#inspired by art

[steddieas-shegoes]

guilt fades, scars remain

written as part of @st-loveconfessions february kindness event for today: write a fic based on art! the moment I saw this absolutely stunning art by @stervrucht, I knew I had to get some words out. @runninriot also wrote something inspired by this art and it's just as stunning as the art itself, you can find that here!

rated m | 1031 words | cw: blood and injury | tags: eddie munson lives, steve rescues eddie, eddie has a crush on steve, pre-relationship, open ending but assume they're getting together

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The tears drip. The rain hits the roof. The sweat builds along his hairline.

Eddie’s alone. He’s scared. He’s sick of feeling pain everywhere.

“Eddie?”

The voice is back. He should be happy. Hearing Steve’s voice is a relief compared to what he’s been feeling for so long. He’s not even sure how long he’s been stuck here. Hours, days, weeks?

Years?

“Eddie.”

The voice is clear, but it’s always clear. Sometimes it’s far, sometimes it’s close. It sounds worried, but talking back to it doesn’t help.

He’s sure of only one thing: Steve Harrington’s voice is a balm on his nerves and patience alike. If he can’t have the real Steve saving him, he’s glad he at least has his voice in his ears.

Cool hands are covering his naked chest. It feels so nice, like an ice pack on an injury.

He supposes he does have an injury. Probably a lot if the shooting pains across his side and legs are anything to go off of.

“Eddie, hey.”

Eddie blinks. His vision focuses.

“There you go. Keep your eyes open. I’m getting you out of here.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry we kept you waiting so long.”

Eddie’s got tunnel vision, which is weird for a hallucination. Or maybe it’s not. He’s only done shrooms once and he barely even hallucinated before he passed out.

Eddie reaches one hand up to try to feel if Steve is real. He touches bare skin and he laughs.

“‘S fake.”

Steve’s got a lot of hair on his chest, he remembers from when he jumped into the lake. He remembers thinking how nice it must be to fall asleep on his chest, run his fingers through the soft hair there.

“What’s fake?” Steve asks.

An interactive hallucination is very strange, but it’s a nice distraction from the pain. It fades in and out like the intro and outro to songs. He’s gotta figure out how to put this into music.

“You,” he answers. There’s still no other voices and there’s no way Steve would rescue him alone. No one would let him come down here alone. “Me.”

“We’re not fake, Eddie. I knew we should’ve come back sooner. You’re fuckin’ delirious,” Steve sounds panicked now, and Eddie doesn’t want that. Hallucination Steve should be relaxed.

“Calm. Hurts, but calm.”

He’s being lifted up slowly and he’s sitting for the first time since the bats started trying to eat him. Feels a little weird, something internally screams, and then he realizes he’s actually screaming externally.

Steve’s trying to keep him calm and quiet, shushing him as he pulls him to his shoulder, hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s nice, smelling something that’s not the stench of the Upside Down or his own blood. Feeling something human where all he’s known is dirt and ash.

“It’s gonna hurt for a few minutes, but it’ll be worth it,” Steve’s saying in his ear.

Eddie raises an arm. It hurts. It’s not as bad as when he sat up, but it’s more pain than he should be feeling.

He must make a noise because Steve’s burying his nose into Eddie’s hair and it feels intimate in a way that doesn’t belong here. This place is broken, Eddie is broken, and Steve is stable.

“I’m gonna lift you up. Is anything broken?” Steve whispers against the side of his head.

Eddie hopes he remembers all of this. He hopes when he wakes up— if he wakes up— the first thought he has is about Steve touching him like this, making him feel alive and precious, worthy.

He must’ve answered Steve because he feels the ground fall out from under him and then searing pain in his side. Steve’s carrying him and he’s going to black out from the pain.

“Just a few minutes. Just hang on a few minutes. For me, Eddie,.”

Eddie can do anything in his dreams, so he hangs on for a while and then everything goes dark.

++++

“Eddie.”

The voice again.

It’s not clear this time, but he knows it’s Steve.

“Eddie, wake up.”

He blinks his eyes open and immediately closes them again, whining at the obnoxious bright light right in his eyes. If heaven is this bright, he’s not interested.

“Sorry. Let me turn those off.”

Steve’s voice is clearer now, sinking into his brain as the memories start to float back to him. Steve saved him. Steve showed up in the Upside Down shirtless and-

“Where was your shirt?” Eddie asks, voice raspy and trembling. He sounds as weak as he feels.

“My…shirt?” Steve asks.

“Y’were naked,” Eddie continues. “Nipples everywhere.”

Steve lets out a bark of a laugh and Eddie is going to combust. Making Steve laugh might be the best thing he’s ever done in his life…or death, if he’s dead.

“I was using it to stop the blood on your leg,” Steve explains. “It was still bleeding.”

He sounds…haunted.

“Did I die?”

Eddie focuses on Steve, the way he holds himself as if he’s in trouble, the way he won’t look directly at Eddie’s face. He’s guilty, but Eddie can’t imagine why.

“No. I don’t know how, but no.”

“You saved me.”

“I was almost too late.”

Eddie hums in protest. He’s too tired to argue, but he knows he’s right. Steve saved him. It doesn’t matter how long it took, or how many shirts were ruined in the process. He’s alive.

“C’mere,” Eddie whispers.

Steve steps closer. Eddie manages to grip his shirt, not tight, but enough for Steve to look down and then back up, finally settling on his face.

“Y’did good,” Eddie says. He closes his eyes hoping that’ll conserve energy to say what he needs to. “Thank you.”

“Eddie-“

“Sit. Sleep.”

He’s not sure if Steve listens because he’s already drifting back out of consciousness, but he can feel the weight of Steve’s hand in his and he’s pretty sure he’s not gonna let go.

When he wakes up, he still feels Steve’s hand in his.

His eyes flutter open to see Steve asleep in the chair next to his bed.

Shirt on, unfortunately.

[badhairred]

Taste my Anger

A little microfic made for this beautiful piece of art. This is dedicated to @spookeart for the art and @blackthornwine who actually gave me the idea in the first place. Thank you for putting this in my head and enjoy this little gift🤍🤍

Moonwater - 1632 words - tags: Regulus/Remus, Post prank anger, smoking, shotgun.

“For once in your life, Sirius, think about someone else than bloody you! You hurt people, you are cruel when you want to be and don’t go saying you didn’t want to because if you hadn’t you wouldn’t have,” Remus bristles, hands balled into fists, his blood boiling and the pencil the bag that had been hanging loosely off his shoulder had flown open and papers where scattered around them. James looks at Remus with wide, horrified eyes, and Peter is looking between him and Sirius, who looks as white as a ghost, like he is following a very tense match of chess. “I am done!”

“Moony, I–”

“No,” Remus whirls back around, his curls sparking at the ends as his magic gets away from him. It has been such a long time since he hasn’t been in control of his magic, the wolf in his chest coming out even when he’s in human form and bringing out the worst of him. “Don’t call me that, fuck off Sirius. Truly. Fuck. Off.”

Sirius doesn’t try again when Remus turns on his heel and stomps around the corner. He doesn’t know where exactly he is going. He just needs to run, get away, calm the fuck down. Fumbling in his pocket he fishes for a cigarette, lighting it with a snap of his fingers –which might not have been the best idea because half of the cigarette burns up already from the intensity of the magic– before taking a long drag.

Luckily there is no one in the hallway, seeing as it’s dinner time and everyone is down in the great hall. His feet carry him without him actually giving them directions. There are two stairs, another corridor, a corner, and a hidden passage up another winding staircase. He just walks. Moving, for the sake of getting away.

James can try and play the peace broker all he wants, Remus will never forgive Sirius. The guy might act all high and mighty, the first to be brave instead of cunning but there is enough poison in him to still be a snake. He betrays his friends so easily for his own gain, bullying for his own amusement and being cruel just because he can get away with it by swishing his insane hair or flashing that million-gallon smile. No more. Remus is done.

When he puts out the fag at the bottom of his shoe and reaches for the next, he realises he has finally reached a corridor he recognises. In his blind fury, he had just let his subconscious guide him and it clearly needed to find itself to a place no one knows about. He sinks down on the windowsill of the empty corridor on the fifth floor that ends in a dead end and so is rarely visited by other students –or teachers.

Reaching in his backpack Remus is suddenly grateful for his wolf, who had been so on edge because of the whole ordeal already that Remus had the clearance of mind to stuff his weed, baccy and long rolling paper in the bottom of the pack, hidden under his parchments and quills.

Absemindedly he goes into autopilot and starts rolling the spliff while he leans his head against the open window. The cold autumn air greets him like little shards cutting his skin and he revels in the feeling as he watches over the ground. The sun has already gone down behind the mountains on the other side of the black lake and the ground is quickly getting doused in darkness. The ripple of the wind makes the tops of the trees of the forbidden forest move like a sea of dark green, while the smoke from Hagrid’s hut crinkles into the sky.

Remus takes a deep sigh, letting the sereneness of the dawn wash over him. His breathing returns to normal while his hands have frozen in their action of rolling the spliff when his eyes fall on the shadow of the lonely, big willow tree. Its branches move against the wind faster than should be possible and when a bird that is trying to find shelter for the night gets a little too close it nearly escapes the clutches of the violent tree.

The Whomping Willow.

The tree was supposed to protect Remus during his transformation, it was supposed to be his secret and his burden to bear. Shaking his head he adverbs his gaze and pushes the feelings of rage that resurface back down. Sirius is a stuck-up prick, he thinks Remus will always cave in the end, forgive him when he comes up with weak excuses and bring up his family.

“What are you doing here?”

Remus looks up from the finish spliff in his hand. Speaking of the devil. Regulus is looking down at him, arms crossed and one eyebrow lifted. The permanent scowl on Regulus Black’s face doesn’t make the boy less attractive.

“What’s it look like?” Remus retorts, holding up the unlid spliff in his hand before bringing it to his lips and keeping eye contact with his fellow prefect as he lits the thing and takes a drag. Daring.

Regulus’ eyes shoot from the burning tip to Remus’ eyes and back down to his lips where the smoke is just escaping into the air. There is a calculating look in his sharp green eyes and Remus feels like he is biting back a million questions.

The day has been shit. Well, to be honest, the last two weeks have been shit and Remus is just mad enough to take any chance to piss off his friends at this point. “Wanna hit?”

Regulus’ eyes widen and he uncrosses his arms as he scales Remus up, trying to figure out if he is sincere.

“Where’s your following?”

Remus scoffs. “I don’t have a following.”

As he moves to come to stand in front of Remus Regulus lets out a scoff. “Oh yes, my bad, it’s my brother’s following.” Remus tries to keep his expression blank but something must slip through the cracks because he is treated of the rare sight of Regulus smirking. “What’s that? Trouble in paradise?”

“You wanna smoke or not?” Remus asks him, avoiding the question and holding the spliff up to the younger Black.

Regulus looks like he wants to keep prodding about the situation but he seems to decide against it. He eyes the spliff again and an uncertainty flickers over his face. “I never–”

“Didn’t think you had,” Remus chuckles darkly. “Come here.” Remus is toeing a dangerous line but he doesn’t care at this point. The haze in his mind from the drags he had taken himself is just enough to justify how he reaches his arm around Regulus and tucks him closer. He watches how his breath catches and wonders why the younger one is here at that moment.

“Why are you here?”

“I come here sometimes,” Regulus admits after a beat of silence. “To think.”

“Mhm,” Remus nods, looking up, seeing the slightest hint of freckles on his face he had never seen before, only visible when you get up close to the boy. “Tilt your head up a little.”

And to Remus’ astonishment, Regulus obeys the instruction. Remus doesn’t know why Regulus wants to be alone, or what he wants to think about but the fact that he so easily follows Remus’ instructions, no back talking, no jokes or snide remarks. Just a tilted head, coming close to his, waiting for the next thing that is going to happen.

With the smoke in his mouth, Remus leans in and uses his thumb to open up Regulus’ mouth before he leans in and lets the smoke billow out, landing on the other’s tongue. “Inhale.”

Regulus does, taking a sharp breath and letting the smoke reach his lungs. He doesn’t cough or lean away. His expression is still saying nothing but his eyes, it’s those emerald greens that tell Remus how much Regulus needed this. Maybe just as much as he.

“Your brother can be an utter fucking dickhead,” Remus sighs out, leaning back just the tiniest bit, keeping his eyes trailed on Regulus’ who looks at him as if he is trying to read his mind.

“Don’t I know it,” the boy answers. He tilts his head up, crooking it a bit to the side resulting in Remus’ hand falling from his chin. “Want to piss him off?” Remus only nods as Regulus points his eyes to the spliff. He inhales once more and instead of him guiding Regulus it’s Regulus who lays his hand on Remus’ cheeks, bringing him to his mouth.

Remus would have choked on the smoke if it was still in his mouth when Regulus closes his lips around Remus’ in earnest. The smoke is shared between them as their tongues come together in the sweetest yet most passionate kiss Remus had ever experienced. He keeps the spliff out of their way, not to burn the younger boy by accident as he tightens his grip on Regulus’ waist. The feeling of Regulus’ cold rings against his skin only adds to all the feelings that course through his body.

Where his blood had been boiling before from rage it was now set ablaze by this single kiss.

Regulus breaks away, leaning back and opening his eyes with a flutter of his lashes. Remus stares back at the boy who is not saying anything before he steps out of the embrace and takes the spliff from Remus’ hand to take a slow drag. Before Remus can wrap his mind around what just happened he is looking at Regulus’ retreating back.

“Black!” Remus calls after him and Regulus turns his head around with a smirk.

“See you, Lupin. Thanks for the hit.”

[comradekiwi]

mini bkdk fic inspired by this art! pls go show the artist some love!!

also on ao3 here :)

Katsuki finds him after patrol in his old spot. His very old spot, from decades ago.

Izuku is curled up in a plastic tunnel, hand on his chin and muttering to himself as he scribbles, completely tuned out to the happy sounds of children running around their old playground.

It’s a painfully familiar sight, and Katsuki closes his eyes briefly at the pang in his chest as he sees, for one vivid moment, a four year old Deku sitting in the same red circle, with so much more space for his limbs, yet still equally curled into himself and his notebook. Izuku had always been like that, before OFA, most comfortable in a space much smaller than what he actually occupied, and forever curling into it. It was cute, then concerning, then a thing of the past as Izuku settled into his own skin. Now a nostalgic comfort, evidently.

(He’d been chubbier, freckled limbs in shorts and baby cotton, a mess of curls because Izuku loved to stick his hand in his hair while he thought. And he thought a lot, child of wonder, precious to the stars, the son of fate. Future hero of their time.)

Katsuki set one hand above the opening and leaned in.

“Whatcha doin’, nerd?”

Izuku, to his credit, only startled a little. He flashed wide eyes up at Katsuki, and Katsuki got the pleasure of watching his face light up shamelessly.

“Hi, Kacchan,” Izuku said cheerfully, and maybe this was how it should’ve gone back then, too, when four-year-old Katsuki stomped up to this same alcove and asked what Izuku was doing, maybe it did despite little Katsuki’s biting tone, because Izuku was always, had always been happy to see him,n maybe the scene had only been ruined by the taunts that came after. Katsuki didn’t quite remember, but it didn’t matter anymore. All the Katsuki of Now cared about was the poorly hidden affection in the glint of this Izuku’s eyes, adoration made solid and safe and secure.

The playset is a familiar feeling under Katsuki’s now rough palms, soft and intermittently scratched in thin lines. Izuku shuffles over in the tunnel and Katsuki folds his body to fit in next to him, and— the smell rocks him back in time, too, rubber and the tang of dirt so unusually close to his head, dyed plastic and oft-rubbed metal. Izuku’s shoulder pressing against his is a rare sensation, but it feels just as nostalgic, especially in here, backs and limbs curved along the inner surface of the tunnel. Katsuki kicks his legs up and almost knees himself in the face. Izuku giggles, and Katsuki shoulder-shoves him, delighting in how Izuku half heartedly shoves back. Izuku’s legs stay down, protectively, like he’s still that little kid so at home in his own tiny cocoon. Katsuki stares at his boots along the tunnel wall, giant in here, especially with their reach.

He shuffles his shoulders down to match Izuku’s, and leans into his space further to peer at his notebook. Izuku lets him, pointing at the page.

“I’m just lesson planning,” he says, tapping his pen at random notes Katsuki can only barely decipher, “They’ll have a pop quiz a month from now, I thought I’d let them do something fun afterwards as a treat.”

“You’re too soft on them,” Katsuki informs him for the umpteenth time. Izuku laughs at him as always.

“Sure, Kacchan,” he says, and Katsuki will never, ever get over how his name sounds from Izuku’s mouth, melodious like Izuku cradles it on the way out, like he’s singing it. He’s so— enchanting, his boy. Katsuki tries to throw an arm around him but ends up smacking his knuckles on hard plastic, and it stings like a bitch. He does not make a noise, but Izuku coos at him anyway, taking his hand and rubbing it, and Katsuki’s perfectly fine with that. He’s still tracing his notes with his eyes, thinking, always thinking, even as he absentmindedly brushes his mouth over Katsuki’s knuckles in some of Auntie Inko’s Healing Kisses. Izuku rubs his soft lips back and forth over his fingers, fully distracted now, enjoying the sensory stimulation. Katsuki lets him, chest stupidly warm, for a full minute before dragging his knuckles up over Izuku’s cheek, up and down, the skin endearingly freckled and babysoft even in his twenties. Izuku leans into his hand, and finally closes his eyes.

The sun was beginning to tease at setting, and Katsuki watches Izuku turn his head to look out the far end of the tunnel. Sunlight kissed the tops of his cheeks, dragged down his eyelashes. Katsuki couldn’t see much besides the back of Izuku’s head, but even this was precious to him for some godforsaken reason, from his crown to the nape of his neck where green curled enticingly against bare skin.

He leans forward to press his cheek against Izuku’s and look out, too. Some tots stumble over each other in excited giggles, pick themselves up from rubber mulch like they’d already forgotten the fall.

Katsuki feels Izuku’s cheek pull with a smile against his own, and the feeling is so — Katsuki doesn’t have words for it, but he just has to kiss him, so he does, right there in the kiddie tunnel of their neighborhood playground. He kisses his sweet, soft cheek, and then his temple, close-mouthed and drawn-out. He loves him so much. Maybe they’d have their own kids to watch from here some day. Or to seat beside them, an addition to their spot.

Katsuki sat back against the tunnel wall and Izuku ducked his face into his neck, the skin suspiciously warm. The nerd was probably blushing, as if they didn’t kiss, often much more salaciously, all the time. Katsuki rubbed his head with his chin, lasting about ten seconds before digging it into Izuku’s scalp with his jaw a little just to be a dick. Izuku shook him off and pouted even as he leaned into Katsuki’s mouth with the ease of a soul-bound lover, even though they weren’t even engaged yet. Soon, though. Katsuki was just waiting for the right time to really knock his socks off. It was the least he could do, after everything Izuku offered him.

(Love and safety and forgiveness. Somewhere to keep his heart safe, outside of his own body. Atonement and adoration and victory and a home.)

They didn’t kiss for long, they were in public after all, and even if no one could really see much over Katsuki’s shoulders or with the angle from the other end of the tunnel, they were still on a kids playground, and Katsuki was a pro with a reputation to uphold. He was honestly fairly certain a sneaky photo of him gently kissing his lover in an old playset would do wonders for his ranking, but he was selfish anyway, and wanted to keep these moments with Izuku for himself. Wanted to keep this side of himself for Izuku.

“C’mon. I’ll make curry tonight,” Katsuki mumbled against Izuku’s lips, hoping that would be enough for Izuku to pull away, because gods know in this one situation Katsuki is never strong enough to do it himself. As predicted, Izuku slips away with a soft noise that digs into Katsuki’s soul, and starts mumbling about groceries they’ll need to get on the way home, then.

Katsuki knows all that already, that’s why he came here to get him after all, so they could go together, so he takes to watching the dusk sink into the green of Izuku’s eyes, paint a glow into his face and his lips. He shuffles out obediently when Izuku starts pushing him, drags him out with one hand just to see him blush and stutter. Katsuki brushes a hand over the box in his pocket and thinks, maybe here, maybe this time of day, maybe soon. Izuku takes his hand easily and they start the short walk to the grocery store.

Soon, soon. Katsuki can’t wait.

[bestbuygamer]

darling, don't you go and cut your hair, do you think its gonna make them change?

--

inspired by: Alphonse Mucha, "The Arts - Dance" 1899

[azalawa-scroggs]

.... Well, my hand slipped. I saw @rendevok's new royal AU art and talked about it with them a little bit, and two days later there was this sappy little thing :3 Fair warning that this is MUCH mushier than my usual... if you're not into very shippy stuff, stop here. xD Also tagging @anotherfangirlsworld without whom there would be nothing :3

Miles was exhausted. The campaign had been long and harrowing, ending with a merciless siege of several weeks. They'd eventually won the battle thanks to a desperate and risky scheme of Miles's, but they had lost so many people, and those that had survived were so exhausted that Miles nearly wondered if it had been worth it.

It had been, though. That was what all his advisors had said upon his return, congratulating him about his sagacity in his clever victory when Miles had all but begged for them to make sure, though foreign politics or better logistics, that such a painful war would not be be needed again.

Now, at last, after hours spent in that meeting, Miles was free. He dreamed of a good bath, of clean night robes and the luxury of feather pillows and soft bedsheets, but he knew he wouldn't be ready to sleep until a long time yet, too wired by the argument he'd had with his advisors – chiefly, one – and the hardships of the past few months.

So he found himself headed to one of his favourite places in the castle, the library. There was, hidden at the turn of a staircase, a little alcove there which held works by a favourite author of his; evocative poetry, philosophical plays, even a few treatises on art and political memoirs. Those books reminded him of home, of love, of the idealism he had lost in great part at his father's death, and it seemed, a little more every day since. It was where he always sought refuge when he felt too weary or too weighed down by life.

Those books, he often thought privately, for those were not musings fit to be heard by any others, had saved his life on more than one occasion.

He untied the fastening of his ceremonial cape and draped it over his arm, sighing as the weight fell of his shoulders. He would set it down on the back of a chair as he sat down in the quiet peace of the library. Or perhaps he would take the books back with him to his quarters, throw the cape on his desk to be picked up by his manservant, and settle in his favourite armchair to read by the firelight.

It turned out he did neither of those things.

There, in the shadows, standing in front of the hidden shelves, was the last person he expected to see: Phoenix Wright, grand duke of Borschinia and supposedly attending important matters in his own country. He seemed in deep thought, a hand on his chin, pondering the titles. Affection surged in Miles at the familiar mannerisms in the middle of all his questions, and his step hurried nearly despite himself.

Phoenix heard his approach even muffled as it was by the carpet. He turned towards him, gave him a blinding smile, and caught him into an embrace, kissing him deeply.

Miles stumbled backwards under the strength of Phoenix's kiss, one foot up the little step leading to the alcove, one foot down, but he didn't mind. Too welcome was the warm hand in his back, and even the one holding his wrist to prevent Miles from making a clumsy gesture in his haste. That one soon relented its grip when Miles slid his arms behind his neck, slotting himself deeper in his arms. Behind his back, Phoenix's arm tightened its hold, bringing Miles even closer.

“You're here... Goddess, Miles, you're here,” Phoenix whispered in awe between kisses, looking at him with stars in his eyes. His now free hand had climbed behind Miles's neck, untying his ribbon and drawing small circles at the base of his skull, his fingers tangling in his hair, much longer now than it used to be the last time they saw each other. Miles hadn't exactly found the time to get it cut. “I can't believe it.”

Miles laughed, melting into Phoenix's touch, somewhat drunk on tiredness and on the warmth of his lover all around him, the delicious sensation of his fingers at the base of his neck. “I will have you know this is my home,” he replied. “I should be the one in wonder you are here. I thought you had an important council to hold with the Feys in the coming weeks?”

“Yes, but... oh, Miles,” Phoenix replied, his voice thick with emotion. He closed his eyes and swallowed as he leaned his forehead against Miles, clearly fighting back tears. Miles frowned, taken aback. “I thought I was coming to attend your funeral.”

Ice fell into Miles's guts. Only then did he realise the way Phoenix was dressed, his uniform as official as his own. He, either, hadn't even discarded his cape.

“When did you arrive?”

“Only a few hours ago. Imagine my relief when I heard you were alive and in a meeting, for a change,” Phoenix answered with a fond smile. “But I couldn't fully shake my fear until I held you in my arms...”

He leaned down for another kiss. Miles indulged him with delight, his own heart heavy at the thought.

How he'd missed this. How he'd missed him... Despite everything, he couldn't fully regret this turn of events, if it meant Phoenix was here to welcome him home when he most needed it.

“I'm so sorry, my love,” he whispered. “I faked my death as a ploy to lower the enemy's defences, but I never expected the news to leave the battlefield... my officers had firm instructions not to write home about it.”

“Yet someone must have done it,” Phoenix said, frowning. “I imagine Lord von Karma was all too delighted to pound on the opportunity.”

Miles let out a groan.

“Of course. He's the one who would profit the most from my death. But if he was made aware, I cannot imagine he didn't know all of my plot, so why...?”

“Well, had you come back any later than you did, he would have put the full regency in place rather than the limited powers your mere absence allows him, and who knows what edicts you would have had to undo when you took back your place,” Phoenix replied. Miles couldn't help smiling at his judicious observations. Phoenix knew the laws of his country nearly as well as Miles himself did, and Miles knew he'd studied all of it to prove to the court he was the strongest suitor.

Miles sighed, rested his head against Phoenix's chest, which he could do without bending his back too much with the way Phoenix was still standing a full step higher than him.

“You're right, of course,” he said. “My death would be even more advantageous to him than marrying me off to Franziska. I'm starting to wonder if I should start looking out for assassination plots.”

He didn't really mean it, of course. Lord von Karma had all but raised him in the wake of his father's death. It was clear the man disagreed with him on many policies, now that Miles was old enough to have a mind of his own, but Miles didn't think he would truly plot to kill him.

Phoenix brought him closer and kissed him again.

“Enough talk about your death,” he murmured, and Miles, too late, remembered the grief Phoenix had gone through until this moment. “You're here. You're alive. And I want to marry you tomorrow.”

Miles's heart ached. They should have been married years ago. They were betrothed as children, an alliance decided under the blessing of King Gregory and Misty Fey of Kurain. But the death of the former, the disappearance of the latter and the opposition of Lord von Karma to the marriage, seeking to unite Miles with his house instead, had thrown a wrench in those plans.

“Soon now, love,” Miles replied, as he always did when Phoenix expressed both of their yearning, even though neither of them knew when that would be possible.

“Tomorrow,” Phoenix insisted. “We'll storm through the court and cause a scandal, I don't care, elope if we must. I'm sick of waiting, Miles. I'm sick of being afraid to lose you...”

“I know,” Miles said. He felt the same. They both felt this way, and they both knew it. “I know. If I could, I would summon an officiant to these chambers immediately.”

“Immediately?” Phoenix's eyes sparkled in the way they always did when he had a mad idea, or even when he was just indulging Miles, like now. Miles couldn't help his foolish grin.

“Yes,” he went on. “I'd call them here, in this very place, to perform the ceremony. We'd stand here,” he gently pushed Phoenix back to climb the step into the alcove. “Between the bookshelf and the window. It wouldn't take the half of an hour. Wouldn't that be lovely?”

“Very,” Phoenix said, who hadn't let go of Miles throughout this little demonstration, both hands on his hips. “I would improvise my vows, you know I don't mind speaking spontaneously. But what about you? You much prefer to have your speeches planned.”

“I've had my vows ready since I took the throne, Phoenix. I'd merely have to fetch them from my chambers.”

Phoenix let out a wordless little keen, which was extremely satisfying to hear, since Miles was the one usually prone to embarrassing noises. He kissed Miles's lips with ferocity, then his cheeks, his nose, his eyes.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated once more. “I'm serious, Miles. I can't wait any longer.”

“This year,” Miles offered back. “Since I came back before Lord von Karma could consolidate his power, this move looks very poorly on him, like the greedy grab for power it was. Stay with me a while as we keep up our efforts to remind the court of my late father's wishes. It is already apparent you would make an ideal consort, and your rushing here has only proved it further – I doubt Franziska fell for the ploy like you did, and in this instance it plays in our favour. In three months at most, we will be united.”

Phoenix nodded, looking a bit settled. They'd made such promises to each other countless times before, but this time Miles was determined to see it through.

Phoenix was right. They'd waited long enough.

“I cannot wait for the day I no longer have to be parted from you,” Phoenix murmured into Miles's ear, his breath hot and tickling. He punctuated his sentence by lightly biting on Miles's lobe, the caress of his hands in his back growing slower, heavier. “When I can live here, by your side, yours openly...”

Heat started to pool into Miles's guts. His knees weakened, and he stumbled backwards a little, holding on to Phoenix's neck. Phoenix was unrelenting, pushing him until Miles could lean on the clover wall, right next to the bookshelf, then pressing his body against Miles, his hands wandering all over his back and sides, his mouth sucking and kissing into the curves of his neck. Miles's fingers curled into the fabric of Phoenix's uniform jacket, holding on desperately.

“Phoenix...” he breathed. “My quarters – not here –”

“There's no one here,” Phoenix retorted between two kisses. “Only us...”

He pulled the curtain a few inches, hiding them from sight, plunging them more into intimate obscurity, and Miles surrendered to his touch.

[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

[asterin-kelles]

Scaredy Cat

Fic inspired by art created by @stolenviolet

Summary: Harry does exactly what Voldemort asks him to do. He walks into the forest to sacrifice himself and hopefully saves the lives of those he loves in the process. 

Except the stupid wards Voldemort put up washed away all of Harry’s charms that hid the aftermath of an unfortunate mishap he was in just a few years prior. But that isn’t going to stop him. Harry is going to face his fate no matter what he happens to look like. Even if it is with cat ears and a fluffy tail. 

Notes: Asterin - This is my first time collaborating on a piece and of course it’s some wholesome crack. Lemme know if you all want us to collab again in the future *wink wink nudge nudge* @liquidluckandstuff - NO ONE SAY SHIT. Y’ALL STFU OKAY 

[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

[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!

[hersheysmcboom]

Can you write some Headcannons about my au

The gaang as the manhattan clan from gargoyles and Hakoda as Elisa, instead of human x gargoyle, it’s a Inuit man in either his late 20s or early 30s(though he’d look 70 with all the grey hairs these kids are giving him) trying to take care of five gargoyle children and their pet gargoyle bison hybrid pet being (momo can appear later and zuko can even get a dragon at some point)

What do you think of Hama as demona

Could you suggest who should be David xanatos

Here’s the lore I have so far.

Only sokka, Katara and Hama are from the same clan. toph, Aang and zuko are all from different clans. Zuko’s father wiped out aang’s clan, the air clan, Aang only survived by being out with appa that night and turning to stone before he could get back. Zuko ran away after that, if your gonna involve azula in this, it’s probluy best that she wasn’t involved in the massacre either,unknown to anyone else, iroh and some other clan members managed to save some of the air clan younglings, along with most of the rookery eggs, and hide them. The other’s clan’s were also destroyed by humans, they eventually all meet up and decide to stay together, though hama was against the idea of living with gargoyles from other clans, especially someone from the fire clan, and this causes a fight that eventually causes Hama to do something in exchange for getting rid of toph Aang and zuko, however this backfires, and causes the five to be cursed to stone for a thousand years until the castle reaches the clouds

Flash forward to 1995

A detective named Hakoda (I need a last name, any ideas?) looks into claims of gargoyles flying around, probluy just some drunk loon seeing things, he thinks at first,

Kya will show up at some point and NOT DIE!!

Bato takes Hakoda hiding the gaang from him a lot worse then Matt did, since he and Hakoda have been friends since they were born, and he’s very hurt that Hakoda didn’t trust him with this, he even requests a different partner for a time.

That’s all so far