. After all, you didn’t need all that flashy and grandiose wedding prep to prove to the world just how much you want to spend the rest of your life with Xiao. 

Your thoughts stay the same even as he lays you down in the king-sized bed of the cabin you had to yourselves. He sighs in between kisses as he strips you off your wedding garbs. You’re surprised he’s taking his time with you. Xiao has been eye-fucking you since you started walking down the aisle. It was so bad that even Beidou made a few off-hand remarks about the sexual tension during the reception. 

“I was thinking,” you breathe as he grinds his hips against yours, “of getting another tattoo. My last one.” 

Xiao lifts his head for a moment, one brow arched. “You’re married to a tattoo artist, and you think the tattoo you’re getting after the wedding is your last one? You’re dreaming, princess.”

“Fine. Point taken.” You roll your eyes. “But anyway, I want a dragon tattoo riiiight…here.”

Your husband watches with rapt attention as you guide his hand to the spot you’re talking about—just below the collection of your favorite flowers inked above your waist is a blank stretch of skin. Xiao’s lips twitch into a fond smile as his calloused fingers graze your flesh.

“Still against having showy tatts?” he asks before pressing a soft kiss on the spot you pointed at. 

“Mhmm. You see, my dad doesn’t care if I’m married and have my own life. If he sees that I have tattoos, he’s still going to murder me,” you chuckle. “So yeah, tatts are staying under my clothes until he grows old enough and forgets that he hates seeing ink on other people’s skin.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind then.”

When Xiao ravishes you for the first time as your husband, your chest overflows with love for him. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their best friends by their sides for as long as you did, yet you ended up tying the knot with yours. Although the entire process was more than twenty years in the making, you suppose there’s no point in rushing anything.

After all, Xiao is as permanent in your life just as much as the ink stains on your body.

“Look,” you chuckle once Xiao is done cleaning up in the bathroom and settles down right next to you on the bed, “Kaeya sent us a postcard. He says congrats on overcoming the emotional constipation.”

“Throw that thing away,” your husband grumbles, pulling you away from the pile of postcards on the nightstand. “Why are you even keeping touch with him still?”

“So I can use him as an excuse to get you jealous, and have you fuck me rough?”

“Oh, princess. If you wanted it rough…” he starts with a sigh, rolling his neck with a smirk. You gulp, wondering if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew this time around.

“All you had to do was ask.”

⟢ end notes: it's been a while since i wrote for genshin, so i hope you liked it! thank you sm for reading ^^

[2braincellslz]

Male reader gives Eddie a tattoo on his V-line

Permanent.

Ship: Eddie munson x male!reader

Desc: Eddie calls (y/n) in to their room. Eddie asks (y/n) to give him a tattoo. The rest is history.

Notes: it's short and shitty. I'm sorry. I was just trying to get a request out.

"Baaaabe" eddie called from his room.

(Y/n) was already sprawled out over the couch, lazily shoving handfuls of popcorn in to his mouth as he rewatched Halloween for the... hundredth time.

"Whaaaat?" (Y/n) called back, shoving more popcorn in to his mouth. The taste of cold popcorn was staring to get old.

"Wash your hands and come here!"

(Y/n) rolled his eyes. He placed the bowl on the coffee table before making his way to the sink, cleaning off the cheese powder. "What are you getting at, Munson?"

But there was no response.

(Y/n) groaned loudly as he dumped the leftover popcorn in the that trash, presenting his displeasure from being taken away from his movie without a valid reason yet he still made his way to the bedroom.

Eddie had a little container of black void resting on his bedside table. Eddie himself was stilling on the bed with a needle in his hand, the tip of the needle was sainted black.

Eddie looked up from what he was doing, or trying to do, and gave (y/n) a silly little grin. "Care to help me?" He asked, extending the needle out to his boyfriend.

"You want me to give you a tattoo?" Eddie's plants had already been unzipped, a few dots scattered around Eddie v-line. "Is this even safe?" (Y/n) stepped closer, taking the pin.

"No, not really." (Y/n) couldn't help but roll his eyes, letting out another groan.

"You made me miss Halloween for this." (Y/n) kneeled infront of Eddie. This wasn't his first time dealing with Eddie just getting a tattoo out of nowhere but it was the first time that he had ever been asked to give Eddie or anyone a tattoo.

"Halloween? Oh, the horror. Not like you have seen it three thousand times."

"What do you want me to do, Eddie? Tell me now or I'm picking."

Eddie let out a long hum, rubbing his chin like he was thinking. "I dont know, you pick."

(Y/n) couldn't help but let a smile creep on to his face as different ideas popped into his head, some worse then others. "Nothing bad!" Eddie snapped, immediately regretting letting his boyfriend pick.

"Aw, what?" (Y/n) giggled, deciding on a safe idea. "Your no fun."

(Y/n) started on the tattoo, a bit shaky at first but after a while he got the hang of it. Eddie huffed, hissing at the pain. He grabbed on to (y/n)s shoulder.

"This seems a bit... odd." (Y/n) looked up at eddie.

"Oh shut up." Eddie hissed, nails digging in to (y/n)s shoulder.

(Y/n) continued to work, ignoring the digging pain. He was Lazar focused as he worked. Honestly, It would have been better is Eddie had just taken him to a tattoo parlor but he enjoyed being close to his boyfriend. Being able to do something for him.

"This is going to be shit..." (y/n) mumbled, mostly too himself, as he worked.

"I can get it fixed at a parlor later." Eddie hummed. His voice was strained slightly. For someone who has a collection of tattoos, the man has a low pain tolerance but his skin could also be sensitive from the demobats.

About a hour passed and (y/n) was almost done. It wasnt a big piece but doing anything with one needle was a feat in itself.

"Annnd.... done!" (Y/n) took a paper towel he had gotten half way through and whipped off a bit of the excess ink.

(Y/n) stepped back, looking over his work. Eddie looked down. His face suddenly lit up as he looked over the piece.

It was simple, you could only do so much with a single needle. But it has meaning. It was a 20 sided die with a nat 20 facing out.

"Its perfect!" Eddie cheered, even if the line work was a bit shakey.

"Well, I wouldn't say perfect." (Y/n) chuckled. Eddie pulled (Y/n) in to a tight hug, being careful of the raw skin.

"Dont get it infected." (Y/n) patted Eddie's shoulder, stepping back to look over his art one more time.

[paynomindtotheinsanity]

I love your art so much, you’re part of the reason I started drawing again. Your old art is cool, and your new art just has so much emotion and detail in it, it deserves so much praise. Do you have any advice on how you upskilled so well into the amazing art you do today? I really want to learn to be skilled like you are and improve to your level

Dude, thank you so much. I'm super flattered but also have major Impostor Syndrome right now lol.

The biggest thing that helped me was getting a drawing tablet and learning how to use digital art programs like Canvas or Procreate. I am a very messy artist - my traditional sketchbooks were always a nightmare because of how often I erase shit, so being able to use programs where I can simply undo or reposition a line was a game-changer.

I'm also incredibly indecisive and struggle with linework, but I found some great brushes that mimic the effects of ink pens and watercolor so I can achieve the messy, painted look. (This Sketchbook set and lineart set are the two I use the most)

Use as many references as you need! Gather a bunch of base poses to get the hang of proportions and anatomy (my go-to artist is Mellon_Soup. Screenshots from movies and shows work great too)

Try out posing tools like this one

A fun exercise that helps me is to paste a photo or drawing on one layer, and then on the layer above, sketch the main aspects in 30 seconds. Delete the first layer and then work solely off of the sketch (and yes it will absolutely look spooky and/or silly). If you need more time at first, start with 60 seconds and work your way down as you get the hang of it:

Take pictures of yourself in the poses you want to draw

Find artists with a style that resonates with you and study their work

The Multiply tool on Procreate is AMAZING for adding depth to artwork. I use this on almost everything. Add a slightly darker color on top of the whole set of layers, switch it to Multiply, and then go in with the eraser to mark the areas where the light hits

Keep practicing, no matter how shitty you think it looks! Just keep going!!

Uh I think that's it? I'll add more if I remember anything else.

I wish you the best of luck on your art journey! <3

[ink-the-axolotl-rabbit]

Here's the tame shit I drew

[The slightly suggestive shit I drew for the funny is under the cut]

The victims that were selected to wear THAT one rabbit outfit we all know

(reblog to breach containment)

[acourtoflostandwanderingstars]

ModernCollegeAU! ACOTAR headcanons

p.1 -- the bat bois

i loved writing this, addign all the little detail and working on fleshing out this world

i may or may not already have a fic in the planning stages

anyways, enjoy the sfw version of the bat boys (slightly suggestive but nothing super explicit)

BAT BOYS:

They met each other by joining the same fraternity

That’s where the whole ‘brother’ thing started

Ever since, they’ve been pretty damn inseparable

They are drop-dead gorgeous

Like, everyone on campus wants to sleep with them

And, to be real, it sometimes feels like they have

They’re in a band together, and it would be called ‘The Bat Boys’ [inspo elenana.art on insta]

They play at shitty, underground clubs because as rich as Rhys’ father is, and as little as he seems to care, Rhys kinda doesn’t want him finding out

And Rita’s, of course

He is paying for a majority of the amenities the school has implemented

And most of his tuition

The band does make them more appealing – adds an edge to already ridiculously attractive men

They are the upperclassmen that freshmen are warned about going into college

Now that they have moved on from the fraternity, their apartment has become a hotspot for parties

The biggest parties on campus

Landing an invitation to one is akin to being personally invited by a celebrity to hang out with other celebrities

I feel bad for their neighbors

They are decent enough in the day though

They keep their yard clean and trimmed, they are considerate of parking regulations, they know the names of their neighbors

Which, by the way, is a pretty big deal because their neighbors cycle in and out fairly frequently

On campus, they have a gig revolving around tutoring going

Rhys heads up the operation, Azriel is elusive and can be hard to book, and Cass is usually just there for moral support

But they are frequently booked out

(Some are suspicious that studying isn’t the only thing that happens)

It can make finding free-time very difficult during finals

So they designated Rita’s as their hangout place

They can be found there most Saturday nights

They pregame there most of the time too

Y’know, since they have to host a party during the game

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AZRIEL:

Azriel is the quiet, elusive homebody

He’s definitely bi

And everyone positively drools over this man

And the rumors that spiral around him?

Don’t get me started 

(They mostly revolve around bedroom behavior and wingspan [iykyk])

They are well known on and off of campus, somehow

One of the bat boy’s neighbors is an old, grandmotherly lady

And she teases him endlessly about the rumors

(Much to Rhys’ chargain and Cassian’s endless amusement)

He’s in school for business and computer science, but he’s dabbled in some art– [because i read Midnight Muse by @azsazz ~ 10/10 would recommend]

Nothing too specific, just art

He loves things that revolve around the dark lines and spaces in between

Like inks and charcoals

So he’s considered ditching computer science for art school after he graduates in business

No one’s 100% sure where he works

He’s very dodgy about it

He is totally a cat dad – he found three black kittens in the dumpster

The one behind the dormitories and the greasy pizza place next to them

(He and Cassian had gone dumpster diving for pizza)

So he picked them up while Cassian enjoyed his pizza

The first two he kept and named Wisp and Wisteria

The third Cassian requested for a girl he was seeing

Azriel didn’t find out until much later that he gave it to Nesta (who named him Bryaxis)

Anyways, he used to have a major crush on Rhys’ cousin, Mor

Until Cassian’s current gf brought her sister to a party

He’s figured out where she works

He figured it out quickly – within the first week following the party

The little flower shop

Now he needs to figure out an excuse to go there

He owns a motorcycle

It’s like the one big purchase he made for himself

It adds to the intrigue

To the untrained eye, he’s a man of the shadows

The mysterious bassist that rides a motorcycle, ever elusive

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CASSIAN:

Cassian is in school for Project Management and a minor in the Science in Health and Human Performance

He works at two of the campus’ gyms, and one off site

No one is sure where he gets the time

Or the energy

Which he seems endlessly full of

His freshman/sophmore year, he signed up for the dorm warming committee

He got kicked out because he brought barbells and beer

(Which were not meant to be served to the freshman)

(The beer, that is)

Morale had never been higher, though

He’s a junior on the books

But because he’s failed enough classes to count for a semester or two, he’s technically a senior

The only reason he didn’t flunk out was because of Rhys

Actually, he started (aka was the first customer of) Rhys’ monopoly over the tutoring business, and now shows up purely for ‘emotional support’ (Rhys’ customer’s are hot)

He’s the drummer for the Bat Boys

And, although you might not guess it, he actually manages the band most of the time

Like he makes sure they have a place to play when they feel like it

Because a lot of the bars owe him favors (we won’t say why)

Rita’s is, of course, his favorite location

He’s befriended the owner

Or intimidated

The man is nearly 7 ft tall of solid muscle with a reputation round the block

He drives an old, run down truck

It has issues – with the exhaust, the muffler, sometimes the oil leaks, and he’s had to have the cylinders re-aligned multiple times

But he loves it

It’s one of the ‘tests’ he puts his dates through – how much do you love (or tolerate) the truck

The noisy, stinky bucket of bolts

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

RHYSAND:

Rhysand is in school for business and law

His father is the CEO of the ‘only’ law firm in town (the others disappeared without any real explanation)

He is passing all of his classes with flying colors, miraculously, though the way he carries himself you’d never know he’d be the type

Like, he radiates spoiled rich kid who’s dad is paying his way through college

Which isn’t true

Feyre hates it

She just can’t understand how 

How his grades are so good, how his ego is so high

To make it worse, he’s her tutor

Much to his delight

He’s a junior, so he qualifies as a tutor if he keeps a certain grade

(He probably only keeps the ‘A’ for Feyre, be real here)

He has a sort of monopoly over the tutoring program and makes a pretty penny off of it

It doesn’t hurt that most of his tutoring sessions could end in something MUCH more personal if he was in the mood

Everyone who hangs around him has become known as the ‘inner circle’

Often abbreviated to the ‘I-C’

Everyone knows who the ic are

Everyone

So, of course, they have enemies

And they have taken to referring to his friends as the ‘ick’

A play off of ‘ic’

A cheap, uncreative insult in Rhys’ opinion

His cousin, Mor, keeps a fair amount of people off of it though

He doesn’t want to know what she did to scare them off

Because of his charming, well presented nature, he has been able to climb his way to success

And he’s only a junior

He lands every scholarship, he has internships lined up, he’s gotten into several vacation plans

The guy is insane

He plays guitar for the band

But he can also sing

The guy can sing

Smooth, rich, almost throwback quality but still modern

Perfect for a bittersweet love story

Perfect for sweeping his lovers off their feet

So the rumors about his pillow talk

Gods

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

||| ~ mk mk loves, i'm finishing up Feyre, Elain, and Nesta's, and i have Mor, Gwyn, Amren, and Emerie written out. Then I'll slowly eat my way through Tampon, Lucien, Eris, and the other high lords [and then maybe i'll do some nsfw headcanons, and perhaps move on to some reader x character headcanons] ~ |||

anyways enjoyyyy <3

[aligatorfishcave]

#2 - P.Z Little Sister

minimal use of y/n

In 3rd person cause i hate myself and cant write any other way

she/her but like, if you wanna ignore it please do

word count: 1307/1.3k

her love interest may or may not be inspired by top gun cause like challengers, I'm obsessed with it.

warnings: as far as I know there aren't any warnings, let me know if there are any and I'll add them, mostly just fluff, some flirting and maybe a bit of angst, also some swearing.

—

2007

—

It wasn't hard to tell when Patrick Zweig was on campus. At Stanford or Yale, he always made a ruckus, either fighting with his sister, flirting with Tashi or messing around with Art. 

Chaos incarnate.

He visited Y/N often enough but honestly it wasn’t hard to see how Patrick favoured Art and Tashi at Stanford over Y/N at Yale.

—

Y/N sat in the back of the lecture hall, chewing on her pen as the speaker explained his techniques for calculating the statistics behind the stock market. She stopped chewing on her pen long enough to quickly scribble down a few notes.

The hall wasn't exactly quiet. Although Yale was one of the most coveted colleges in the world, a fair amount of its students got in as legacies from previous students, teachers and even ancestors, if the kid was desperate enough. The statistics lectures were more of a blowoff class than anything else, people talking, doing their nails, eating, even throwing a football around. The few who were actually listening, sat near the back of the class, all keeping their distance from each other.

When she’d written her notes, the end of the pen went back into her mouth, her other hand tapping on her paper.

“Chewing on pens isn't good for you. The ink can explode and it really doesn't taste good.” A voice in front of her said. Each level of the seats and desks, going further back into the room were more elevated than the last, so Y/N had to look down and lean forward slightly to see who was talking to her.

In the seat in front of her, a woman with her hair pulled straight back into a tight bun sat, half turned around in her seat to look at Y/N with a grin.

“No shit Sherlock.” Y/N said, letting her pen drop onto the table. “I’m Y/N.”

“Nyla, nice to meet you sweetheart.” The girl, Nyla, said, still grinning at Y/N like she was god's gift to the world. She would probably like Patrick.

—

A few weeks after the class, after the two girls had exchanged numbers, they had been texting non-stop. 

That was exactly what Y/N was doing before someone decided to interrupt her.

“Y/N! Y/N!” A familiar voice yelled out, accompanied by two sets of feet stomping along the concrete as they made a bee-line for her. Patrick and Art.

She laughed slightly, slipping her phone into her pocket and standing up just before they practically tackled her into a hug between them.

“What are you doing here!” She laughed, wrapping her arms around the two boys.

“Surprise road-trip!!!” Patrick practically yelled, pulling his sister closer and spinning her around as Art laughed.

—

Two hours later Art and Patrick were sitting in the front seats of Patricks shitty old car with Y/N lying in the backseat texting Nyla.

“So. How's school?” Patrick said, glancing back at his sister. “Who are you texting?” He changed the question before she could even answer it.

“School’s fine and it’s none of your damn business who I’m texting.” She said, glaring at him without really looking away from her phone.

“Ooooo. Y/N’s got a boyfriend.” Art teased, essentially turning around fully in the passenger seat.

She rolled her eyes, shoving that little bit of guilt away for not correcting him, even though Nyla wasn't even her girlfriend, she couldn't bring herself to admit she liked a girl, her new friend, in a romantic way. “Piss off, Art. How’s Tashi?”

She knew it was a low blow, bringing up the girl that they both loved and desperately wanted. When neither of them answered, the silence loud, she laughed slightly, going back to scrolling on her phone.

—

Two days later, after having switched between sleeping and driving periodically between the three of them, they finally pulled into the carpark of Art’s dorm at Stanford.

In the front seat, Y/N rested her head in her palm, glancing back at the two boys who were passed out against each other. She let them rest for a few minutes more before slamming down on the horn, startling them both awake.

“Son of a bitch that's loud.” Art groaned, earning a laugh from Y/N and a grunt from her brother, who pried himself off Art and opened the door, climbing out of the car with a groan.

Y/N kept laughing to herself, her and Art following as they all grabbed their stuff from the boot, continuing to follow Patrick to go meet up with Tashi before their game.

Art had a non-competitive match, what a smart idea, going on a 45 hour road trip there and back before a match, and Tashi had a non-competitive match, but with how well she played it might as well have been competitive. Despite the two women never having met, Y/N had an insane amount of respect for Tashi. Not just for being the number 1 female player in the USA, but for dealing with her brother's bullshit and somehow not hating him.

The tennis grounds were closer to the middle of the grounds and a fair walk away from where the car was parked, so Y/N got to see the Stanford campus, not that it lived up to Yale in her opinion.

Her and Patrick said goodbye to Art as he went to warm up, the siblings heading up into the stadium and finding seats. There were a few matches before Art and then Tashi, so they had plenty of time.

Eventually, the blonde made his way onto the court, destroying his opponent 2 to 1. He joined them in the stands a bit before Tashi went on, though Patrick left a few minutes after Art got there and wasn’t back when Tashi started playing.

The match was going well, Tashi was going easy on the girl but keeping a steady lead. Beside Y/N, Art's head wasn't moving like everyone else's, watching Tashi instead of the ball.

One misstep. One ill calculated move. She hit the ground, a scream filled with pure pain escaping her.

Art was up in seconds, Y/N on his tail. He shoved through people in his path to get to Tashi. Practically jumping down the stairs to get to her. He sprinted across the court, jumping over the net and sliding to the ground on his knees. Y/N remained back a little bit, feeling as if she was watching outside her body, watching Art gently hold Tashis head off the ground as she cried and the medics checked her leg.

He helped them get her down into the medical office while Y/N followed just behind, Patrick still nowhere to be seen.

—

The room was cold, the walls brick and the AC cranked on its highest setting.

Art sat next to the examination table where Tashi sat with a towel rolled up under her knee, arms folded over her face. Y/N stood with her back against the wall a bit behind Art, silently fiddling with her phone.

Footsteps sounded down the hall, getting closer. Patrick walked just past the room, backtracking to stand in the doorway, his eyes kind of red but Y/N can’t tell if its from crying or weed. “I’m sorry-”

“Out.” Tashi interrupts him.

“Tashi…”

“OUT!”

“Listen–”

“OUT! OUT! OUT!” Tashi yelled

Patrick kind of just stood there for a few seconds…

“Patrick. Get the fuck out of here!” Art yelled at him, standing up. 

The room fell silent again, Patrick and Art staring at each other, Tashi staring at the roof and Y/N standing against the wall, watching her brother's friendship deteriorate. Patrick left a second later, not sparing Y/N a glance, probably not even noticing she was there.

—

part two is out, yay, its kinda really trash but Nyla is here now, yippee, good times ahead. well, for Y/N. not Art, Tashi and Patrick lol.

I'm actually really proud of this, it's over 1000 words which I think is pretty good.

[ink-the-axolotl-rabbit]

Drew these fucking things because of my friends on discord suggesting me to draw them

Third one was requested by @awoogadaemofurry who also has a Tumblr btw

The order two are straight from discord, they have other social accounts but not Tumblr

[mahiiimahiiii]

Crocus: snippet!

A/n: here's a snippet from my current wip! It is multi chaptered so I'm trying to give you more of a tasty long form fiction.

The caves themselves were humid, scattered with small waterfalls and clay bricks of faded colors. Ferns, moss and purple flowers grew from spigots of water and areas that drew a lot of moisture. You say down a moment near one of the spigots, refilling your canteen. You wet a cloth under the water and wiped the sweat from your brow. You decided that now, a better time than any, was good for a snack. You pulled out a wedge of cheese, a pack of pickled fish and a chunk of bread. The cheese spread like butter, it was spiced, and tastes like your mother's mephistar cooking. You layered it with chunky and salty pieces of bone-free tuna. A pretty shitty meal at best but one that will keep you going for a while The sound of padded paws and jingling bells graces your ears, a tressym spotted like a tortoiseshell cat came into view, it grimaced at the scent of the fish.

You broke off a bit of the clean bread and offered it to the cat. She scarfed it down and began to kick her leg like a chicken drumstick.

"That fish wont sustain you for much, you know." The cat stated pointedly, her eyes scrunched close in concentration.

The packing supplies rattled slightly as you put them away, doing a small Jump in surprise.

"I'm well aware, this was a snack before I scout out a place to camp."

"Camp?!" The cat scoffed, "my friend runs a small inn nearby, he'll be happy to have guests. We have them more often in the winter during a specific ceremony for worshipers of Silvanus escorting their friends into hibernation. "

"But I'm here to find-"

"Nonsense, a cup of tea will clear your head, whatever you're finding will make sense after a good night sleep."

The cat brushed herself along your legs.

You stood up, following her into the depths of the maze, eventually the cracked and sandy floor turned into a smooth rock brick. The art was newer in the walls, possibly done by previous worshippers. A sign that looked like the same green kettle settled on a beam of a building built into an alcove Your fingers brushes against the wood of the doorframe, the rest of the village that peered off the balcony below into the depths of the underdark bustled and hummed. The cat found a plush cushion at the desk, small keys hung behind her, as well as rows of books. The floor was aged wood, cracks filled in with dark cool clay. The room was open air, with small lanterns filled with enchanted candles filled with spices. The tressym stretches, nipping at an enchanted pen and stamping her own paw in ink, marking down in a book.

"Name?" She asked.

"Uhm.. Li'ia Obbon."

"Your room will be number 6”.

"That is very generous of you " you grasp at the key floating towards you

"First night is free alongside the baths, you will have to pay for food though."

"Oh- that's quite the lovely deal."

The cat herself shrugged, "we have a lot passing through, we simply offer better services for those staying longer- as good will be a more 'on-the house' thing as you're paying for it with room and board."

You Hum in acknowledgement, the tressym cleans her paws in water and dries them on a towel nearby.

"I suggest you have a bath before the master wakes, he takes a while."

"He is nocturnal?" You tilt your head, slightly fascinated.

"Only until recently. Then he had a late-night reading session, and it went downhill from there."

"Thank you for the tip." The keys are heavy in your hand as you hiked up the stairs, your pack weighing heavily on your back. The hall was of the same cool wood, filled with dark clay. The key slotted into the hole and turned, revealing a large room with upwards windows bright beams of the lowering sun flooded the room.

[writer-in-theory]

California Dreamin' — harringrove.

Summary: When Steve goes on his dream road trip to California alone, he finds the unlikeliest of ghosts in a tattoo shop. Prompt: B1 - Tattoo Shop // A2 - Reunion Pairing: Bottom!Steve Harrington/Top!Billy Hargrove Rating: Explicit Word Count: 10.7k Content Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussions of Trauma (canon-based), Needles (tattoos), Emotional Smut, Implied Unprotected Sex, Anal Sex, Scar Worship, Non-Graphic Smut, Insecurities Read On AO3: HereA/N: This is another fill for @harringroveson-bingo and @billyhargrovebingo !! This was meant to be a short lil fluff fic but ended up being angst and smut, so here we are. Huge thanks to @serenity-lattes for cheering me on and beta-reading through this whole thing (and coming up with the tattoo shop name!). Also many apologies for making @lcvingprentjss cry.

Harringroveson Bingo Masterlist // Billy Hargrove Bingo Masterlist

Steve was 10 miles from his destination when he saw the shop. It was a smaller building, nestled between a record shop and coffee shop that looked designed for people more academically inclined than he’d ever been. It wasn’t trying to be anything it wasn’t—no flashing lights or intense neons that decorated every other building he’d driven past that night. Maybe that was what had drawn Steve to the tattoo shop on the corner of West Eleventh and Park, the simplicity of the ‘Valhalla Ink’ sign above the door. 

Already he could hear the wild screams from Robin and Eddie when they inevitably saw his tattoo, maybe by that point it would already be healed up and slightly faded from time. Nancy would be told about it by Robin, and she’d shake her head and talk all night about how much he’d changed from the Steve Harrington she’d known in school.

As if none of them had changed after what happened, after what they’d lost. 

That was it then, Steve decided if only to divert his mind away from what had long since been over. He found the nearest street parking, offering the Beemer his ritualistic thank you for surviving the trip thus far, and set off to the shop. When Steve had pictured himself making this trip, it had always been in an RV with too many kids to keep track of and a loving partner who made it all worthwhile. Still, when he’d woken in Hawkins one Thursday to realize he was well and truly the only one left, he couldn’t help but pack a measly bag of supplies and hop into his car without any real plan to guide him. All he knew was that he’d end on the beaches of San Diego, his one true dream destination.

“We could make it, you know.”

“Where, San Diego? Get real.”

“No, I’m serious. After the summer, we could get out of here. I’ll take what I can from my parents, we’ll get in your car, and we’ll go. You could show me the beach.”

“You’ve seen the beach.”

“I haven’t seen your beach.”

Tattoo shops. Beemers on their last legs. Shitty road motels with the kinds of beds he didn’t really want to think about too closely. Tattoo shops.

Steve was getting a tattoo, and then he’d find someplace to sleep, and then he’d deal with the beach tomorrow when his mind had time to recover from the drive. He could handle that much right now, he knew he could. 

The shop was even more picturesque inside. There were chairs and machines, sure, but there were also worn surfboards hanging on the walls and old records tacked up alongside them. They were bands Steve never listened to on purpose unless he wanted to harm himself with the memories, though seeing them treated like art in this way made something warm wrap around his heart. He would have liked that. Or maybe He would have called it pretentious, snickering at Steve for trying to get a tattoo when everyone knows it wouldn’t really fit in with his style.

Who the fuck knows anymore.

“Hey, we’re about to close!” a voice called from a distance away. There was a door open in the back of the shop, maybe it was from there. “I don’t have time to start anyth—”

Steve Harrington must have died on the trip. He must have gotten into an accident on the way and his friends were being told because there was no fucking way this was happening right now. The man looked different—older than he’d ever been allowed to be, with shorter hair than Steve had ever seen him with. It was long enough to still show off those curls, one lone corkscrew hanging into his face and obscuring a part of those familiar blue eyes, now filled with far less anger than they once had been. He was in a t-shirt, exposing all of the tattoos he’d never gotten to get before but had always talked about, along with several white scars that trailed his skin like veins. He was different, but no amount of years between them would ever let Steve forget him.

“Billy?” Steve whispered, like speaking anything louder might make this ghost disappear.

He’s sure Billy didn’t hear him—there was no way he could’ve with the amount of distance between them now—but the other man still jerked back like he’d been hit. 

“What are you doing here?” Billy Hargrove—Billy fucking Hargrove—asked, and the sound of his voice alone was enough to gather tears in Steve’s eyes. 

He thought he’d lost all right to hear it again.

“I’m—” Steve began, though cut himself off quickly after noticing the expression on Billy’s face. He wasn’t crying. No, his blue eyes were clear and looking side to side, categorizing every door in the building. He stood light on his feet, every muscle tensed like he was ready to run the second any of it got to be too much for him. Steve had a million questions, ‘how are you alive?’ being the chief one, but all he could do was sigh, press a smile into his face like a cookie cutter, and say, “To get a tattoo. I can come back tomorrow though, if you’re closing. Or never, if that’s what you want too. I don’t, I don’t...whatever you want.”

Billy looked like he was going to tell him to get out. He opened his mouth, eyes alight with the same kind of fire that had once gotten Steve laid out on the floor of Joyce Byers’s kitchen, but then he closed it all too suddenly, fire dimming with the kind of resigned hopelessness that Steve had grown accustomed to in his own mind.

“Have a design in mind, Harrington?” 

“Uh, no, no I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Steve admitted, feeling his cheeks burn pink. 

When Billy laughed, it felt like everything would be okay. Not hearing it for six years had nestled something deep and immovable in Steve’s chest, but he felt it nudge away as the room filled with that sound again. It was still as odd and wondrous as ever—Billy’s chin tipping back with the force of it, a punch of sound like he’d been fighting the release of such a happy noise.

“You haven’t changed, have you?” Steve wanted to scream that he had. He wanted to grab Billy by the shoulders and shake him until he saw the kind of changes he’d been forced through. Before Dustin left for college, he’d called him tired, old. Even before that, when Robin was sitting in Nancy’s car ready to follow her around the world if the other woman asked, she’d cried over how worn out he’d seemed. Withering, Steve thought to himself, he was withering. 

Steve only shrugged, but that seemed to be a good enough answer as any because Billy waved him over to the desk where a notebook and pen rested between them. This was the closest they’d been since....well, since. Closer, Steve could see the scars didn’t stop at his arms. They continued down Billy’s hands, to wrap around each finger like marionette strings. He supposed that’s what Billy had been at the end, or what he’d always thought had been the end, a puppet.

“We had a funeral,” Steve whispered then, unable to stop them up even when he tried.

“Steve,” Billy warned, fingers gripping the pen tightly like a lifeline.

Still, against Steve’s better judgment, he pressed. “Robin, Max, Lucas, and I. We had a funeral. A real one, not the bullshit your dad se—” 

“Steve!” Billy shouted, other hand smacking down on the counter loud enough to make Steve jump back. The anger faded quickly, disappearing somewhere past the scars both new and old Billy carried with him. “What kind of design were you thinking of?”

Right, tattoos. He was here for a tattoo.

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. “I told you, this wasn’t in the plan.”

“Do you trust me?” Billy asked. 

To the ends of the Earth, to where no one has ever gone before, with every breath Steve had left.

“Sure, I trust you.”

It was awkward in ways Steve didn’t think was possible, watching Billy design. The other man kept the page close to him, arm wrapping around it to conceal the design from Steve’s view while he worked. He mostly didn’t talk, leaving Steve to focus on the scratch of the pen on cheap paper and the way Billy’s tongue still poked out of his mouth when he was concentrating. 

Eventually, Steve wandered. Billy looked up at him once, but when he never said anything Steve took it as permission to continue. He walked around the perimeter of the large room, taking in each bit of covered space on the wall. The surfboards were all signed, some with Billy’s name—or rather, first name. Steve didn’t recognize the last name—and others with names Steve didn’t have any chance at recognizing.  There was a shelf of cassette tapes in the back, where all of the chairs and benches were. Most were bands he would’ve crinkled his nose at years ago.

“You could at least try to woo me with some better music.”

“The hell are you talking about? I’ve already wooed you, Pretty Boy.”

There was one, however, that stuck out to Steve. It was in the middle of the pack but there may as well have been a spotlight on it with the way it drew his eyes. He plucked it off the shelf, opening the case to make sure his heart was on the right track. Sure enough, in the little corner of the inside cover rested his own handwriting. SH, ‘83. 

“You have my Tears For Fears tape?” he asked, spinning around to hold it up for Billy to see. 

“They found it in my car,” Billy answered quickly, eyes looking back down to his notepad. That elicited more questions than it did provide answers, but Steve knew better by now than to push.

“I would’ve hoped my music taste rubbed off on you a little more, but, I guess this works,” Steve teased, popping the tape into the player before returning to the counter. “Figured something out?”

“You know, normally clients come in with ideas. They don’t expect me to come up with the perfect tat for them on the first try,” Billy said, his eyes never once leaving the page.

“Well I’m not any normal client, now am I?” Steve said quickly, leaning over to see it and jumping only a little when Billy’s hands smacked down to shield the page from view. “C’mon, Billy, I wanna see it!”

“Whiny brat,” Billy hissed, catching even himself off-guard for long enough for Steve to grab his hands and move them away from the page. Steve nearly gasped when he saw the drawing, fingers instinctively moving to brush over the pen strokes. Billy drew a bat, adorned with familiar nails through the barrel. Around it was a crown fit for a king, wrapped around each other like Steve’s very own coat of arms. 

“It’s perfect,” Steve told him, “that’s what I want.”

“Good, I wasn’t gonna redraw it,” Billy said, motioning for Steve to sit in one of the chairs while he disappeared into the back room he’d been in when Steve had first walked in. 

This was really happening. There was still time to leave, to tell Billy he was actually joking and they could go grab coffee to catch up instead of stabbing a needle repeatedly into Steve’s skin. But the tattoo was perfect, and no one would ever expect it from dethroned ex-jock Steve Harrington. 

It felt a little like a blur, having Billy so close. While Billy readied the machine and slipped on black nitrile gloves, Steve stared. There was no way the other man didn’t notice, but Steve couldn’t find it in himself to care. All he could think about was the fact that Billy was here, now, and not in the grave they’d abandoned him in six years ago. 

The needle hurt on his forearm, but it was the kind of hurt Steve could deal with. It wasn’t cruel Russian fists or suffocating demobat tails, or even the deep devastating hurt from losing—

It was the bearable kind of hurt.

“Most guys whine like babies for their first ones,” Billy spoke up, eyes still focused on what he was doing. Needle, wipe. Needle, wipe. “You take the pain like a champ.”

I always did. “I think Robin would say that’s not a good thing,” Steve laughed, lightly so as to not jostle his arm under the pen.

“You keep talking about her like I know who that is.”

Right. Fuck, so much had changed in his life that Steve hadn’t gotten to tell him about.

“Do you remember my dorky coworker from Scoops?” Steve asked.

“The one with the You Suck board?”

“I seem to remember there being a You Rule, too, but yeah,” Steve answered, rolling his eyes at what bits and pieces Billy had remembered. “We’re friends now. Best friends, actually. She was there, that night. I know it was a lot and you probably don’t remember any of it, but she was there. She was there for me after too, when I couldn’t really tell everyone about…us.”

Billy was quiet for a while, the only sound in the building being the continual hum of the pen as he dragged it over Steve’s skin. Just when Steve was about to bring up another topic, Billy spoke again. “I remember it.”

“That night?” Steve asked tentatively, watching with nothing but uncertainty as Billy rested the pen back on the cart beside him. 

“I remember all of it,” Billy admitted, blue eyes meeting Steve’s hazel. “I wasn’t in control, but I was there. Watching, feeling...everything.”

Billy knelt over El, so far from Steve he couldn’t make out the minute changes in either one’s expressions. All he saw was the moment Billy stood up, yelling and reaching out toward the monster in defense of the girl. The moment Billy caught one of the monster’s arms with both of his own, Steve knew. He knew.

“Billy!” Steve screamed, throat feeling like it had torn to shreds. “Billy, no!”

“I thought you died,” Steve spoke again, daring to bring it up now that Billy couldn’t leave. He needed to know, needed some kind of explanation for how they were together now. Steve had felt Billy’s heart stutter to a stop on the floor of the Starcourt Mall six years ago. “They said there wasn’t a b—That there wasn’t anything to bu—they said there wasn’t anything left.”

“I did die, I think,” Billy answered. “That’s what the fuckers told me.”

“How did you end up here?” Billy ignored the question for a while, picking up the needle pen again and setting to work. “Billy.”

“It’s old news, okay?” Billy sighed out, fingers tightening against Steve’s arm.

“It’s not old to me,” Steve whispered out, wincing as he caught what was playing on the tape. 

Memories fade but the scars still linger, goodbye my friend. Will I ever love again?

“It’s not old to me, Billy,” Steve pressed, more insistent now as his confidence burned brighter and brighter. He’d missed how he’d felt around Billy—like he was made of starstuff, untouchable against the very worst the world had to throw at them. “An hour ago I was still mourning you.”

I cannot grow, I cannot move, I cannot fell my age.

“A week ago I was mourning you. A month ago, a year ago, I was mourning you. Six fucking years of it, Billy, and you were here. The whole time, you were here.”

Engulfed by you, what can I do? When History's my cage, look forward to a future in the past.

“You think I wanted to be?” Billy snapped out, fingers pressing harshly into Steve’s arm as he held it down onto the workspace. “You think I wanted to wake up in some fucking lab, alone? That my idea of a happy fucking ending was being told to get out? To leave with nothing but the shit they found in my totaled car and whatever fucking hush money the US government decided to throw at me?”

“US gov—did Owens do this? He said you were d—”

“That’s kind of the idea, Pretty Boy,” Billy said with such cynical harshness it took Steve’s breath away. “Can’t be a lab rat if no one knows you fucking exist.”

It was too much. It was too much pressing against his heart, his brain, and suddenly the continued scratch of the needle was too much too, overwhelming to the point of making Steve want to rip his hair out and chew on his knuckles for peace. Billy seemed to recognize it, too—he always had, even before Steve knew what these reactions were—because he set down the machine, wrapping Steve’s forearm in plastic so they could ‘take a break’.

“Want some water, Harrington?” Billy asked, dipping his head to catch Steve’s eye.

Water. Water would be smart, but the shaking in his hands wouldn’t be steadied by water he wanted, he wanted... “Have a smoke?”

“Nah, kicked the habit. Kills people, you know?” At Steve’s small whimper, Billy winced. “Bad joke. Yeah, I got a smoke, but you’re not lighting up in here.”

Steve followed Billy outside, where he pulled a pack of cigarettes—still Marlboros—from his back pocket and offered Steve one only after lighting one of his own. Dustin may have kicked him for smoking again after trying so hard to stop completely, but Dustin wasn’t exactly there, was he? He deserved a smoke, after everything that had come out of the last legs of his trip.

The silence was bearable, more bearable than it had been in the close quarters of the shop. They both leaned against the wall, so close Steve could feel the heat radiating from Billy’s shoulder, but the open air of San Diego washed over him and eased any worry before it could compound.

“Why’re you in California?” Billy asked after some minutes had passed, watching cars pass rather than look at Steve.

Steve shrugged, unsure of how well he could really explain himself. “I’m just driving. Wanted to get out of Hawkins, see the ocean.”

“You know you can’t swim with that, right?” Billy asked, one eyebrow raised and the hand holding his cigarette pointing toward Steve’s wrapped-up forearm. 

He hadn’t thought about it, though it would’ve probably occurred to him by the time he got down to the water. “Yeah, yeah,” Steve answered, “I just, needed to see the beach.”

As if in an echo of the past, Billy smiled a thin-lipped smile and said, “You’ve seen the beach before, Harrington. It’ll look just like all the others.”

“No, it’ll be different,” Steve answered immediately, turning his head to face Billy too. “I haven’t seen your beach yet, and I mean to.”

If he closed his eyes, Steve could imagine he was back at the Quarry. They were laying under the light of the stars, smoking and talking about the future. Billy was holding onto him and Steve was promising Billy the entire world, if only they could make it through one last summer in Hawkins. He’d pack a bag and toss it into the back of the Camaro, and they’d drive until they found the beach Billy had grown up at, the beach that had been his peace for so many years. 

Except they hadn’t made it, and Steve had been left with all the promises he could never fulfill. 

“So this Robin. She your new girlfriend now?”

The idea alone pulled a loud laugh from Steve, warmth filling where the icy chill of loss had just resided in his heart. “No, ew, no,” he continued to laugh, bringing a hand up to scrub at the tears building in his eyes. “I’m not her type.”

“I think you’re everybody’s type, Harrington.”

“No, I mean,” Steve shook his head as the laughter began to die down, wishing he could call Robin with complete surety that she’d answer, if only so he could tell her what happened. She’d heard enough about Billy that she’d know what this meant, she may have even understood what Steve was feeling in that moment better than he did. “She’s dating Nancy now. They’ve lived in Boston since Nancy started college.”

“Prissy Wheeler?” Billy balked, making Steve grin at the old nickname he’d refused to drop even six years ago. “Wheeler is dating some girl from band?”

“Yep,” Steve answered, popping the ‘p’. “You missed a lot. We all ended up sort of...well, I guess there’s a reason we ended up friends. Jon’s out in Lenora Hills with this guy, Argyle, he met in school, you’d like him.”

“Lenora Hills...California? What’s Byers doing there?”

“Oh, they moved out there after...well, it’s kind of a long story,” Steve concluded, finally putting out his cigarette once his hands stopped shaking.

“So you keep saying.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Steve sighed, knowing he should tell Billy more, but where did he start? How could he possibly recap six years in a town’s history that Billy had never really cared about anyway? How could he recount so many years of his own history, knowing most of it would result in talking about how much better the days would have been if the memories could have been shared with Billy? “What’ve you been up to out here?”

It was Billy’s turn to shrug, dropping his cigarette and stepping on it. “We should finish up your ink.”

“Just one thing?” After so many years wondering what Billy could have done with all the time he hadn’t gotten, Steve was a little more than desperate to know what had ended up being his life. 

“C’mon, Harrington. I want to get some sleep tonight, let’s go,” Billy insisted, holding the door open until Steve had no choice but to return back to his seat. 

They didn’t talk much through the rest of the tattoo session, only little inconsequential statements thrown here and there to fill the space. When it came time to pay—or force Billy to actually accept the wad of bills he’d outstretched—and leave, Steve found himself hesitating by the door. Billy was busying himself cleaning up the space before closing the shop, only glancing up when he didn’t hear the bell of the door ring to signal Steve’s departure.

“What, forget how to open doors on your own, princess?” Billy called out, no malice hiding within any of his words.

Steve couldn’t stop himself from what he said next, the words flying out of his mouth before he could truly process them. “Come home with me.” At Billy’s confused look, he tried to explain. “I mean, I’m gonna go find a hotel to crash for the night. You should come with me, so we can catch up.” So I don’t have to stop looking at you, so I know you’re actually alive and this isn’t some horrible dream, so you can take me to your beach like we planned.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Steve.” Billy’s answer was curt and to the point, no room for any arguing back. Even after all these years, he still knew how to handle Steve.

“Right,” Steve breathed out, wondering how he was ever meant to gather enough strength to walk away from him. With a careful, stilted breath, Steve managed, turning and slipping out of the tattoo shop like it hadn’t turned his entire world on end.

The next three days passed by like a blur. Steve couldn’t bring himself to get to the beach, or to go talk to Billy again, or really do much of anything except sit in the cheap motel room he’d found a few blocks from the shop. 

Steve didn’t really know how long he’d stay in California, figuring he’d stay until it felt right to go. At the rate it was going, the trip length would be defined by his rapidly dwindling funds. There’d been no choice but to move out of his parents’ house after Vecna, finding they wouldn’t have understood or accepted the Steve Harrington that had emerged from the rubble, but that also meant he’d given up every ounce of his inheritance in order to go prove he could be his own person. Sometimes, especially now as he lay with a sore neck on the scratchy thin sheets of a motel bed, he wished he wouldn’t have felt so determined to prove anything to them.

He considered calling Robin. He probably should’ve, actually. She would smack him upside the head if she ever found out this happened, that he’d found his long lost lover kickin’ it in sunny California, right when he had his quarter-life crisis and ditched his entire life for some roadtrip that once included Billy in the plans too. Every time he looked at the dingy plastic phone, however, Steve couldn’t bring himself to dial the number. How long had it been since they last spoke? Her birthday had been in March, he knows he called her then. Had she called for his?

In the end, Steve ended up not calling Robin and not going to the beach. He wound up at the tattoo shop again, this time in the light of day. It was busier now, the sound of whirring tattoo machines filling the space along with music that Steve is fairly certain comes from Twisted Sister. Billy wasn’t anywhere in sight, but the door in the back of the shop was closed. Was that his office? Did Billy have an office now?

The woman at the front counter seemed a little skeptical as Steve approached, his eyes never leaving the back door until he was right up at the counter. “Hey, um. Is Billy in today?”

“And who are you?”

Good to see Billy kept company with the same level of people skills as he did. “An old friend.”

“Billy doesn’t have old friends,” she answered immediately, raising one eyebrow as if to ask why he was still sticking around. Suddenly the entire place really didn’t seem like his kind of scene—he stood out in perfectly clean jeans, a white shirt with little stripes on the sleeves and a red vest. Steve stuck his hands in his jean pockets like that might somehow help him navigate the situation. “What do you really want?”

He had to wonder how much of Billy’s past he’d told this woman. They clearly were close, if she was willing to protect his privacy this intensely. Did she know he was hiding from the government?

“Can you just,” Steve sighed, trying to reign in the bubbling irritation threatening to boil over. “Can you tell him that Steve came in?”

That seemed to do the trick. The woman’s entire expression changed, morphing into something more akin to shock than the cool deference she’d worn before. “So you’re that Steve then,” she spoke lowly, like she hadn’t really intended to say it out loud at all. “Wait here.”

So he’d at least told her about him. The fluttering in Steve’s chest was something he hadn’t quite felt since he was still in high school, figuring out that yeah, maybe he did find some guys hot. And sure, maybe one of those guys happened to include Billy Hargrove, who wasn’t all that bad once you got past his defense wall. 

“Everything healing alright, Harrington?” 

Hearing Billy’s voice still took his breath away, like the first time he’d seen Billy step out of that slick blue Camaro in the Hawkins High parking lot. Even then he’d known the man would change his life, Steve just hadn’t anticipated it would ever go like this. 

“Huh?” Oh, tattoo. “Yeah, yeah it’s great. It’s really uh...healing. Well. It’s healing well.”

Billy nodded slowly, eyebrows raised as he watched Steve completely short circuit. “Good. There something you needed? I have some schedules I need to work on.”

Why was he here again? Steve scrambled to find something that would keep Billy out here with him, could get him some more time to talk. There was so much he wanted to say and even more he wanted to hear, and yet Billy didn’t seem like he wanted any part of it. Just one more time, please. “Well, you did so well on the first one I thought I should get another. Tattoo, I mean.”

“You want another tattoo.”

“Yep,” Steve confirmed, fighting the urge to wipe his sweaty palms against his jeans. “That’s why I’m here. For a tattoo.”

“Most people wait a few weeks for the first one to heal, and to see if you even like it.”

“I’m not most people,” Steve fought back, wincing at the desperation beginning to hint at the edges of his words. “Look, no one back in Hawkins can do this nearly as well as you. I just, I trust you.”

Steve could see Billy weighing his options. Finally he sighed, nodding his head and guiding Steve over to one of the setups in the far back corner, away from prying eyes (and ears). 

“What do you want this time?” One look confirmed everything for Billy. “You still have no idea, do you?”

“Absolutely not.” 

“You didn’t come here for a tattoo, did you?”

“I definitely did,” Steve said, offering up the arm that the first one had been done on. “Ink me up, big guy.”

That pulled out a snort from Billy, though he quickly schooled his expression into mock sternness as he answered, “Don’t ever say that again.”

“Then tat me up already!”

“You are the dorkiest person I’ve ever met, and I had the misfortune of meeting the nerd herd,” Billy laughed, beginning to trace something out in his notebook. 

“Hey, that’s my nerd herd you’re talking about.” Though it had been years, Steve couldn’t help but smile at how easily they fell back into this. He could have imagined only days had passed since they’d talked, sipping beers and sharing kisses when no one was looking.

Billy was keeping the design a secret. He’d shaved Steve’s arm and placed the stencil, firmly telling the man not to look until he was done. Because Steve trusted him. 

“I surf.”

The statement came out of nowhere, far enough into the process that the steady sting of the needle had lulled Steve into a sort of trance. He blinked away the fogginess, turning to look at Billy at the statement. The other man hadn’t stopped working, like it wasn’t a big deal that he’d offered up something of where he’d been the last six years. Like he trusted Steve, too.

“Are these all your boards?” Steve asked.

“Some,” Billy said. “Some are from friends. That's what I did for a couple years, just surf. Helped with some of the physical shit.”

“Yeah, I know how that is,” Steve answered, mind immediately going back to the nearly four weeks he spent laid in bed recovering from the emotional devastation of losing Billy and the, maybe more pressing to some, physical devastation of actual Soviet torture. There was also the time after they’d gone into the Upside Down, when he’d practically collapsed from the literal fucking bites taken out of him the second he knew Vecna was gone. “I saw on one of the boards...you go by Billy St James now?”

“My mom’s maiden name,” Billy answered. “They suggested I change it, you know, after the demon monster impaled me.”

“Not funny.”

“You could get rid ‘a Harrington too. Feels good cutting ties with shitty dads.”

It did sound tempting. Childhood had been defined by ‘living up to the Harrington name’, being the best heir to the legacy, and being perfect, in every sense of the word. How relieving it must feel to finally shed the name that burdened him for so long. Steve could already imagine the pride he’d feel in changing it, ensuring that the Harrington name would end forever and all with him. 

And yet, Steve knew he could never do it. Harrington was also the name Dustin called him when they were bickering, and it was the name Robin used when she was worried about him but trying to pretend not to be. It was the name Billy, even now, still called him despite having called him ‘pretty boy’ and ‘princess’ on the first day they met.

There was a history there, and no matter how badly Steve wanted to wipe away any trace of his parents, he couldn’t wipe away the one family who’d actually given a shit about him.

“Nah, think I’ll hold onto it a little longer. Been hit in the head so many times I don’t wanna confuse myself.”

Billy’s scowl wasn’t something to mess around with. It was strong enough to clear rooms if he wanted, and this close, it rendered Steve completely silent. “Cut it out, would ya?”

“Cut what out?” Steve practically whined, the only thing keeping him from throwing his hands up in frustration being Billy’s large hands holding onto his left arm as he worked. He’d been doing so well, trying to navigate all the things Billy didn’t want to talk about, all the things that would spook the other man before Steve was ready to say goodbye. What had happened now?

“I hated that shit when you did it before, hate it even more now,” Billy snapped, turning the machine off and dutifully beginning to wrap Steve’s arm.

“Billy, do what? I’m not a mind reader.”

“Stop sayin’ all that shit about what a dumbass you are, or how no one actually needs you around. It’s fucking exhausting and sad as shit. You know how much breath you could save if you thought something good about yourself every once in a damn while?”

“I get it, message received,” Steve rolled his eyes, though the warm feeling spreading through his chest hadn’t gone unnoticed. It was the kind of conversation that had stopped the second Billy was gone—suddenly the only people around were the ones who tossed around ‘idiot’ and ‘dingus’ and ‘airhead jock’ like they weren’t knives to be buried deep in his chest. “You know, most people are actually nice when they give a compliment.”

“I’d rather die,” Billy shot back, smirking at the clearly doe-eyed look Steve was giving him. “You don’t want nice.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Steve said as he followed Billy back over to the counter. “I know you’re a big softie at heart.”

“Harrington,” Billy warned, though only smiles decorated his face. 

“Come see the beach with me,” Steve blurted out again, hoping the long pause Billy spent staring at him meant an agreeance.

“I can’t, pretty boy, you know that,” Billy sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But you should go, show off that new ink.”

“Hey, no flirting in the shop!” the woman from before shouted over, “Can we go back to when you were pining for the rest of your life or whatever?”

Billy tilted his head to stare at the ceiling, like he couldn’t quite believe this was his existence. Pining? So he had thought about Steve in those six years, enough that even this woman Steve had no idea existed knew about him. Maybe there really was some hope, after all, if he could keep talking to Billy without scaring him off. 

All it would take was time, and luckily Steve had plenty of that. 

It became a pattern: wait a few days, walk down to the shop and convince Billy to spend an hour giving him whatever new design the other man could think of. After the second—a small smattering of wildflowers that Steve wished he could recognize to decipher the meaning of—Steve knew Billy was the best person to make the decisions for what art would cover his arm. And art it was, because soon enough Steve’s arm resembled a canvas, full of little mismatched designs that just seemed to work together, despite none of it having been planned out in the first place. But while Steve loved the tattoos, nothing quite measured up to the time he got to spend with Billy. 

They didn’t talk about Hawkins again—in fact, Billy seemed intent to ignore that he’d ever lived there at all, shutting down near completely if Steve accidentally brought up someone they’d known. So instead, they talked about Billy’s days spent trying to find a new couch for his apartment, and all of the silly tourist attractions Steve had visited on his trip from Indiana. They talked about how Billy had used his government hush money to startup the shop, and how the people working there became the family he’d always dreamed about.

They found a balance that worked for them, until the night Billy finished Steve’s impromptu sleeve. The last design was taking longer, leaving Billy to offer to close up the shop after everyone left. It was just them in the building, listening to Steve’s old tape again because ‘Billy, you gotta give me a break with some actual music.’

“What’re you gonna do now that we finished?” Billy asked, wrapping up Steve’s bicep and discarding his gloves. 

Steve didn’t know, and really he didn’t want to think about it because now he had no excuse to see Billy anymore, no way to convince the man to stick around him. There was nothing after this, no plan except to eventually get back to the only place that he had once called home. The only place he knew to go was the eternal safety net of his old hometown. 

“I don’t know yet,” Steve answered in the only way he knew how, shrugging as they walked the familiar path back to the counter. “Might finally get to the beach.”

“You still haven’t gone?” Billy asked, eyebrows raising.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Every morning Steve had gotten up, and tried to put on swim shorts and a t-shirt, but every time he couldn’t leave the motel room. Something was stopping him at the door, keeping him from walking down to that beach alone. It was always meant to be his goodbye to Billy, his only way to try and move past the night when he froze in time for six years. Now that Billy wasn’t just alive but standing right in front of him, living where they’d once promised to run away together.

“Haven’t gotten around to it.” It was the easiest answer to give, the only thing he could say without revealing everything laying underneath the surface.

In the next moment, Billy was grabbing his keys and heading for the door of the shop. He stood outside, waving for Steve to hurry up like he was just supposed to understand what was happening. “Well?” Billy huffed when Steve was too slow, jingling the keys at him.

“What’re we doing?” Steve asked, watching Billy lock up the shop the second he cleared the door. 

“What d’you think we’re doing? We’re going to the beach.”

The beach. They were going to the beach. 

“But...but isn’t it closed at night?” Smooth, Harrington. Steve could feel his cheeks heat up at Billy’s laugh, trying to press a scowl to his own face but knowing it couldn’t have come across as all that intimidating.

“C’mon, pretty boy. You’re really gonna start following the rules now?” It was a goading if he’d ever heard one, some kind of jumpstart that Steve even now felt sparking him to life. He could practically hear the unsaid words on Billy’s lips, the where’s King Steve gone to now? in those blue eyes.

It was impossible to say no to Billy Hargrove when he really wanted something, when he took on such bright playfulness that spelled out trouble with every smirk. So he allowed himself to be guided to the water, unable to take his eyes off of Billy as though he were under a trance. 

It was quiet out there, just far enough from the city to dull out the noises and lights of a Friday night. The only sound was that of the waves lapping up at the sand in front of them, water spilling over their ankles before drifting back out to the ocean. The moon was out, nearly full and giving them enough light that Steve could see Billy’s face beside his. They’d sat down in the sand after Billy had warned Steve not to get his healing tattoos wet. Steve didn’t know the last time he could sit like this with someone else, simply co-existing in such a peaceful environment without anything to worry or think about. They weren’t talking, but really they’d never needed to be talking constantly, rather finding peace in being near one another.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve spoke up, turning to face Billy. 

“It’s home,” Billy breathed out, fingers of his far-sided hand digging into the sand. “I’m glad you’re here, Steve.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting soft now,” Steve teased gently, maybe to hide away the heavy feelings stirring in his chest. 

“Never,” Billy answered, staring at him with such intensity that Steve couldn’t look away, captivated by every emotion that was too heavy, too conflicting, even to begin to read. All he knew was that in the years they’d been apart the feelings they’d had for one another hadn’t faded. 

When Billy leaned in, Steve didn’t move. He couldn’t, paralyzed by shock and the strange fluttering in his stomach. Being kissed by Billy felt like having life breathed back into him, like he was somehow moving but not quite alive since that summer. Steve held onto Billy tightly, fingers digging into his shirt like if he let go then the man would drift away from him. 

It only lasted a few seconds, but when they parted both men were breathless. 

“I thought we wouldn’t get this again,” Billy admitted, blinking dazedly like he was trying to wipe away the feelings washing over him. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, chin dropping a little. Tell me about it.

“Kept wondering what you were doing, if you’d found someone to make you happy,” Billy explained. “Thought maybe I’d see you eventually, here. Thought you’d have the little shitheads with you, though.” His jaw tensed up all at once, the stiffness stringing through his neck and shoulders until Steve wondered what it was that Billy was thinking about now.

“They’re not little anymore, and they’ll let you hear it every day if you called them that,” Steve tried to laugh through the heaviness against his chest. “Dustin and Lucas are off at college, too busy with their smart people classes to pick up a goddamn phone. Mike is helping out with Eddie’s tour—yeah, Eddie Munson. It’s a long story. But El, the girl you saved? She’s been traveling lately, trying to see as much of the world as she can now that we don’t have to worry about the lab coming after her. Will went with her, because apparently they moved out to California and became best friends. They’re all old now, they outgrew their babysitter.”

“You forgot one.”

“What? I didn’t—Oh. Oh shit,” Steve hissed, regret and cold realization seeping over him until he wondered if it would be better to just run now. Billy didn’t know, no one had known to tell him. “Billy, I don’t...Billy, the Upside Down didn’t stop after Starcourt. It came back, and we had to...Max, she...”

Billy’s expression darkened in an instant. “What happened to my sister, Harrington?”

He was messing this all up, ruining what had always meant to be a sweet moment. “Oh God no! No, no, Max is fine, I promise. She’s more than fine, she’s happy,” Steve rushed out, hands waving about as he tried to prove his point. “But last time, the only way we could put a stop to everything is if she...Fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. Vecna, the monster we were fighting, targeted her. We tried to help her but she got hurt.”

“How hurt?” Billy’s hand was running over a spot on his abdomen now, right in the center. Though it had been years, Steve could imagine clearly the way a monstrous tentacle had stabbed him straight through the spot. He couldn’t help but wonder if Billy was still feeling it even now. “Steve, how hurt is she?”

“She was, she was in the hospital for a while. Like, a really long time. But she woke up, and she’s been doing so well lately. Max just moved in with Lucas, I think when they come back to Hawkins over their break they’ll tell us they’re engaged,” Steve rambled.

“Steve.”

“She’s blind, now, Billy. Max can’t see, and she uses crutches to get around most of the time unless she’s being stubborn,” Steve explained, reaching out for Billy’s hand and smiling sadly when the man let him take it. “I hate that it was her, that she had to get so hurt but...she’s really, really happy. She’s recovering well, she and Lucas have been better than ever, and she’s starting to paint, which...Max is amazing.”

Billy scrubbed his free hand over his face—once, twice, three times as he took in everything Steve told him. “But she’s...she’s okay?”

“Yeah, yeah she’s okay,” Steve reassured him, squeezing Billy’s hand once until he looked over at him. “Really, I wouldn’t lie to you about this. She has good and bad days, sure, but there is nothing that could stop that girl. She still misses you, though. Won’t really talk about it, but...I know she’d want to hear from you, to know that you’re okay.”

“Her and Sinclair, huh?” Billy asked, clearly avoiding the pointed suggestion Steve had made.

“Yeah,” Steve laughed, “they finally figured their shit out. I thought I’d be in a retirement home before they worked it out.”

“Sounds familiar.” Billy’s face was softer now, something of a smile tilting up his lips. 

“It does, doesn’t it?” Steve chuckled, “How long did it take us?”

“Longer than it should’ve. We got there eventually.”

“A couple of fights later.” 

“Hey, you can’t say we weren’t passionate,” Billy chuckled, no doubt imagining the same moments Steve was on the basketball court, by their cars in the parking lot, out by the Quarry when no one was watching.

Laughter blossomed between them, the sound rising and mixing with that of the waves, and though it would take time Steve knew in that moment that they’d be okay.

They ended up back at Billy’s apartment, after. It was far more spacious than what Steve was expecting, but the simple explanation of ‘government hush money’ had cleared that up quickly. The place was cleaner than Steve expected, decorated sparingly and with just enough signs of life scattered throughout. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him when Billy kissed him again, but Steve gasped as his back pressed against the bedroom wall. Billy was gentle—a far cry from the rough, bruising touches they’d once given each other, a lifetime ago—hands on either side of Steve’s face. This was more rushed than the previous, Billy pressing insistently against him until he was flattened against the wall. 

Steve held on to him too, hands finding the short curls at the back of Billy’s neck. “I like this,” he murmured, tugging lightly and relishing in the gasp it pulled from Billy. “Your hair, I like it.”

“Yeah?” Billy’s lips moved to his neck, causing Steve to tilt his head back against the wall, lips parted and eyes raised to the ceiling like he might find some salvation there. His hands moved to Billy’s waist, tugging closer as the man covered what felt like the entire expanse of Steve’s neck in marks. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathed out, “it’s a good look.” 

The second Billy’s leg slotted between his thighs, pressing so close it practically begged for Steve to rock against it, Steve thought he might combust. He groaned, eyes fluttering closed only long enough to realize he missed the sight of Billy focused entirely on him. That look of arousal had always been one of Steve’s favorites—Billy’s tan cheeks flushing with color, pupils wide, and the first signs of sweat along his hairline. 

It all shuttered to a stop the second Steve’s hands reached for the hem of Billy’s shirt. Within seconds Billy’s expression shuttered closed and his hands wrapped around Steve’s wrists, not tight but warning. 

“Hey, what happened?” Steve asked, watching as Billy’s expression pulled even tighter. His eyebrows pulled together, eyes looking low to not meet Steve’s gaze. “You can talk to me. Do you want to stop?”

“No, I don’t,” Billy immediately answered. “I just—Stevie, if you’re expecting what I looked like before you’ll be disappointed.”

The scars. Steve had seen them plenty of times in the weeks they’d spent together at the shop, sweeping across Billy’s hands and arms. He’d seen what had happened in real-time, too, and could imagine now what was leftover from the scene. 

“You must think pretty low of me, huh?” Steve said lightly, not once letting go of Billy’s shirt. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Billy’s lips and smiling at the surprised look it garnered. “I finally find you after six years, and you think I’ll run off because of some scars?”

Steve gave a testing little tug of the hem, and though Billy’s hands stayed wrapped around his wrists he allowed the motion. With one hand he held onto Billy’s, lifting it to give a gentle kiss to one of the marionette-string scars there. “They proved you survived, how could I hate them?”

“Steve,” Billy nearly whined out.

“Do you trust me?” His voice dropped lower, hazel eyes never once leaving blue until Billy was nodding.

“‘Course I do, pretty boy.”

So Steve pressed his fingers to Billy’s chest and pushed, soft but insistent until the backs of Billy’s knees hit the bed. “Lay down for me.”

“Think you can tell me what to do?” Billy raised one eyebrow, lips still parted like he wanted to rile Steve up. It was a familiar game, the push and pull between them that only served to make Steve fall even further for the man. 

“I just did, didn’t I?” Steve returned just as easily, smirking as Billy listened and laid down on his back. “There’s a good boy.”

“Watch it,” Billy warned, though the little shuffle of his hips hadn’t gone unnoticed. For another time, Steve reasoned out. Tonight was about relearning each other, the games could wait.

Steve took his time climbing atop him, straddling Billy’s hips, leaning forward until he could kiss him again. It had been ages since the last time he’d done this, and only briefly did the sparks of insecurity pop in his head. Would Billy be able to tell that he was out of practice? What if he couldn’t be as good as he’d once been, would Billy be disappointed?

Except, it took exactly one look at Billy’s face for all of it to wash away. He looked like he’d found an angel, lips parted and head following Steve minutely when he broke the kiss. 

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” Steve told him softly, hands running over his clothed chest until they could grip the bottom hem again. “It’s not fair, really, that I get to see you for the first time twice.”

This time when Steve lifted Billy’s shirt, there was no resistance. In fact, his back arched to help Steve pull the fabric up and off of him, discarding it somewhere behind them. Aware of the eyes on him, Steve tried to rein in his reaction. He’d seen what had happened, had been standing feet away when Billy had single-handedly held off the Mind Flayer long enough for El to get away, but even that couldn’t have prepared him for seeing the large expanse of scarring across Billy’s abdomen. More of him was scarred than not, large starbursts of white in the center of his sternum, his sides, his chest. Lines like those on his arms spread out like wires from the bursts, crisscrossing in across nearly every inch of Billy’s chest. 

Steve wanted to cry at the simple fact that Billy would be reminded of what happened to him forever. It wasn’t easy to hide away and forget about, no way to cover all of it up and pretend. He’d survived, but he’d been alone and hurt and even now was more affected than anyone ever was let on. It wasn’t fair, Steve wanted to scream at whoever would listen. He’d gladly march through the Upside Down again if it meant sparing Billy from any more hurt at the hands of it.

“Like I said,” Steve finally spoke up, lips pressing against the first large scar on the right side of Billy’s chest. “As gorgeous as I remember.”

Billy’s entire body was tense like he was waiting for his worst fears to be confirmed at any second. Steve had no intention of doing so, though, instead sure to show Billy just how much he loved every inch of his body. He loved him, loved that they were getting a second chance when it had once seemed so impossible. He could only hope Billy understood, could see it in his eyes every time he looked his way. 

The gasp Billy let out as Steve’s tongue flicked over one of his nipples was intoxicating, causing white-hot electricity to run through Steve’s body down to the tips of his toes. A pleased smile warmed his face as Steve reached up to lightly pinch the other, watching as Billy actually goddamn whined, his back arching into the touch. 

“You’re a fucking tease, Harrington,” Billy hissed out, hands reaching up to grab at Steve though the man quickly knocked them away.

Lifting his head enough to make eye contact with Billy, Steve couldn’t help but wink. “You say that like you’re surprised, Hargrove.”

“Fuck you.”

“We’ll get to that, too,” Steve grinned, moving back to continue his worship of Billy. He took his time, working his way down Billy’s chest and stomach, paying attention to every scar he passed until his lips brushed the waist of his jeans. By the time he was done, Billy was practically writhing under him, hips shifting under Steve’s and hands tangled up in his hair. 

Those hands gave an insistent tug to Steve’s hair the second he reached for Billy’s jeans, drawing a hitched out moan from Steve. “Get up here,” Billy demanded and Steve couldn’t help but listen until their faces were so close that their noses nearly brushed. “Wanna see you too, pretty boy.”

No, not yet. 

Steve fought back a wince, wishing Billy would have let him get his mouth on him before asking for this. Because maybe, just maybe if Billy was already wrought with pleasure he wouldn’t notice what rested under Steve’s own shirt. It may have been hypocritical to think, but Steve’s appearance had once been everything. He’d been King Steve, praised for his golden boy charm and even more golden looks. After that he’d been Billy’s Pretty Boy, constantly told how perfect and soft and wonderful he was. And he’d loved it, he did. Even now he could feel himself melting under such warm praise but he couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t that pretty boy anymore, that there were some things that the demobats and Vecna had taken away forever. 

“Where’d you disappear to?” Billy asked, thumb reaching up to rub at the space between Steve’s furrowed brows.

“I’m not—,” Steve tried to explain, throat catching around the words. “I’m not the same either. It’s not pretty anymore.”

“Hm,” Billy hummed, large hands already tugging insistently at Steve’s shirt. He allowed it to happen, keeping his eyes closed as Billy said, “Think I’ll be the judge of that one, sweetheart.”

Steve jumped at the feel of Billy’s palm resting flat on his stomach, off to the side where a demobat had once sunk its teeth in and torn. The other came up around Steve’s neck, fingertips gently rubbing over the line he normally kept hidden by high-collared shirts.

“What did they do to you, pretty boy?” Billy whispered out, and the softness with which he spoke cracked something within Steve. His face contorted as he felt the first stinging of tears building behind his eyelids. His hands dug into the sheets on either side of Billy where he held himself aloft, shaking his head a little as if that might help to compose himself.

His head sunk until his forehead pressed to Billy’s chest, and Billy allowed him to do so, hands moving to wrap around him in a tight embrace. One rubbed his back, the other coming up to its familiar hold in Steve’s hair. Steve could feel Billy’s fingers find the rough scarring on his shoulder blades from being dragged halfway across a different dimension, rubbing gentle circles into the numbed skin.

Steve’s entire body shook, and he felt his warm breath stutter out against Billy’s skin. It was easier to manage like this, eyes closed and his entire world narrowed down to Billy. “We went down there. The Upside Down, we were there.”

“Shit, Steve.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve laughed wetly, wondering only briefly how they both had ended up crying. “I never minded taking a hit if it meant protecting them, but this...I misstepped, and I get this.”

“It’s okay,” Billy tried, his voice tight with his own tears. “What happened to scars being a sign of survival, huh? It goes for you too.”

“This was all I had.” Steve’s hands found their own holds on Billy, their bodies tightly together as Steve’s face shifted to hide in Billy’s neck. It was easier to let it out, easier to be honest about the parts of himself he’d been hiding away for years. “Everyone else moved on eventually, everyone stopped needing me. They left and recovered the best anyone could. You did, too. You have this whole life out here, and I...I’m still in Hawkins. I barely finished school, I don’t have any real skills or hobbies, and I can’t even be good for my looks anymore because who the fuck would wa—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Steve,” Billy spoke, voice firm but not once threatening. One hand was tucking itself under Steve’s chin, coaxing him away from Billy’s neck and up enough that they could face each other. “Don’t.”

“Billy,” Steve sighed, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise up in his cheeks. 

“Hey, I mean it. Do you have any idea what it felt like to see you walk into my shop that night?” Billy asked, brushing away Steve’s hair from his face and tucking it behind his ear. “You make me feel alive again, Steve. You make all of it feel worth it.”

When Steve couldn’t find it in himself to speak, Billy continued. “I need you as much as you need me, you got that? Everything...everything’s been about you.”

It was too much all at once, and yet everything Steve had needed to hear for the last six years. No one had ever made him feel quite so wondrous as Billy, who might as well have been the sun and stars himself. 

“This one,” Billy spoke lowly, thumb brushing over the wildflowers tucked into Steve’s forearm, “was because you wore that shirt into the shop. It reminded me of sitting out in that field together in Hawkins, and you called it our first date because we’d gone a whole three hours without cracking any jokes at each other.”

“You remember that?” It had been in their senior year, when spring was just beginning to warm the air and wildflowers took over every inch of free space in Hawkins. They both had gone there independently, each searching for a tiny escape from the problems they were facing and instead finding each other. It was one of the first times they’d spoken kindly to each other, the first time Steve had looked into Billy’s eyes and thought this was someone he could love. His heart burned bright at the knowledge that he’d have a piece of that memory on his skin forever. 

“I remembered your smile, how it felt like you warmed me up from the inside out with one look,” Billy admitted, his hand moving to another one higher up on Steve’s arm. “And this one, for the birthday party you tried to throw when you found out no one ever remembered mine.”

“I still celebrate it, every March,” Steve whispered, feeling like he was beginning to see Billy in an entirely new way all over again. 

“See? That’s what I mean.” Billy reached up with his other hand, wiping at some of the stray tears left on Steve’s face. “You’re unlike anyone else, Steve. You saved me when I needed it, let me help you now.”

He could do that. Steve could picture himself staying here, settling into this city that had already felt like more of a home than Hawkins had felt in the last decade. Maybe Billy would find him something to help with at the shop, or maybe he’d find some new job to love without the oppressive fear that the Upside Down would reopen at any moment. They’d both seen each other as they were now, and neither one had run away. They could be happy out here, together.

“Just tell me what you need, pretty boy,” Billy finished, and all at once with complete surety, Steve knew the answer.

“I need you,” Steve answered, holding onto Billy and never wanting to let go. “I want you, please.”

“You already have me, Steve, you’ve always had me,” Billy said, moving them so Steve was the one laying on his back on the bed. “That’s too easy.”

“Take care of me,” Steve continued, feeling a smile work its way onto his face through the tears. How could he not smile, when Billy was looking at him with such adoration even through his own tears? “I want all of you.”

“Are you sure?”

Steve nodded, never more sure of anything else. 

And Billy was careful with him, hands touching all the right places and mouth leaving bruised marks all down Steve’s neck and chest, filling him with equal parts burning arousal and overwhelming, intense love. It may have been years, but both of their bodies knew the way, rocking together at an easy pace, neither one rushing for the moment to end. If either one of them let a few tears slip, no one pointed it out. All Steve could focus on was Billy’s hands holding him steady, the feel of Billy’s warm back under his fingers, and the waves of pleasure that threatened to burn through him as Billy pushed impossibly deeper inside him. 

It was like the rest of the world fell away, leaving only them as they at last came home to one another. The moment he finished, Steve saw stars dance across his vision, lips parted in a loud, trembling moan that sent Billy over the edge as well. He hadn’t even noticed when Billy had gotten up until he was sitting on the bed beside Steve, cleaning him up and wrapping him up in his arms. 

He came to a few minutes later, resting against Billy’s back, those large arms wrapped around him and hands resting on his stomach. “You back with me, Steve?” Billy asked, chin resting gently on Steve’s head.

“Never left,” he answered, giving Billy a cheeky smile. “Never again, I’m staying here.”

“Wouldn’t want you anywhere else.” 

They lay together all night, sometimes talking about what had happened in their lives apart, other times simply enjoying feeling so close to each other again. Eventually, they’d fall asleep, the first restful night either would have in six years. There was still so much to figure out, so much that they hadn’t thought of beyond their dream of escaping together. But that was okay too.

After all, they had a lifetime to figure it out.

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[perexcri]

there’s nothing more cruel than to be loved by everybody but you - [byler week - day 5]

yeah so i thought this fit the secret identities thing until i wrote it and realized it uhh. isn’t quite that. so enjoy whatever this is i guess - lots of miscommunication and a fun set-up for potential enemies to lovers

also it’s my personal headcanon that Will is a music snob, so if you don’t like that then uh,,,,i guess skip this one idk

title from: wilson (expensive mistakes) by fall out boy

dedicated to: the listening party for fall out boy’s new album that i went to last week in a city an hour away from me; i came up with this stupid idea on the drive there! indie record store in [city redacted], you were very nice, and thank you for having a decent selection of poetry i could pick from :]

Don’t ask Will how this ended up being his job, because he honestly doesn’t know. One day, they had a meeting for the university’s queer artists’ zine where he was complaining about everyone’s responses to the new U2 album (yes, it sounds different from other U2 albums, but obviously if you look at the lyrical and metatextual themes of Achtung Baby, it’s still very much U2), and then BAM–suddenly he’s in charge of doing the cover art for the zine and writing music reviews.

Sure, he could probably turn it down, but nobody else will take the job.

Also, he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t do it right, because, as much as he loves this group, their music tastes are…well…not everybody has an older brother like Jonathan Byers who makes sure they grow up with proper music opinions.

So, if anything, Will does this to keep the spirit of reviewing and recommending underground artists in New York City alive for the zine, and also because he doesn’t think anybody else could do it justice, no offense to them.

But Will is loathing this job for their upcoming edition. He’s sitting in that weird liminal time between class periods where people are in the chaotic throes of rushing around or throwing their notebooks open to prepare for the lecture; his elbows are pressed into the desk that’s just a little too small, and his head is in his hands. He’s staring down at the one submission he’s been putting off for precisely three semesters, because the president of the zine said it needed to be done before they moved on to new submissions, so could you please just lower your standards for one night and go listen to them play so you can write the damn review?

The Fellowship of the Ring, the submission card reads in faded pencil. Scratched under it in the slightly-fresher ink of the zine’s president’s pen, it reads: Thursday - The Purple Hall - 8 PM.

And, God, Will wishes this show was just gonna be a live reading of the Tolkein book. It would be so much better than what he knows it actually is.

The Fellowship of the Ring is a local, up-and-coming act in the underground venues of the greater New York City area that everybody loves because they sound like Nirvana and, you guessed it, throw out Tolkein references like they’re Led Zeppelin. They’re huge on college campuses, where students pass around live-recorded tapes of their supposedly-legendary performances all the time, gushing about how even the bass sounds, the peeling shrieks of guitars, the way the vocalist wavers between grumbles and ethereal, falsetto howls. They even gush about the lyrics and how they truly capture the experiences of Western youth in these first few years of the new decade: malaise, boredom, this sense that there is no great struggle for the future left for them, only an endless drowning in comfortable excess.

Will had even seen a girl with the band’s logo tattooed on her shoulder.

Which is…fine. He guesses.

If you like shitty music, that is.

See, that’s the fundamental problem here: Will likes doing these silly little reviews for live music around New York because half the time, the music is passably decent, and even if that doesn’t work, the lyrics can make up for it. There’s so much creativity in the air, and people are doing so much with it.

Not The Fellowship of the Ring, though.

Where everybody else sees innovation, Will sees reductivity; where everybody screams about the charm of the lyrics and the pop culture references they sneak in, Will sees a demeaning pandering to an audience. Every single time he has been subjected to the squawks and out-of-tune guitars of The Fellowship, he’s spent his time thinking he would be better off to save himself the time and just listen to Nirvana’s Nevermind for the millionth time, because that’s all The Fellowship’s trying to do, anyway, and at least then Will could listen to something good.

Yeah, Will hates The Fellowship of the Ring, and now he’s squeezing his temples so hard that the letters on the submission card are beginning to swim in his vision.

“Hey!”

Thankfully, Will is saved by his very friendly, incredibly good-looking neighbor in History of the American Constitution, Mike Wheeler.

“Hey!” he says, trying to gain back the energy that seeing The Fellowship’s submission card had unwittingly drained out of him.

And honestly, seeing that flash of Mike’s smile and how the fluorescents dance in his eyes, Will feels like he has enough energy to power the sun now, even if they are going to have to sit through yet another lecture about Article II–whatever the hell that means.

“What’s got you so down?” Mike asks, head tilted to the side, some of his hair tumbling into his eyes, and all Will wants to do is push it away–

But, no, he has to have a coherent conversation right now, so he shakes his head and tries his best to return Mike’s smile. “Oh, nothing…Just something for that zine I work on.”

“Oh, yeah!” Mike snaps his fingers, causing some of the buttons on his jacket to rattle together. He always wears a leather jacket no matter the weather or the rest of his attire, and today, paired with plaid pajama bottoms, held-together-by-duct-tape converse, and a baggy Care Bears shirt, it shouldn’t work, but in Will’s eyes, it does. “I think I saw one of those around! I wanted to grab a copy, but somebody else did before I could get to it.”

“I can bring you a copy of the next issue,” Will says, then, remembering the task at hand, groans and puts his head back in his hands. “That is, if I even survive it.”

“What, are they making you skip classes for it?”

“No, worse: they’re making me listen to a band I hate.”

Mike winces. “Yikes.”

“Yeah.”

“That sucks.”

“Right?”

“Can’t you just, like…push it off?”

“I did. For three semesters.” The professor wanders in with a mumbled greeting and a steaming cup of coffee in hand, and Will lowers his voice in anticipation of the lecture beginning. “That’s why I have to do it now.”

“Maybe it would help if somebody went with you?”

Despite having flirted with each other mercilessly all semester during this one shared class of theirs, they haven’t hung out much outside of it, so to be faced with the possibility of something that could potentially be labeled as a date between them is shocking. For a moment, Will can forget about the future torment awaiting him Thursday evening at The Purple Hall’s listening stage, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, having somebody to talk to over the drone of the lazily-played guitars could make the evening slightly more bearable.

“Yeah,” Will finally says, a grin stretching across his face. “Of course. Yeah, that’d be awesome!”

Mike returns the look twofold, and one of his legs begins to bounce. “Awesome! When is it?”

As the lecture begins, Will resorts to a torn piece of notebook paper, like he’s a kid passing notes in class again to survive the boredom. He scribbles The Purple Hall - Thursday 7 PM, then hands it to Mike, who responds with a quizzical look at the paper, scratches something out, and hands it back to Will.

The Purple Hall - Thursday 7 PM 6?

Will shoots him a thumbs up, prays it wasn’t too awkward, and then folds the sheet of paper up and sticks it in his pocket.

And if he carries it around there for the rest of the week, then that’s his business alone.

---

The pros: this is one of Will’s favorite music venues, there’s several bands to look forward to tonight, and Mike seems wholly invested in the idea of this being a date, if him leaning closer and the playful hand on Will’s knee mean anything.

The cons: Will has to listen to the fucking Fellowship of the Ring in approximately ten minutes.

He’s able to put the thoughts off for the first hour. After all, The Fellowship isn’t set to perform until 8–he and Mike had met at 6 as planned, and Will has spent the first hour and a half trying to be blissfully unaware of the torturous fate awaiting him.

Even as his skin begins to crawl at the thought of having to hear those plucky, out-of-tune guitars and the lead singer screeching about the Gulf War under the guise of Star Wars references, he does feel a little settled. Mike’s fingers are surprisingly warm, and the alcohol they’ve been nursing makes his chest glow with warmth. It’s easier to laugh, to be focused solely on Mike and these wonderful, looping conversations they’ve found themselves ensnared in.

“This one’s good!” Mike half-shouts over the drum solo of the current act, consisting of just a drummer and a bassist crooning over their heady rhythms. They’re called the Jazz Squares, or something like that. Whatever.

At least they’re not The Fellowship.

“The drink or the band?” Will queries. His own head’s spinning with the beer he’s been sipping on for the better part of an hour, and he already feels lightheaded, because he’s a lightweight, and Mike’s got something to do with these pulses of courage thumping in his chest, right?

“Both!” Mike takes another long sip from his Jolly-Rancher-blue mixer. Will had asked him what was in it earlier, and all Mike had responded with was Coconut-something and a whole lot of rum!

They’ve talked about so much already–their families, their majors, their hobbies. Mike comes here a lot, he reveals, and he mentions that he plays guitar, too. He keeps it a playful secret when Will asks for more information, though: how long have you played? Do you write, too? Are you in a band, because I could put you in the zine if you wanted–

It’s a surpriseee, Mike had drawled in response, a stupid grin twisting his mouth as his fingers had vacated Will’s knee momentarily just to ruffle through Will’s hair.

As the Jazz Squares’ set finally dies down to some spotty applause (this is more of an alternative scene, after all, but a gig is a gig), Will lets out a groan, melodramatically knocking his forehead into the table, and finally drags out his notebook.

“What’s that for?” Mike asks, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“For that review I have to do,” Will grumbles.

“But isn’t that act on in, like, two hours?”

Will blinks a couple of times. He supposes he hadn’t actually told Mike which group he was here for, but he thought the fact that he originally proposed a meet-up time of 7 would have communicated enough that it was somewhere around then. “Um, no? I didn’t say anything, I guess, but I think they’re up next.”

Mike’s fingers begin to nervously tap on what remains of his electric blue potion. As his and Will’s gazes snag together for several heady seconds, he purses his lips, then throws back the rest of his drink, swallowing the last of it in just a couple of gulps.

Will slowly draws his notebook out, flipping to the page he had specifically marked The Fellowship of the Ring with a disheartened, frighteningly life-like frowny face scrawled next to it. “Is something wrong?”

Mike drags his wrist across his mouth, smearing any remaining drops of blue onto his leather jacket’s sleeve. “So this band you hate that you have to review…It’s The Fellowship of the Ring?”

“Yeah.” Will taps the top of his paper. “I didn’t say anything, but…Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“Um.”

Will quirks an eyebrow up. “I mean, do you like them? That’s fine, of course, I mean–people have different tastes and what-not. I’d just have to seriously question your judgment in all matters music-related, I guess.”

“Um,” Mike repeats, fingers now tapping a dangerously fast staccato against their bartop table. It makes the remaining beer in Will’s bottle slosh around. “Um…This is bad.”

“What? Are you a super fan or something?” Thanks to the alcohol, Will feels bold enough to scrunch his nose up with disgust. “I mean, fine, whatever. But seriously, if you want a second date, I’m gonna take you to a record store so you can hear some actually decent music. If you’re impressed by that fucking band’s reductive bullshit, you’ll be positively amazed by a group like The Clash or Smashing Pumpkins or–hell, even fucking U2–”

“Excuse me!” the MC calls over the mic; when the feedback whines, he takes a second to tap at the mic, then announces: “Calling everyone’s favorite up-and-coming group, The Fellowship of the Ring, for soundcheck–their set starts in five!”

The club erupts into raucous cheers. Will has to hide the involuntary groan of annoyance he lets out behind his hand.

Mike casts a nervous glance at Will, then pushes his chair out and looks like he’s going to walk away, the buttons on his jacket clicking together. He nearly trips over the saggy laces of his converse, and through the tears in his jeans, he almost looks like he’s shaking.

“Hey, wait!” Will says, reaching forward and grasping Mike’s wrist. It makes the other guy stop, a blush creeping up into his cheeks, and Will tries to push down his distaste for the band and lets out a sigh. “Listen, I’m sorry–I was being stupid. It’s just a band, after all. If you like them, that’s fine, and I will…” he swallows here, and it hurts, taking on this insurmountable task of trying to push his music-snob’s pride down. “I won’t make fun of you for it. I promise.”

Mike blinks a couple of times before a reassuring grin overtakes his features. “Uh…Nope. That’s okay, Will. It’s not for everyone. I wasn’t like…trying to run out on you or anything.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m still gonna be here.”

“Then why are you getting up?”

Mike points at the stage, where a drummer and bassist are setting up their instruments, their eyes scanning the room in search of their infamous guitarist and singer. “Didn’t you hear? We have soundcheck. The set starts in five.”

Will slowly nods. “Yeah. Then the next act starts, and I have to scratch down whatever notes I can think of for them, and then we can get back to our date.”

Mike stares at him for several seconds.

And then it all catches up with Will.

“Oh, shit–”

Mike’s grin turns into something playful, his eyebrows shooting up beneath his bangs. “Can’t wait to read your official review of my fucking band’s reductive bullshit!” he says with a two-fingered salute, then spins around to make his way to the stage. He’s bathed in the dim lighting of the stage, hunching over his guitar the second he straps it around his chest, and Will wonders how somebody who was brave enough to wander around in a leather jacket and a fucking Care Bears shirt and look that good could be involved in a band that’s just–

This bad, Will finishes for himself as Mike strums his first cord, its electricity shaking the walls of the club, and he begins yet another signature Fellowship song that’s nothing more than various John Hughes and horror movie quotes juxtaposed over warring drums and guitars.

Of course Will would be stupid enough to fall for the lead singer of his most-hated band in the greater New York City area.

[ink-the-axolotl-rabbit]

Would you look at that

A ✨collab✨

[Can't believe this started all because I reposted my results from a quiz one of my tumblr idols made]

Darting my eyes... What if I made a Pizza Tower personality quiz...?

[peckoarts]

So in order to be slightly more active with my art here I decided to rummage through my older art folder. I'll try to upload some old gems. This was a tattoo design I did after marathon watching the shitty Ink master show lol

[ramrage]

“here we go ‘round the prickly pear”

CH2 Hyacinth

work rating: T

chapter rating: T

characters: John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley

tags: reincarnation AU, punk/suburban au, so many AUs to come, author has a boner for ts elliot, angst, MCD (not this chap)

ao3 link

CH 1

This was how they spent their summers.

Simon would wait for his piece of shit father to fuck off to some concert before leaving out the front door. He never had to worry about waking up his mum—she took pills that had her sleeping like the dead—and his little brother Tommy knew better than to snitch.

“What’s snitching?” he’d asked when Simon first used the term. Tommy was curious by nature and allowed himself to be that way around everyone but their father. He usually supplied cruelty or violence instead of answers, so Tommy learned to keep quiet. He was a bright kid.

Simon didn’t mind explaining shit to him, thought it was good to prepare his little brother for the world. “Snitching is another word for tattling on someone,” he explained.

“Then why not just say that?”

“Little kids say tattling. Snitching is for grown ups,” was the difference Simon offered, and Tommy seemed to understand. Maybe he did.

“Oh. You wouldn’t actually give me stitches, would you?”

“Nah, never.”

“Okay.”

And that was that. Tommy was usually asleep by the time Simon snuck out, anyway, but might as well prepare for the worst. Because when it was the worst, it really fucking sucked. Sucked in the black eyes and bruises sort of way, and things usually sucked in the Riley household.

That was one reason Simon snuck out as much as he did. He also liked to play the rebel, liked how quiet it was at night, how no one was around to ask shit of him or say shit to him, except for Johnny.

Johnny.

If he was being honest, Johnny was the real reason Simon risked his ass to walk across town just to find himself on a rough, shitty shingled roof.

They gave each other something he didn’t know the word for, but maybe one day he’d learn it was called solace.

The word wasn’t there, but the feeling was, and they still spoke it aloud. In their own ways. Usually it sounded like this:

“I fucking hate this town,” Simon groaned. The lit end of his cigarette crawled toward the filter as he inhaled, paused to rest as he exhaled.

“Fucking sucks,” Johnny agreed.

The general understanding was that everything sucked, but quiet, a whisper along the smoke rested “everything but you.” But it was a dumb thing to say, so they didn’t say it.

Simon liked watching Johnny smoke, thought it looked cool.

This town wasn’t cool. Sitting on the roof of his Soap’s house was cool, though, probably because they weren’t supposed to do it. Even though no one was going to catch them in the middle of the night, but they spoke in low voices to be safe.

“I can’t wait to get out of this shithole,” Simon murmured to the night, and eyes on the storm hanging above the horizon of suburbia, he missed Johnny stiffen. Nonchalantly ignorant to the impending doom.

“Still set on that military bullshit?” Johnny said, nonchalantly ignoring the sky fall down on him, but the tension set in the space between them all the same.

Simon shrugged noncommittally, “Yeah, I guess. What else would I do?”

“Fucking anything else? Fuck, I just. Why fucking just, sell yourself to that fucking machine?” Johnny asked, playing the mouthpiece for the ideologies he thought they both bought into. The one that said fuck Queen and crown. Fuck everything. The one they marked into each other’s chests.

Simon can remember it clear as day.

Autumn of last year, the park in the center of town, daylight shuddering violet in a losing fight against the first night of the weekend. Johnny’s body laid out on a picnic table in a halo of empty bottles and sandwich papers.

Simon dips a sewing needle into a bottle cap full of the ink they stole from their school’s art room, it slides ever so slightly between his pinched fingers when he stabs it into the skin of Johnny’s left pectoral.

Johnny asked for a tattoo but left the design choice up to SImon even though they both knew his drawing skills were as awful as his chicken scratch handwriting.

He still looked surprised when he took in the finished product.

“Simon, the hell is that?” he asked, craning his neck to get a better look.

“It’s someone flipping the bird”

“Fuck, I can see it now,” he conceded, still a little disturbed. “Aw fuck, Simon, that’s pure shite.” It really was, but Simon didn’t find himself feeling too bad about it. It was there now whether Johnny liked it or not, and maybe he did, because all his bitching came through a grin. Anyways, getting a pretty tattoo wasn’t the point.

“Alright, alright, do me now.”

Simon shucked off his shirt and took Johnny’s place on the table when it freed up, feeling something like a patient about to get cut open by a surgeon as he waited for Johnny to wipe the blood and ink from his chest.

Johnny was his best friend, but something about being so exposed made him nervous. Not the pain, not the permanence. He wasn’t used to having his bare skin eyed up like that, studied like a word search.

“You ready?” Johnny asked before placing the first mark.

Simon just nodded, not meeting the eyes that watch his face for recoil when the needle drove home. It stung a little, but nothing too bad. Simon hardly winced. “Not bad.”

Johnny huffed a little laugh and got down to business now he had the go-ahead. “It’ll get worse.”

“Grand.”

It did. The individual pinpricks blurred together into a mass of burning, burning like the hand splayed across his chest. Simon couldn’t see much of the tattoo when he glanced down, only saw Johnny’s tongue poking out from between his lips while he worked. Focused, like this was something to take seriously. Simon looked away, looked at the sun fall away behind the trees, looked at the top of Johnny’s mohawked head but only occasionally. Smelled the smell of hyacinth.

He looked and he breathed, then he closed his eyes. Focused on the how the burning began to throb in time with his heartbeat, breathed in time with it, too.

Eventually Johnny patted his chest.

“All done. Check it out.”

It looked better than the bullshit Simon had done—straighter, sharper lines—Johnny was always the artist of the two of them. But apparently he was also an idiot.

“Oh, fuck off,” Simon laughed, and that almost-proud look on Johnny’s face turned into something else.

“What?”

“Ugh, fucking look,” Simon said, lifting Johnny’s shirt to compare. “See any differences?”

Johnny’s eyes darted from one tattoo to the other, groaning when he finally figured it out. “Aw fuck.”

“Aw fuck is right. You gave me someone holding up their ring finger, you fucking minger.”

And Johnny started cracking up and then so did Simon, but Simon pulled him close to box at his head all the same. “Don’t fucking—stop fucking laughing. This is your fault.”

“I can make em all long and switch the thumb and it’ll just be bigger,” Johnny said between breaths, between his own volley of punches.

“No, Johnny, it’s fucked. Let it stay fucked.” In truth, Simon was okay with it, and he let Johnny go so they could both catch their breath. Two idiots with two idiot tattoos, drawn into their idiot skins by idiot hands. A needle stained with both their bloods.

“Heh.”

“what?”

“It’s flipping the brid.”

“Oh, piss off.”

Johnny didn’t say anything, just flipped Simon the brid.

Simon did it back.

Johnny looked rightfully pissed now, a flip the bird not the brid kind of pissed, and Simon didn’t know how to respond. He had no justification. He also didn’t have any other options, not like Johnny did. Simon didn’t have the marks to go to uni, and even if he did, it was too late to apply at this point.

“You can do apprentice work or something, I don’t know,” Johnny offered, but it wasn’t good enough. Simon would still have to be here , and that wasn’t an option. Especially with Johnny heading off to school by the end of the summer. Simon didn’t want to say any of that, didn’t need to. “Yeah, you could find somewhere by me and crash in my dorm,” he added as if it was a viable option.

Simon scoffed, “Yeah, I’m sure your roommate would love that.” He tossed his cigarette butt and watched it roll down the roof’s slope and drop into the gutter. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“So that’s it?” Johnny sneered. He was talking too loud. He was going to wake up his parents. “You’re just going to fuck off and bomb some civilians in the Middle East in the name of some government that doesn’t give a fuck about you? About any of us? Gonna fucking die for them, huh, Simon?”

“Johnny,” Simon warned in a whisper.

Johnny didn’t give a shit. “What about Tommy? When the fuck would you even be able to see him?”

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t. His escape plan was selfish, but in a way, so was Johnny’s. Sure, he’d be closer and his absence would be more predictable, but he’d still be fucking gone. Johnny didn’t seem to fucking get that. He didn’t understand what it was like to be truly desperate.

That’s why Johnny looked disgusted as he rose to his feet, why he pointedly looked the other way as he gathered his shit, shoved it roughly into his backpack. “Whatever, Simon. I hope you have the time of your fucking life,” he muttered without a second glance.

Simon didn’t know what to call this feeling. He watched Johnny ease himself off the roof and his chest burned and his eyes burned and so did his hands and so did everything. Maybe Johnny would come around eventually. Maybe he wouldn’t.

A few moments passed and then Simon heard Johnny’s windows slam shut. Fucking idiot.

He lit another cigarette and savored, numbly, the way it made everything feel worse. The night was over. A lone siren blared in the distance and he hoped that it was his dad finally karking it. Probably not, though. He was never lucky like that.

He was nearly done with his cigarette when his phone buzzed, screen glowing a hazy blue-green. The time read 2:50 and below it, a text from Johnny:

get off my fucking roof

His cigarette end, still lit, landed in Mrs. MacTavish’s hyacinths.

The sky opened up as he walked back, crashing with thunder, but his feet led him forward at the same lazy pace. He didn’t mind the rain and never really did. Simon’s father hadn’t died and was waiting for him when he made it back home. Tommy woke with the sound.

[ink-the-axolotl-rabbit]

Joining in the club with an AU OC!! :D

A trio of tower climbing heroes!

I love seeing all the creative people making their own takes on Pizza Tower's story with a twist, so I'd like to invite anyone who wants to to draw their own Pizza Tower AU protags/characters and add them to this image :D

[itsclydebitches]

I posted 1,791 times in 2022

358 posts created (20%)

1,433 posts reblogged (80%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@thequietestlilbucket

@gorgeousgalatea

@combefaerie

@kateinator

@ninjathrowingstork

I tagged 1,603 of my posts in 2022

Only 10% of my posts had no tags

#our flag means death - 259 posts

#ofmd - 255 posts

#rwby - 220 posts

#mymetas - 203 posts

#rwde - 177 posts

#videos - 127 posts

#fic things - 62 posts

#comics - 60 posts

#ted lasso - 54 posts

#gaming - 45 posts

Longest Tag: 108 characters

#and that's not even getting into woman being more active in history (including wars!) than we tend to assume

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

In honor of the Netflix show coming out soon and my enthusiastic re-read, I’d like to gift tumblr with some of my favorite Dream panels from The Absolute Sandman Vol. 1.

We’ve got:

Local Personification Gets Bread Thrown At Him By Badass, Older Sister. More at 11:00.

“Mm hmm this is my listening face. Go on, tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

See the full post

811 notes - Posted July 20, 2022

#4

Post-canon universe where Mary ends up becoming a tattoo artist.

It starts when Ed winds up visiting the Bonnet household. Maybe he went there after Stede’s “death” only to learn that the Gentleman Pirate is out looking for him. Maybe this is post-reunion and they’ve just popped by to check on the kids. Whatever the reason, Ed ends up hitting it off with Mary and is particularly enamored with her art studio because holy shit you did the lighthouse painting!

He needs a version of that on his body. Now.

And Mary is like, I’m sorry, Mr. Blackbeard sir, but the human body is a slightly different canvas from what I’m used to and I’ve never—

But Ed is already waving her off. You think pirates know what the fuck they’re doing either? Nah. You get a buddy sloshed on rum, promise him it’s gonna look great, tattoo something on his ass, and then keep out of reach when he first sees it in a shaving mirror. It looks like shit. Of course it does! But then you do it to someone else and it looks a little less shitty. Then again and again until hey, that’s some talent right there! So go to town. Can’t look any worse than what Izzy first put on his back.

By this point Ed has hopped up onto a table and pulled a kit seemingly out of nowhere. He’s also got his shirt off—this is fine—and Mary has to admit, some of his tats really are awful. Not all of them! But enough that she can precisely pick out where some drunk sailor was trying out a needle for the first time. And yeah, she could easily justify this through fear, telling herself that it’s not like she can say no to the intimidating, legendary Blackbeard. Dating Stede or not, the guy could slash her throat in an instant. Actually, dating Stede is a mark against any mental stability.

The reality though is that it isn’t fear that convinces her. Mary just looks at the spots of crappy ink and thinks, Fuck. I could do better than that.

So she does. 

Mary might not know tattooing yet, but she’s got an eye for art and she picks up the mechanics quickly. At her request Alma brings in a bottle of something far nicer than rum—casting an interested look towards the pirate that reminds Mary, with a trickle of worry, that she always was her father’s daughter—and they spend a surprisingly pleasant afternoon with Mary experimenting and Ed commenting on her paintings. Is that flower a vagina, Mary? Yes it is, god, no one else gets that!

Mary tattoos a lighthouse onto Ed’s arm, entwining it with one of his tentacles. It’s nothing fancy, but Ed leaves the Bonnet household pleased as fucking punch.

Which means, of course, that a few months later Stede shows back up (in a terrible disguise) begging her to give him his own lighthouse on the opposite arm.

Stede Bonnet, are you really asking for the symbol of our now defunct marriage after you left me, came back, came out as gay, and then had the gall to fall in love with the most dangerous pirate on the seven seas?

…Yes?

Yeah, alright, fine. Get on the table.

Mary has been practicing since she last saw Ed, discovering that she loves the permanence of tattooing—putting her art on a moving canvas; a part of someone’s very identity, not just their home. Though it’s hardly considered good form in their community, she even managed to find a tutor after promising Doug that she wouldn’t fall in love with this one. Or if she does, she’s not going to throw him over for the new guy. You should really talk to Stede’s friend Lucius, Doug. He has fantastic ideas about the whole thing.

Stede tells Mary all about their lighthouse fuckery while she works and she finds that this story is a damn bit more romantic than their awkward wedding vows. In the end, this lighthouse is far more detailed than Ed’s, with steadier lines and a bit of shading, and Mary can’t help but think that it fits their personalities quite well. Stede is so happy he forgets himself and plants an exuberant kiss on Mary’s cheek. She just laughs.

From there other members of The Revenge show up when it’s safe for them to sneak into town, all of them wanting ink from a member of their Captain’s family. Their family, now. After she’s given Jim a pair of crossed knives and Oluwande a small orange tree on his back; Frenchie a recreation of his lute and the Swede the notes of his favorite song, word starts to spread to other crews. Wherever The Revenge goes they show off their ink. Even when they don’t, Mary’s developing a style that’s noticeable in any tavern or seedy alleyway—far nicer work than what anyone else has got.

The first time an unknown pirate shows up on their doorstep in the dead of night, Mary very nearly stabs him with one of the knives Jim gifted her. She whisper-yells at the poor bastard about manners and coming during business hours, really, what is wrong with you? After a sheepish apology, she brews an obscene amount of coffee and inks a child’s portrait onto the man’s arm. It’s by far the most challenging tat she’s done to date and somewhere around 4:00am, bleary-eyed and energized, Mary thinks that she’ll never want to do anything else again.

More pirates come after that. Doug worries. Mary reassures. As a compromise, she starts taking clients while her widow group meets. The presences of nine or so women who have nothing to lose—alongside Evelyn glaring from the corner—is more than enough to keep even the toughest ruffian in line.

Which isn’t to say that every client is a good experience. Oh no. Mary learns and more importantly, she listens, figuring out which pirates have beef with an ally of The Revenge, or who would sooner sell out their own than part with a single coin. On the truly worrisome visitors, the ones who do nothing to endear themselves during the long session or any of the repeat visits, Mary adds a small flower to their designs. Just her signature, she assures them, but everyone on The Revenge knows that it’s a message: don’t trust this one, watch your back.

Most though are surprisingly pleasant to spend time with. Sweethearts just dealing with a fair bit of trauma, as her ex-husband might say. When they thank her and try to press purses into her hand, Mary just shakes her head. It’s not like she needs the money. Instead, she draws out promises that they’ll do right by The Revenge and its co-captains, should they ever cross paths. When her family visits, Mary hears many tales about the crews that unexpectedly assisted during a tough raid, offered a good deal on supplies, bought them all drinks when they came into port.

Mary is the laughingstock of the town. She’s the woman whose husband ran out on her to become a criminal and then didn’t even have the decency to stay away, instead dying in a thoroughly tactless fashion. She’s the woman who gave up a lucrative painting career to instead take up a lowlife’s art form—if it could even be called such—with all manner of scoundrels calling on her. She’ll end badly, wait and see.

Mary is beloved by the pirate community. She’s the darling of Blackbeard and the Gentleman Pirate, more than capable of holding her own with both. She’s the woman whose ink you want etched into your skin—always safe to visit, always compassionate, and unspeakably talented. She’ll go far, wait and see.

Of course, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Mary teaches Louis how to draw and makes Alma promise that she’ll finish her education before following her father to sea; she takes Doug to bed each night and with his encouragement visits Evelyn many afternoons. She’s happy.

Shockingly, so is everyone else. Mary isn’t entirely sure what to make of the waspish man who shows up on her doorstep one afternoon, but he’s easily recognizable based on Stede and Ed’s descriptions. Israel Hands has just three tattoos: the ace of spades to mark his time in the Navy, the swallow for a well-traveled pirate, and a lopsided cross on his cheek that Mary almost asks about, before thinking better of it.

He wants a fourth tattoo. A lighthouse on the back of his neck.

It’s been a long time since Mary first started tattooing. It’s not that she forgot about her previous lighthouses, of course not, but any additional meaning doesn’t register as she works up a design to show Izzy. After all, he’s a sailor. A pirate. Most of them want something to connect them to the sea and there are only so many objects that do that.

The placement is a bit odd though. Mary warns him that he’ll have to keep his hair short for the tattoo to show, shaving the fine hairs regularly. Izzy just grunts and mutters for her to get to it. Mary doesn’t realize the significance of him allowing her to hold a razor to his neck, in his blind-spot no less. At this point, she’s considered an extension of the only two allowed to do the same.

This lighthouse is perfect. After years of work Mary is easily able to navigate the muscles in Izzy’s neck; the thin scar that—she shivers—is just a little too close to his jugular. Mary knows how to make her art catch the eye when Izzy stands tall and how to keep it from looking absurd whenever he twists his head. She doesn’t know this man well, but Mary senses that this piece should be meticulous and detailed, not a single line out of place. So she pours everything into the image, holding Izzy steady with a grip he doesn’t flinch from.

It's only months later, when the family comes back to visit, that Mary realizes what she’s helped accomplish. Izzy stands between his two captains and from the back she sees that all the lighthouses are balanced, like the top of a nautical star.

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880 notes - Posted May 29, 2022

#3

Okay, so as the canon recedes from memory and fandom jokes take hold — la de da the world turns — I’ve seen an influx of takes that have steadily moved away from “Izzy’s tragic because this whole debacle is technically his fault (going after Stede’s hostages)” and “Izzy is sympathetic in part because he’s so bad at villain-ing” straight into serious claims of, “Wow, Izzy is just totally incompetent, huh?”

No, no, no, Izzy is terrifyingly competent.

We as a fandom need to remember our meta roots; one of the very first things ever acknowledged in the community: this is a character who has suddenly been thrust into a new genre.

For me, it’s basically the storytelling version of the “Who would win, Goku or Saitama?” question. The answer has nothing to do with power, skill, or competence and everything to do with what would be funny, because Saitama exists in a universe where, unless it’s more entertaining for him to lose, he automatically wins — always, forever, it’s the default state. That doesn’t make Goku, a guy with the power of the gods in his own universe, incompetent by any stretch of the imagination. It just means he’s suddenly been hog-tied by the rules of a new reality.

Izzy is the Goku to Stede’s Saitama.

Izzy scopes out Stede’s marooned crew (because he didn’t remember to have someone steer the boat), buys the hostages he lost, and homoerotically skillfully cuts up his shirt with hard-earned sword skills. Stede wins when Pete throws a rock.

Izzy corners Stede in the duel before he’s even realized they’ve started, hits him across the face, disarms him, and skewers him to the mast by successfully stabbing him. Stede wins because the handle of Izzy’s sword broke and there’s supposedly nothing important on the left side of the body.

Izzy is a complete asshole about chores because in his ‘real world’ a lack of munitions, or barnacles on the ship’s side, leads to death. Or at least lost raids (which they also need to afford basic supplies). Stede exists in the world where you can walk off stab wounds, find an oasis of oranges at your assassin’s church, and row straight to your lost crew without a need for anything like supplies, rest, or a map.

Pre-Stede Izzy successfully intimidates Fang, gets him to obey his commands ( “Fang!” *hiss*), and Fang admits that complaining about the abuse wouldn’t do any good. Post-Stede Fang, Lucius, Pete, Wee John, etc. can’t be intimidated because they know that here, such threats are meaningless.

Izzy manages to wrangle together Calico Jack, Spanish Jackie, and the British — three very different parties with beef against each other and him — all in an effort to get Stede executed. Stede survives because Ed pulls out a trump card that we learned about [checks notes] right now.

Stede beats Izzy again and again and again because Stede is working under the rules of the Romantic Comedy. Is it funny if Stede were to win a duel through absurd means? Yes? Then that’s what happens. Would Izzy winning here interfere with the romance between Ed and Stede? Yes? Then that can’t happen. It’s as simple as that. Unless we circle away from the stages of Epiphany (Stede’s talk with Mary) and Resolution (heading back to Ed for the presumed reunion) and Izzy becomes a more serious Obstacle to their love, everything he attempts is doomed from the get-go. Even if he were to be written as a more serious threat to the romance, the comedy inevitably obliterates any real chance he’d have. Unless OFMD doesn’t just pull lightly from other genres as it has in season one, but takes a hard turn into something new... Izzy is fighting a losing battle. He’s Goku powering up to fucking super saiyan and then being understandably confused when Stede manages to trip over his own feet, starting a Loony Toon-esque domino fall that somehow ends with Izzy K.O.’ed. How did this happen? Fuck if he knows. The logic he’s worked under all his life says it’s impossible and yet... here he lies.

Honestly, I ramble because competence is SUCH an important part of Izzy’s character. Competence is what’s allowed him to survive into his 50′s (unless he’s really 16 lol), help build the Blackbeard legend, and gain the kind of respect that has the crew (initially) jumping at his command. Izzy knows that he’s competent. His entire, prickly personality is built on being competent, particularly when competence is used as a defense mechanism. (No need to grapple with feelings when he can just kill someone.) More importantly, he knows that, under ordinary circumstances, not being competent gets you killed. He’s watching Ed trade in protective leather for lace shirts, fill up on marmalade, turn sword training into a flirting session, admire model ships instead of formulating plans — all these things that should, according to the rules Izzy has spent his entire life living by, get them all killed. We know Stede wouldn’t survive a day in the world of “real” pirates, where Izzy originally hails from. Izzy knows it too. We know Stede survives anyway because this is a rom-com and he’s the lead. But Izzy doesn’t know what genre he’s in; certainly not that the genre has changed — and fuck, if the rules of the universe changed once before, who’s to say they won’t suddenly change again? What if he wakes up one day on a frilly ship, with a useless crew, a domesticated Blackbeard, and the world is a horrifying mess of cruelty and violence again? They’d be screwed. He’s running around bitching about plans, munitions, ship speed, killing pets, formal duels, and yes, avoiding “namby-pamby” soft things because dammit of course those things matter. They always have. Yes everyone needs specific duties because otherwise the ship falls apart and they all die. What do you mean the ship isn’t falling apart while everyone eats marmalade and has gay sex? That’s not possible.

Imagine you were a crazy competent member of society according to current social norms. Maybe you’re highly educated, have a six-figure job, are meeting all the expectations for a family, you’re considered conventionally attractive, you eat well, go to the gym every day, have impressive hobbies, give to charity on the regular, maintain a thriving friend group — in every way that your peers might judge your worth within this specific social circle, you are killing it. Then you wake up one random morning and, as Badminton puts it, you’ve entered Backwards Land. People suddenly laugh at your well-balanced lunch because pff, what do you mean you’re not just eating a bucket of candy like the rest of us? Certain public displays that would have been unthinkable 24 hours ago are suddenly occurring on every street corner. You walk in to a promotion meeting with a detailed report on why your work of the last 30 years is worth recognition. The new hire suggests they have a face-paint party instead of running the company and your boss is like, “Well damn if that isn’t the best suggestion anyone’s ever given me. You’re promoted!”

What?

Izzy is fascinating in part because he’s a HYPER-COMPETENT individual who took to his toxic, violent, homophobic, highly repressed society like a duck to water, only to find one day that the rules of the universe had changed (for the better) but whoops, nothing he’s good at suddenly has a foothold anymore. You’re an expert at running a ship? Ships are just a backdrop to romance and it doesn’t matter if there’s, you know, ammunition, or whatever. Supplies — like oranges — only matter if they’re forwarding relationships. You’re an expert swordsman? Yeah, good luck winning a rigged fight where literally anything goes provided it’s funny enough (and you, as a tightly-strung rule follower, are not funny). Your entire identity is built around intimidating and executing people? The queer polycule thinks your threats are hilarious and if you strand people on a desert island their lighthouse captain will just row to them in a single scene; the guy tossed overboard will just climb into the walls and sustain himself on paper or something. You’re Alice in Wonderland except you don’t remember falling down the hole. The fact that Lucius’ cut off finger is used for a moment of (wonderfully gross) humor and he’s totally fine when he wakes up, whereas Izzy’s severed toe is more straightforwardly horrific and requires a cane, just highlight that they’re living in different genres. For Lucius, a severed finger is a moment of comedy (Dutch fuckery) and romance (Pete whittling him a replacement). For Izzy, a severed toe is a moment of devotion to a toxic relationship (eating it on Blackbeard’s command) and a #SeriousInjury that he literally can’t walk off. Izzy’s got the worst of both worlds at the moment: governed by his original, gritty genre and unable to circumvent or reap the rewards of the rom-com.

Which only leaves the question of whether Izzy will remain the tragic figure — but still very humorous for the viewer — who is either killed or permanently exiled due to his inability to adapt? Or will he grudgingly (oh so grudgingly) turn himself over to this new set of rules? I’m personally hoping for the latter BUT with moments here and there where the gritty drama bleeds into the rom-com; moments where things suddenly do become legitimately perilous and Izzy’s honed skills once again become necessary for survival. Like Ed who moves from the poetry-loving Edward into the murderous Kraken, Izzy has the potential to move between and/or straddle genres in some pretty entertaining ways.

930 notes - Posted May 8, 2022

#2

Season 2 concept where Stede gets up to some pirate shenanigans while trying to hunt down The Revenge, resulting in a number of WANTED posters for The Gentleman Pirate. Ed is losing his mind over the sketch of a disheveled, bearded Stede. Izzy is furiously trying to tear it out of his hands (he’s too short). Frenchie is openly sobbing that his captain is alright and apparently doing impressive pirate-y things, good for him. Meanwhile, Jim:

“That fucker is worth 700 doubloons?!? I was only 50! Oh, we’re finding him alright and I’ll show him exactly how someone earns a fucking price on their head — !” 

933 notes - Posted May 12, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

How fucking funny would it be if post-reunion, after everyone has settled down on The Revenge and accepted their weird found family, Izzy still pulled out the “I’m resigning, Ed!” speech every few months, like a kid marching down the end of their driveway to “run away forever, I’m definitely leaving this time, Dad!” Because he’s a supremely repressed gremlin of a man who doesn’t know how to receive validation unless he’s made a dramatic production of it via this intricate ritual. So everyone just accepts that on occasion Izzy will throw a hissy fit, passive aggressively pack up the dinghy, and Ed’s gotta go down there all, “Nooo, mate, we totally need you, don’t leave, what the fuck am I gonna do without my fearsome First Mate?🙄” Really laying it on thick so Izzy can soak up enough Toxically Approved Praise to survive another couple of weeks. Meanwhile, the crew is just watching this sad production, exchanging knowing glances. They’ve TRIED to be nice to Izzy—the whole mutiny thing was so last year, dude!—but outside of The Ritual he will straight up bite off anyone’s head who so much as tries to smile at him.

“Oh, you think I’ve got a flight or bite response? Mr. Hands earned his last name for a reason, laddie,” Buttons says while staring pointedly at Lucius’ finger. That’s obviously bullshit, but Buttons likes fucking with them on occasion. It’s great fun.

Stede’s place in The Ritual varies depending on everyone’s mood. Usually, he treats it like another fuckery production, making a big ta-do about how if Izzy really insists on leaving them—and wouldn't that be terrible? Simply terrible... right, everyone?—then he must take plenty of supplies with him and a bottle of the good brandy and this warm coat because it can get quite chilly at night, don’t you know? This allows Izzy to fly into a very cathartic rage about real pirates vs. gentry twats, leading to him oh so magnanimously deciding to stick around, if only to continue saving Ed from this dithering fool. Sometimes though Izzy has legit pissed Stede off, just like in the old days, and the crew has to run damage control to keep another duel from starting, Izzy having entirely forgotten his desire to leave under the allure of skewering Stede. That too is cathartic, but Ed tends to get tetchy when Stede stabs or is stabbed by anyone other than him.

Every once in a while Izzy will dig his heels in and actually launch the dinghy, heading towards… nothing, because we’re nowhere near land, you idiot, are we really doing this today? So the crew has got to drop everything else they’ve got going on and just… follow him. Izzy spends a couple hours angrily trying to out-row a top of the line ship while the others watch from the deck, occasionally yelling out corrections to his form: “Keep your shoulders steady—you’ll get farther away if you improve your posture.” “I know that!” They let him wear himself out and then tow him in for dinner.

One time Lucius and Pete are ~distracted~ while on the night watch and Izzy is actually able to slip away unnoticed. He's so pissed about it that he leaves in a true huff, that anger taking him all the way to the Republic. Two days later Buttons gets a seagull from Spanish Jackie basically saying that their wayward First Mate is stinking up her bar, you’d better pick him up before I kill a bitch. Ed and Stede arrive like fussy dads whose darling sent the playdate into turmoil; come along, Israel, that’s enough fun for one weekend.

Sometimes Jim is already hiding in the dinghy when Izzy tries to “escape” and the two of them spend a day talking shit, The Revenge floating nearby. Sometimes other pirates will find Izzy in random places and sternly steer him back towards the ship: “Do your parents Captains know you’re out here?” Once Izzy made the mistake of loading his get-away bag with half the strawberries put aside for a new cake and Roach very nearly took a limb in vengeance. Frenchie has a couple tunes that he only plays during The Ritual, to set the mood and all. Lucius has immortalized a number of the attempts in sketch form and slips them underneath Izzy’s door when he’s sure he’s not there to retaliate.

Years later, when all the crew have a lot more gray in their hair, Izzy flips them off and starts packing his things, same old, same old. Ed sidles up to Pete on the quarterdeck, sighing down at the display.

“Can you believe he’s still doing this?” he asks, shaking his head. “I thought he got it out of his system back on the Queen Anne.”

“Remember that time the rope broke and he lost us that dinghy?”

“Ha! I was ready to flog the bastard.”

And that’s how the crew learns that yes, Black Pete really did serve under Blackbeard holy shit.

1,206 notes - Posted May 7, 2022

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