#inspired by art

[kotias]

Keep Me Satisfied - a Poolverine fic in that damn Honda Odyssey

Title: Keep Me Satisfied

Rating: E (for graphic violence and smut)

Genre: Plot What Plot

Word count: 8,218 words

Tags: Honda Odyssey Fight Scene, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Porn with Stabby Tools involved, Erotic Stabbing, Blood, Pain Kink, Pain Sluts, Clothed Sex, Bottom Wade Wilson, Top Logan, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Intrusive Thoughts

Title inspired by You're the One That I Want

Fic inspired by Hansoeii's fanart!

Summary (taken over by Deadpool):

Logan launched forward and his fist landed against Deadpool’s forehead, again, again and again, his claws slipping in and out of those flimsy bones and spraying what felt like the entirety of his opponent’s blood into the Honda and over the COEXIST sticker in the back.

Now, hm, no.

Let me… there you go, mask’s back on, so you know it’s serious business. Hey, dear audience, I am your beloved Deadpool—now better known as Marvel Jesus, ey? Heh. Anyways, I wanted to pause on this trainwreck of a scene, because I see you filthy fans, and let me tell you this: I. agree. Let’s be real… would. Right?

So, lemme start over—Hey, dear audience. I’m Marvel Jesus, previously known as Deadpool, and I am here to tell you one thing: this scene is a travesty of the editors.

My people, my lovely, filthy people, Disney has cut the actual, interesting parts, and here I have… the original footage. Come on, I’ll take you on the Honda Odyssey ride with me.

Ah, before we leave—I’ll let you enjoy the show… mostly in silence. You might see me from time to time… in the footnotes.

Excerpt:

“Come at me,” Logan repeated in challenge, his teeth bared and his hands ready to curl into fists.

Very distinct from the previous launches at one another, Wade entered through the windshield opening slowly and carefully, wrapping himself around the electronics of the Honda and placing his right leg between Logan’s. This had the unfortunate effect, he realized, to shoot electric pulses all over his body, culminating between his legs—in a suit far too tight to hide anything; though he could very well point out the same to the man above him, who was gradually lowering his body until he was sitting on Logan’s right leg.

He smirked, his excitement entering his blood like venom. “Ready for the next roun—?!”

Deadpool’s left foot landed on the side and pushed; the backrest fell down to a fully horizontal position, dragging Logan with it, cutting his breath away in surprise. The man above him had a low chuckle, and forced him to stay down, pressing both hands on his torso and leaning forward, making the hard press between his legs more obvious with each movement of his hips against Logan’s lap.

Come and read more here! https://archiveofourown.org/works/58680358

[call-me-cosmic]

“Wow all this art is so gorgeous, I just wanna–“ *eats it and gains it’s power*

Ok, well, I didn’t gain ALL of its power, but the art still inspired me nonetheless. Here’s a peek at a short comic I’m working on!

-

I believe the artworks are done by @hadroncollider on Twitter, but I’m not sure. I’ve been having a hard time tracking the artist down! If I’m incorrect, please let me know!!

[rhosmeinir]

Fic drop! Yesterday @gleafer threw a firecracker of a writing prompt at her pigeons. I’m throwing it back. NO PEEKING is rated E for EXPLICIT; 8.8k, complete.

Summary: Anthony meets up with his estranged uni pal Ezra over a drink to catch up, and when things start to get personal, Ezra tells Anthony about a special place where one can sexually let go, anonymously, guilt free— and depending on how you choose to participate, make some easy cash. Anthony leaves this reunion very confused and more than a little titillated, but he's never done anything like that before, nor expected to talk about such a thing with his formerly shy friend. What could happen if he chooses to follow through?

@goodomensafterdark

@whickberstreetwriters

[melestasflight]

Finrod and Maglor compose the Noldolantë

An illustration of a scene from Voices That Were Once Ours created by the amazing @wombywoo. Fic snippet below the cut.

-

Perhaps it is that very realization of the briefness that dictates life in these lands. That joy must be snatched from fleeting moments before they float away like withered leaves down the Sirion.

At long last, his heart misgives him, and when Makalaurë’s invitation arrives to journey east, Finrod accepts.

He has not seen Maglor, as he is now known, since the feast of the Mereth Aderthad, and even that encounter lacked the intimacy of friendship. What little he knows has come from Angrod’s visits or Celegorm’s letters, almost all having to do with enemy movements or breeding horses from Maglor’s herds. All valuable knowledge for a King in times of siege, but not what Finrod wants to know.

What does the Lord of the Gap sing about these days? Are there songbirds in the flatlands to rest upon his finger?

From Voices That Were Once Ours

[nichenarratives]

Asymmetrical Atrocity

An Obscure Oneshot

Inspiration Art by Tracy J Butler

Mordecai Heller has done a lot of dastardly things in his line of work. He murdered the competition, tortured information from the mouths of gangsters and threw numerous bodies into both rivers surrounding Saint Louis, all at the behest of his savior turned employer. Atlas May is a discerning man of many accomplishments, one who knows when to conduct a business intervention to protect his investments, and when a massacre is the only way to send a message, which is what Mordecai manages alongside Viktor, his cohort.

The tom tuxedo appreciates swift, decisive action as much as the entrepreneur who owns the Lackadaisy Speakeasy. As such, he rarely finds grievance with expectation, carrying out every assignment with extreme prejudice and efficiency. Alongside Viktor's sheer strength and bulk, they form a formidable partnership that's seen the underground liquor spring swell in popularity, creating quite the business for the ever-ambitious Atlas May.

This is work Mordecai excels at, even prefers despite the moral ambiguity most would consider troubling. What he doesn't enjoy are the languid, supposedly quiet stretches of time between jobs, where he is forced to attend Mrs May's exhaustingly raucous parties. Sometimes, he can convince Atlas to let him work instead and buries his nose in the Little Daisy Cafe's books, changing expenses and stock to hide their underground extracurriculars.

But not tonight.

Atlas is out of town collecting his goddaughter - why anyone would want responsibility for a child that isn't even theirs is beyond Mordecai - and taken Viktor with him, meaning other than the band and Horatio, everyone to step foot inside the Lackadaisy that evening would be a potential threat to his wife's life. Atlas has specifically ordered his sharpshooter to stay close to her all evening, so there is no escaping it.

Tonight, he's Mitzi May's bodyguard.

While he never needs an excuse to dress properly, the tom had taken time to dress correctly for tonight; a black three piece suit over a crisp, white shirt, his trademark blood red tie pressed and carefully secured about his neck before it's tucked into his waistcoat and secured with a silver pin, a holster on each shoulder each containing loaded pistols (obscured under his jacket, for security), a knife in each garter beneath his slacks and of course, the piece de resistance - a pocket square matching his tie.

His wayward hair carefully smoothed down and pince-nez shined to perfection, he'd reported to Mrs May's rooms at precisely six, as requested. He at least feels at home dressed up - poor Viktor always looks ridiculously uncomfortable in a suit - even if he's dreading the actual party. He takes a moment to check his pocket square is properly placed before rapping his knuckles on her door. 

"Come in, door's open."

The reply is immediate, but Mordecai hesitates on the threshold, hand still curled and raised uselessly in the air. He assumed she'd be ready on time. As such, the possibility of entering her room was not considered. He hangs in purgatory for a long moment, trapped between refusal and potential repercussions should anything happen to her in the next few seconds, then sighs and pushes the door open.

"Good evening, Mrs May," he greets upon entry, closing the door behind him before surveying the room. Not one to keep a clean house but hardly a slob either, Mitzi's room is clean but in general disarray; her bed isn't made, the closet hangs open, and her vanity table is cluttered with numerous vials, pots, lipsticks and more he doesn't care to identify. "It's time to welcome your esteemed guests into the Lackadaisy Speakeasy."

Mitzi sits at her vanity, leaning close to finish her makeup. She doesn't look over when Mordecai walks in, but an eye does track his reflection. "Of course," she says, pausing to dab her finest brush into the liquid eyeliner bottle. Satisfied it's sufficiently soaked, she raises it back to her face and returns her gaze to the ceiling. "I'm just finishing up, sweetie. Take a seat if you like."

Pale lips curl into a grimace. "No, thank you," he refuses, as politely as he can manage. Mordecai has no idea when she last changed the sheets - he prefers to change his weekly, when possible - nor if she's ever dusted. He doesn't intend to find out by coating his pristine suit in dust. His tail flicks slightly in agitation as he stays by the door. "I'll wait here."

"Suit yourself," Mitzi responds, accustomed to the odd tom after years of his service. She once tried to loosen the man up by asking about his family, but that only seemed to make him more distant. Since then, she's left Mordecai to his own devices, allowing Atlas to handle his peculiarities. Her own interactions with the tuxedo cat are more for entertainment than friendship now. "Are you going to dance tonight? I've invited plenty of young ladies who'd love to-"

"I'd rather not be in attendance," Mordecai answers flatly, his chin lifted very slightly as he grimaces. Mitzi suppresses a sigh as she sits back and studies her eyeliner. Makeup is such a chore sometimes, but a necessity when you have an image to keep. Satisfied, she screws the cap back on the bottle and wipes the brush off on cotton wool, an ear turned to her bodyguard as he continues. "However, Mr May has requested my attendance, therefore it is unavoidable."

The dolled-up feline hums in agreement; Mordecai isn't an enthralling party guest, unless you wish to listen to a man describe the main differences between monocotyledons and dicotyledons in excruciating detail, all in a flat monotone. If she had a choice, she'd have kept Viktor. At least could be loosened up with a drink or ten. "Well, I'm ready. Why don't we take our delightful conversation down to the-"

Glancing at Mordecai's reflection, she sees his eyes narrow, and Mitzi releases a tired huff. "What?" She asks as she turns around to face the pedantic accountant. An ear twitch and a deeper frown is the only response she gets, to which Mitzi glares right back. Atlas might enjoy his nonverbal communication, but she finds it irritating. "Come on, spit it out, Mordecai. The guests aren't getting any younger."

"Your eyeliner," the tom responds flatly. Mrs May turns back to the mirror and scrutinizes her reflection closely, checking for drips and smudges, or misplaced drops on her otherwise flawless skin and outfit. She's practically going insane trying to find the problem when Mordecai finally finished speaking. "Is asymmetrical."

She almost groans. Almost. Why does the man have to be so peculiar? "Is that all?" She asks, waving off his concern to instead fluff up her hair some more, running fingers through the freshly washed waves. They slide effortlessly from root to tip, as perfect as Mitzi planned. "No one will care if it's a little crooked once they taste the liquor, sweetie. My darling Atlas secured the best from Canada in our last shipment. They won't be sober long enough to notice."

"I've noticed," Mordecai asserts, finally stepping away from the door to approach his employer's wife. "Respectfully, should I spend the majority of your precious event distracted by symmetrical sacrilege, my efficacy will be compromised."

Mitzi turns in her seat and regards her employee tiredly, only to shrug a moment later. "Eyeliner is a fine art, sweetie. It could take hours to get it entirely even on both sides. We can't leave our guests waiting that long, can we?" Thinking she has him dead to rights, the feline woman opens both eyes and smirks at her husband's golden boy confidently. "Unless you can fix them in five minutes, it'll have to do."

If she's expecting some kind of emotional reaction, Mitzi is sorely mistaken. Mordecai glances at the discarded brush on the vanity, then the uneven lines framing her upper lids. He's fairly sure a child could do better, but for once, the tom decides to keep that thought to himself and instead looks around the room. Locating a small chaise, he pulls it over to the vanity - much to Mitzi's dismay. "What are you-"

Turning over the seat cushion before sitting down to avoid the dust, he then raises his hands, palms open expectantly. "Your brush and face paint," he requests with his expression set seriously, flexing his fingers for emphasis. "And erase your attempts of both eyes entirely. I prefer a blank canvas."

For the next seven minutes, Mordecai leans towards the other feline, coaching her which eye to close, where to look and sometimes, informing minor technique corrections he suggests for the future. Mitzi stays quiet and complies with his requests, mostly from pure curiosity if he'll be able to paint eyeliner as cleanly as he aims a pistol. She's not met a man who can frame an eye right yet, so she might even forgive his arrogance if he does a good enough job. 

The few times she does look at Mordecai directly, his gaze is intense and focused, fine lips pressed into a finer line in the depths of focus. Mitzi isn't sure he's ever been so close before - even when she was having him tailored for fresh, tidy suits and had to measure his neck ad-hoc for the collar. It's honestly disconcerting and she quickly looks away.

"There," he finally states after what feels like a year. Entirely uninvited, Mordecai takes a gentle hold of her chin and turns her head from side to side to inspect his handiwork. Taken by surprise, Mitzi allows him to do so until he hums in approval and releases her, only to grimace at the powder residue now on his fingers. "I will never understand the need to slather your face in chemicals, but it is now symmetrical, at least. I'll wash my hands, then we can go."

Taking the brush and pot when they're offered, Mitzi turns to the mirror to inspect his work and is pleasantly surprised to find he's framed her eyes beautifully. He even added a small whisper of eyeliner off the lid and extended it slightly to her cheek, giving the impression of fuller lashes when her eyes are open. Mrs May blinks, tilting her head from side to side, marveling at how fine it is and indeed, how symmetrical the quiet sharpshooter has managed to make them.

"Let's get this over with," Mordecai mutters as he re-enters the room, adjusting the cufflinks beneath his suit jacket. His eyes land on Mitzi, once again staring in the mirror, and an irritated murr slips through pursed lips. "Mrs May, while I admire your devotion to setting an immaculate visage in your husband's absence, there is only so much superficial modification careful artistry can achieve. Let's go."

It was in that moment, as Mordecai stalked for the door to hold it open like the gentlemanly type he certainly had not just spoken like, Mitzi decided she'd convinced the girls that dancing with her reclusatory bodyguard was the pinnacle of high society.

Insert the ficus comic here…

[mattsucks-kra]

Ineffable Wives! (all time favorite)

Yeah so this drawing was inspired by Eva Gonzalès' "la toilette" cause I'm absolutely obsessed with impressionists and Good Omens and I needed to cope after e6

Also, new signature!

[zairaalbereo]

Nicolò and Yusuf as ‘Sea Riders’ (but make it crusades era).

Inspired by Ludwig von Hofmann’s “Reiter am Strand” ca. 1890 — (look at that and tell me it’s not Nicky!) Ludwig von Hofmann was a German artist (1861-1945), and he sure liked his nude riders… (Seriously, there are dozens…) Looking at his art, I couldn’t help but imagine Nicolò and Yusuf riding and playing in the surf like a pair of boys.

And that’s why you have Yusuf, too… 😘

PS: Happy birthday TOG fandom!! 🥳🥳🥳

If Netflix won’t give us flashbacks, we’ll make our own.

[thejujvtsupost]

Toji, Mamaguro and their blessing

Notes: I have no idea where this came from tbh but I just started yappin after I saw this art and here we are. I’m now forcing you to suffer with me.

I can't stop thinking about the fact that there was a time that Toji was genuinely in love with mamaguro and saw her as the light of his life after suffering for so many years.

And then comes megumi, born from such raw love that he's named 'blessing' and Toji's life becomes even better with a loving wife and beautiful baby.

But then everything is black. Absolute nothingness because mamaguro is dead and he's a single father, floundering with his young son and completely lost; because the light of his life has been snuffed out.

And hasn't he suffered enough? His entire childhood and the loneliness and pain, and as an adult, the loss of his love...

So yeah, some might judge him for remarrying so fast, but what else is he supposed to do??

He's not fit to be a parent by himself, he's utterly shattered by grief. And megumi, his sweet boy he undoubtedly loves but reminds him almost too much of his dead wife, deserves much better than him and his broken heart.

Maybe he's a shit father, he's disappointed in himself too. But he thinks he at least found someone relatively reliable enough to care for him- of course tsumiki's mom dips, but he tried to find something.

Years later, in his final moments, he faces the music and tells a damn teenager- the one that kills him, with way too much money, that his son is going to be sold to the zenins in a few years.

Because in that very last moment, he's thinking of his blessing and the world is getting blurry and he feels cold and-

His wife, his only love, greets him and he knows everything is gonna be alright. And she accepts him with loving arms, says it'll work out and he's so relieved. Because his blessing doesn't deserve someone as broken as him, and Megumi (and tsumiki) won't be alone after all.

Maybe in another life, he'll get a do over and things won't be so bad. He'll find his wife in the next life easily, because he would know her soul from worlds away, and their blessing will be there too- it's all he wants. He wants to know peace.

When his wife tells him it's time, he takes his last breath and goes with her wherever it is the dead go; together...

Dividers by @thecutestgrotto

[convertedzukaang]

what? a Zukaang zombie AU?

You read that right.

Title: Heaven Help Us

Warnings: Violence & Smut

Inspired by this artwork by Yishu who helped me with the plot/outline and encouraged me to write this fic. Everybody thank her! ( ͡◉ ͜ʖ ͡◉)

Anyway, here's the Ao3 link  (人◕ω◕) enjoy!

[riality-check]

hi, so because i’m me, i immediately saw this post from @lazylittledragon and got a ridiculous amount of thoughts about it. so. yeah.

Anyway, Eddie is life and Steve is death.

Life is about that one big adventure. It’s one story, your story, one of billions on the planet running simultaneously, intersecting with dozens, maybe even hundreds or thousands of others. Who better to keep that all straight than Eddie Munson, Dungeon Master extraordinaire? Who better to keep life exciting and novel and fun than Eddie, whose personality has always been a little too big, who’s never been considered “boring” ever, at literally any point in time.

That’s where Steve comes in.

Steve isn’t boring, but death certainly is. It doesn’t always start out the same, but the end? That’s monotonous. 

Everyone becomes a little more like a kid when they die. Searching for guidance. Wanting a hand to hold. 

Steve doesn’t see himself as a paragon of wisdom, but he can give them a few words. Make them laugh. Offer a hand.

They always take it. Some are more reluctant than others, but they always take it.

He thinks it helps that he looks so unassuming. No scythe or bats’ wings, no cloak of darkness or grim reaper-esque looks. Just comfortable clothes in the colors he likes, hair styled so it doesn’t flop in his face.

Everyone becomes themselves again when they die. Steve leads by example, puts his genuine self out there for them.

He really hopes it helps.

What definitely helps are the chess matches.

Eddie is good at chess. Much better than Steve is, anyway. He attributes this to the fact that he has to constantly think about moving parts, while Steve doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. They still meet up regularly, play a friendly game, talk.

They talk a lot. They didn’t expect to, at first.

But when you’re talking to the only other entity in the universe who somewhat gets it, you find you have a lot to talk about.

And, as it turns out, you’ll play footsie under the table, too.

[kindlingkeen]

Summary:

There’s a flash of green light, and the world starts to dissolve around Jason. Why is it always green light, he has time to wonder, before everything goes dark.

Or,

anach·ro·nism (noun) 1: an error in chronology especially : a chronological misplacing of persons, events, objects, or customs in regard to each other 2: a person or a thing that is chronologically out of place

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne Characters: Jason Todd, John Constantine, Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, Divergent Timelines, Magic, Angst, Hopeful Ending Series: Part 1 of Anachronism

[dracopetal]

Sirius/Draco inspired by @basiatlu's iconic piece of them here

dirty filthy secret on ao3 (explicit)

The air in Sirius’ shitty bedroom at Twelve Grimmauld Place was stale with sweat and in some distant corner of Sirius’ mind, he knew this was wrong, somehow. But even if he wanted to stop, he wasn’t sure if he could.

Draco, the little Malfoy brat that had sneered at Harry and his friends for years, was writhing and moaning under him like some animal, like a little dog being punished. His normally perfectly slicked-back hair was plastered to his damp forehead with sweat and his hips bore the many bruises from Sirius’ fingers. 

“Agh, fuck,” Draco hissed with a particularly vicious thrust, and it only spurred Sirius on, the little voice in that distant corner fading away with whispers of Narcissa’s son, cousin Draco.

Second cousin, Sirius thought before banishing the voice of reason. He didn’t need reason, not when he had this. 

Not when Draco clenched around his cock, his reddened hole swallowing Sirius eagerly down with every thrust of Sirius’ hips. Not when Sirius grabbed a handful of his white-blond hair with fingers damp from his own insides, and yanked his head back until his tattooed chest collided with Draco’s back. 

“Fuck,” Draco hissed again, and Sirius didn’t let up, not for a moment. Draco’s cock, pink and swollen and curved slightly to the left, bounced in front of him, and Sirius didn’t touch it. He didn’t forbid Draco from doing so, but he didn’t even try. 

Maybe he was punishing himself. Sirius didn’t really give a shit.

He kept a tight grip of Draco’s hair, holding him in place, and thrust deeper and deeper, as if trying to carve out his insides. Draco moaned and whimpered, his hands fluttering and eventually settling on his own arse, pulling himself open, giving permission that Sirius had never bothered seeking.

Sirius took the invitation anyway, and let go of Draco’s hair. Draco, momentarily startled, flopped forwards onto the bed, not having time to brace himself. 

Sirius didn’t care. Sirius didn’t care about anything - not the war, not Azkaban, not that he was fucking his cousin. Only that familiar sweet pull at the base of his cock mattered. He chased after it desperately, wanting to feel something at his core, even if it only lasted a few minutes.  

Draco was rutting into the dirty bed sheets, little noises escaping his throat telling Sirius that he was just on the edge. Sirius held him down by his hips, fingers slotting over the bruises and pressing, wanting to sting, to feel him clench and hear him hiss.

“Fuck,” Draco hissed, like it was the only word he could say. Sirius’ thought there could be a joke there, something about his Mother hearing, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. His orgasm was just within his grasp, if he reached out he could touch it with his fingertips, and he could focus on nothing else.

Pounding inside Draco’s hole, who panted with each thrust like a man drowning. Sirius dragged his nails over the alabaster skin stretched over his spine, for no reason other than he could, and Draco turned slightly, angling himself up so he could look Sirius in the eye, and it was enough. 

Sirius’ orgasm hit him hard and fast, like pleasure always did, and he was only distantly aware of pumping his seed into his cousin, who clenched his hole around his softening cock. Sirius held tightly to his hips and panted.

Sirius stayed inside until Draco wriggled, and then he pulled out, deliciously slow, watching intently as his come dribbled out of the swollen ring of muscle.

Draco moaned unabashedly, nothing aristocratic left about him, and Sirius plunged two fingers back inside, purely to hear him gasp. Sirius pulled out the fingers and wiped his come on Draco’s thigh. 

Sirius collapsed on the dirty sheets next to Draco and threw an arm over his scarred chest. Draco didn’t react, he was pink in the face and gazing dazedly up at the bed canopy. He would have to leave soon; the thrill of his orgasm was already fading, and soon enough Harry would be home. And Harry couldn’t know, not about this.

Sirius couldn’t quite bring himself to tell the brat to get out, so instead he stalled until he got his breath back, and twirled a strand of his white hair around his fingers. He could wait a little while, at least until Harry got back, and then he’d bundle him out of the floo. Sirius’ dirty, filthy little secret.

[nichenarratives]

Crescendo

An Obscure Oneshot

Inspired by this post.

Deep within the forested trails of Missouri, an orange aura licks the midnight sky, casting a glow as potent as the early morning sun over the trees. Closer, the crackle of wood as flames engulf an inconspicuous log cabin is as intrusive as the heat itself radiating from the cabin's carcass, a bright, monstrous creature waning and waxing with the wind, too powerful to be thwarted by the thin flurry of snow fluttering down on the three who watch the building burn.

To the left, an austere feline with a strong jaw and face stripes hunches forward to light a cigarette. Despite his proximity, Atlas May has done little to set these wheels in motion; he arrived with the other two and set them upon the establishment instead, holding back to watch his pilfered heavy hitter and triggerman work their first mission together, gauging if his earlier deduction - that they would be perfect partners - were accurate.

Smoke lit, the striped feline straightens and flicks his match into the snow, where it promptly extinguishes. He raises his gaze to the flaming cabin and calmly drags on his cigarette, relishing the heat it brings to his chest, enjoying the potent hit of nicotine as his rival's storehouse burns to the ground at his order. Atlas quirks a slight smile and exhales smoke in a steady stream. 

The night was almost flawless. Almost.

He can feel the young triggerman staring at his cheek, the anxiously perfectionistic tuxedo attempting to discern their boss' opinion on the job. Mordecai Heller has worked for the Lackadaisy Speakeasy for almost eight months, keeping on top of their books as an accountant, but this is his first job as triggerman, and he fucked up getting into a physical altercation with a guardsman, almost costing him his life.

Atlas knows that's not what worries the tuxedo, however; he isn't begging to return to his desk job nor in crisis after a brush with death, but concerned he's been inadequate. The boy has a lot of anxiety compared to his partner who, even before he had completed dozens of similar assignments, had the confidence to handle himself. 

Viktor Vasko never looked for reassurance or validation, never pandered to his boss, and it's those qualities Atlas wants to encourage in their new triggerman. With life or death hanging on the pull of a trigger, Mordecai couldn't be second guessing himself. He has to be confident, capable, and possess enough autonomy for self-preservation, not hinge his worth on the words of an authority figure that won't always be there to pat him on the back.

The striped feline takes another drag of his cigarette as the experienced bobcat draws Mordecai's attention and hands him back his dropped spectacles. Another slip up, the older businessman turned smuggler muses, sharp eyes still on the roaring flames. Had he lost those, he'd be useless as a sharpshooter and an accountant until they were replaced, if he'd even managed to get out of the flames without time to find the exit with blurry vision. He's got a lot to learn. Viktor will have his hands full for a while.

"Job done," Atlas finally states, drawing the attention of both the man and the boy. He pauses to take a last drag on the cigarette before dropping it to the snow, the sizzle of hot ash lost to the violent crackle of the larger fire. "Take him to see Elsa," he orders, catching Viktor's gaze over the tom's head. He doesn't intend to address Mordecai directly tonight; such attention is reserved for when he does a good job. "Get his arm stitched, then get some sleep. I want you both back in my office tomorrow at one tomorrow, to debrief."

The bobcat simply nods in acknowledgement, then watches as Atlas turns and strides away, back to his own car, taken swiftly by the trees and snow, tracks buried as if he were never there. Only once their boss is gone does Viktor look to the young man now in his charge, the tuxedo barely out of adolescence, a boy with a man's weapon at his hip and an unerring need for acceptance he won't find in Atlas May.

Mordecai drops his gaze to the snow, hand clutching at his injured arm more tightly. He doesn't need to be explicitly told he messed up; he's supposed to be their trigger man, to keep his distance, to protect the brawler and take out any who tried to get the jump on him. He'd been a fool not to take the second shot before approaching, to try to save ammunition instead of safeguarding himself.

The subsequent shot had been aimed at his heart. Had he not brought his satchel, had he not raised it in time, he'd most likely have bled out on the stairs long before they set fire to the building. Falling through the banister, rotted wood splintering into his arm, the dull thud of landing on the joint, are all still visceral memories, as was the lightning decision to shoot at the man who loomed over the broken banister, weapon raised for a second shot. 

Mordecai hadn't even aimed, didn't have time, but it was enough to bring the man tumbling down on top of him, whereupon the tuxedo managed to get the upper hand and impale him with the shattered banister, the crescendo of the fight. He'd lost his pince nez in the scuffle but ordered to leave immediately after, had scurried off without them, teeth grit against the aching throb in his left shoulder, the gun still grasped in his less dominant hand.

He'd survived, but barely. Mordecai shudders, both from the cold and the icy reception from Atlas, the man he wanted to impress. Alive, but a disappointment.

Viktor hadn't wanted to bring the boy on this job, but Atlas had insisted, touting that he needed to learn the stakes, that easing him into it would be detrimental. He believed the boy had what it takes to be a successful triggerman, if only he had the right teacher. "You," Atlas had posited, clapping a hand on the bobcat's shoulder as they watched Mordecai through his office window. "That's why he's coming tonight, so you can show him how it's done. You wait; a couple of jobs, and he'll be the best triggerman we could ask for."

The tuxedo looks as far from a triggerman as anyone could be in that moment; fragile, sullen, freezing. Mordecai shivers and clutches his arm, barely suppressing a cringe of pain into a slight flinch. He's a lost and lonely body, out in the woods all on his own, and without guidance he may perish. An almost vacant expression plays in downcast eyes and the bobcat's expression softens slightly, a sudden wave of empathy in his stomach.

He saw that face looking back at him in the mirror many times after returning from the war, and knows the hollow feeling that accompanies leaving everything you love behind to start anew, only to feel wholly inadequate. It's the wonder if the difficult decisions you made really were right, or if you've screwed everything up so badly, perhaps you'd be better off not waking up tomorrow.

Without a word, the bobcat side steps to close the distance between them to mere inches. Mordecai sees his feet shift and glances up through his lashes, shoulder still hunched against the cold. Eyes still locked on the raging fire, Viktor opens arm arm out behind the tuxedo, his hand pressed into a pocket so his coat also fans out, silently offering the tom a chance to step closer if he wants. 

An offer of comfort and warmth, in a moment of uncertainty.

Mordecai hesitates, ears half-turned away from the crackle of the fire, eyes slowly shifting between the bobcat's stony face and the free space at his side. It would be a step to the left - a simple, single step towards his new comrade - and he'd have accepted the unexpected offer, an offer he's not sure he fully understands the scope of, but is enticed by the warmth nonetheless.

Eventually, much like Viktor, he sets his eyes on the fire and silently steps closer, allowing his injured arm to brush the other's fluffy jumper before angling the appendage to rest on the bobcat's front. Viktor gently closes his arm around him, encasing Mordecai in half of his overcoat, which the tuxedo grabs the edge of to hold around his body, trapping the heat in with them as he pulls it tight, unperturbed by the feel of Viktor's arm around his back and side.

The flames continue to lick the darkness, burning the inky black in orange and yellow as they watch, mesmerised by flames in a comfortable silence. A bobcat, offering simple solace to a tuxedo, in need of reassurance... and perhaps a warmer coat.

[belladonazeppole]

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Husk/Lucifer Magne | Morningstar Characters: Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Lucifer Magne | Morningstar Additional Tags: Songfic, Inspired by The Greatest Showman (2017), Song: The Other Side (The Greatest Showman), Song: Rewrite the Stars (The Greatest Showman), Soft Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Husk has a Heart (Hazbin Hotel), Soft Lucifer Magne | Morningstar, Touch-Starved Lucifer Magne | Morningstar, Mentioned Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Mentioned Lilith Magne | Morningstar, Happy Ending Summary:

Just two old souls trying to figure things out.

The compilation of my three part stories based in @adyophene art of the same name!

[c4t1l1n4]

So I wrote a quick little short fic about THIS cute comic by @uhuraborealis. I wrote it just now in like 10 minutes so it's not edited, but you can read it under the cut!

Vulcans Tell No Lies

Spock knows that when Jim approaches him with a look like that, nothing good is going to come of it.

“Spock,” Jim asks, voice full of wonder and eyes full of stars. “Can you meld with the Enterprise? Tell her I love her?”

Spock considers the captain for a moment. It’s not something he’s thought about—mind-melding with a ship. He doesn’t really think that anything would happen, as much as he’s touched the console and felt nothing in response. He knows that humans refer to ships as female and often personify them out of loneliness or a need for bonding. He doesn’t understand why humans can’t just appreciate a machine for the tasks it performs, but seeing as much as Dr. McCoy tries to project his human emotions on Spock himself, he supposes that it must just be second nature to them.

He indulges in a more human tendency, seeing as it was just him and Jim, and sighs. It cannot hurt to try, if not for the very least on the premise of scientific discovery, and it’s not like there’s anyone around to judge him.

“Fine.” He agrees rather bluntly, but Jim just looks at him, enthralled.

Spock supposes, as he places a hand on the console, that he can always lie for the sake of appeasing Jim. Vulcans do not lie, but as McCoy always points out, Spock is only half-vulcan, and half-vulcans can bend the truth. 

However, as he reaches out for what he can find of the consciousness of the Enterprise, he finds that he has no reason to lie. He is so caught off guard by the discovery as some form of being reaches back towards him, that he is overwhelmed by the experience.

The Enterprise does not think in the same way, with clear structure, intent, or words. No, she thinks with colors and emotions, bright and loud, filling up his senses. She is overwhelmingly a she, and she imparts him with the notion that she will tolerate nothing less from him, even if it means zapping him through the console like a misbehaving child.

He supposes that might be the best way to describe the way she feels about the crew��as children. They are all so much smaller than her, and she cares for them, treating them as gently as she can. In return, they treat her with love and respect and keep her in working order. If Dr. McCoy would stop hitting the biobed display screens when he was frustrated, she would appreciate that, though.

After taking a moment to reign the sensory flood back in, Spock organizes his mind and sends a specific train of thought to her. The words do not translate to her, so he tries to phrase them in a way she would understand, thinking of command gold, bright eyes, and a happy spirit. He focuses on the general sense of cheer, well-being, and concern that Jim carries for every member of his crew, but also on the horribly mushy feeling Spock gets on the inside when thinking about him.

Color ripples across his vision, something like laughter, and he thinks she gets the point. The reply he gets in return is what he sent tenfold—a tidal wave of things he could not possibly put into words and yet understands perfectly. He thanks her, sending a bright wave of gratitude radiating warmly from deep inside him, and pulls away.

He opens his eyes and looks over to Jim, who is waiting patiently. Curiosity and excitement dance in his eyes. There is no possible way to convey what he experienced in what felt like hours but was probably only seconds, so instead he says, “She loves you back.”

When Jim beams at him, smile wide and eyes glistening, Spock is glad it is no lie at all.