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apocalypticgargoyle · 3 years

Note

I read the edgy!karl, I’ve just finished reading the alt!dream, WHEN IS GEORGE GONNA BE NEXT 😩😩

*cracks knuckles* the hcs that everyone has provided me with has hella prepped me and I'm ready. this is dedicated to 🍭 anon, whose fanart always steals my entire heart. i love u babe

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐄. ᶤ 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐤!𝐠𝐧𝐟

± pairings: punk!Georgenotfound x fm!reader

± word count: ~3300

± warnings: smut (18+), language, tattoo work, sadism, pain kink (if you squint), domination, mentions of needles, asphyxiation

song recommendation: Cent Fois by Alice et Moi

George’s mind wandered to his curiosity of the shop across from his tattoo parlor; bright neon signs advertising the local psychic. It was a stark contrast to the dark, wet city housing the businesses. Each night he locked up, he found himself standing on the other edge of the street, staring at the signs and draperies peeking from behind the glass windows and considering shedding his skeptical nature just for one night.

While your business was alluring in and of itself, his true draw to the place came after he had spotted you moving into the apartments above. Your clean appearance completely juxtaposed the business you ran. In his opinion, all natural healers and psychics were born scam artists only focused on the quickest way to pinch a penny.

Yet day after day, he found himself having to tear his eyes from your business just to get home or he would actually venture inside. He was rather subtle about his fascination when it came to his co-workers and regular customers, but each day he prayed you would wander in, requesting some kind of tattoo in a place hidden from outside eyes.

A place he’d like to see again in a less professional setting.

You flipped the textbook page after finishing your paragraph, highlighting a date you were looking for before leaning towards your notebook and scribbling down the fact. You gnawed on the end of your pen absent-mindedly, positive you still didn’t know what your professor had been rattling off about in class a few hours prior. Your sights drifted up to the incense burning across the store from you, the stick on its last few centimeters of wood as the smoke went stale.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, debating if you should light another or wait until morning. You capped your marker and stretched your back, the bell over the door letting out a telling chime as a man peeked in.

You leaned over the counter, closing your books. “Good evening! Welcome to After Life. Can I help you find anything?” You rambled, your mind flashing to the sheet of paper tucked into the frame of your bathroom mirror so you didn’t forget the basics of customer service.

The man stepped further into your view, stuffing his fists in his jean pockets as he walked closer in a cautious motion. His dark t-shirt advertised a band you had vaguely heard of, but couldn’t think of a song even if your life depended on it. What really drew your attention were his tattooed arms; branches from a grand tree twisting every which direction to peek out from beneath his sleeves; bright floral designs and litters of birds decorating the dark wood limbs. You bit back a smile at the small mushroom tattoo near his wrist that seemed to be out of place.

The laces of his Chuck Taylors grazed the floor before he was standing in the middle of your store, looking around briefly. “I actually co-own the parlor across the street. I realized I never welcomed you officially,” he stated, hints of nervousness reflecting in his tone. His accent was calming and husky from the season change.

At the mention of the tattooist across the street, your memory flashed to the various walks of life that found themselves in your store after getting work done. You also thought of the fact that you had seen the man before you break up fights in the street stretching between your properties. The tall muscular people seemed to have no effect on him as he’d pull them apart like school children on the playground.

You pushed your books further to the side. “Oh yeah, that’s right! I should have come over and introduced myself, so don’t worry about it,” you eased, swatting the air of his comment.

He chuckled softly before reality seemed to snap into his head, making him step forward and extend a hand to you. “I’m George, by the way,” he introduced. You took his hand, muttering your own name and hoping your attention span would hold for long enough that he would be entered into your long-term memory.

His hand was calloused in yours, something that you wondered came with the job or if he was some kind of carpenter in a past life of his. You gently pulled his hand closer to you, slipping your hold out of his to look at his palm. He tittered nervously, peering at the flesh with you. Your finger traced along the mounts in his hand, finding Jupiter to be the most prominent. “That checks out,” you mumbled to yourself, nodding softly.

His eyebrows perked up. “What? Am… Am I gonna meet a tall dark stranger and take a trip across the sea?” He joked, making you smile as you looked at his Sun line.

“I didn’t peg you as an Outlander fan,” you chided.

His brows flattened for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip and playing with his snake bite piercings. You found it hard to look away from him. “Honestly, I wasn’t. A girl I was fooling around with really liked it. I don’t know…” he trailed off, making you giggle.

Your nail grazed along his heart line. “You guys were just fooling around?” You quirked, eyes meeting his. His expression narrowed smugly as if urging you to continue. “Your heart line begins below your index finger. You’re not the fooling around type.” He let out a snort. “You fall in love easily too.”

He sighed with a slight sparkle in his eyes as he looked at you. You couldn’t tell if he was amazed or mocking you again. “Well, yeah. That’s…” He paused with a swallow, biting back a grin as if he was uncomfortable, but didn’t retract his hand from you. “... That’s why we’re not anymore,” he admitted. He leaned his elbows on the counter as you sat in your chair. “What else does it say?”

Your lips curled into a soft smirk, his curious eyes trailing over your face as if to watch your brain work. “You have a fire element hand which indicates that you’re confident and passionate. Maybe a bit cocky sometimes,” you teased, making him chuckle with you. You could feel his eyes on you, sending heat to your cheeks as you tried not to focus on the mount of Venus under your touch.

You wanted to ask him about his sexual indulgences, mainly because of the prevalence of Venus in his palm. “You have a mount in Jupiter, which means you’re a natural leader, and rather dominant.” You looked up at him again, watching as he bit back a smirk, seemingly understanding the subtle innuendos behind your statements.

George seemed to have some kind of effect on you, your thoughts clouding with the idea of what his snake bites would feel like against your lips. He smelled like cigarette smoke, but there was no discoloration to his skin to suggest he was the one smoking. He watched you through the hair threatening to dangle over his eyes, his gaze hinting at an attraction he had for you below his collected form. “Go on,” he murmured, voice soft and wispy as the space between the two of you seemed to warm.

You made a conscious effort to keep your sultry thoughts at bay as your thumb brushed over the area you had been avoiding telling him about. “You’re driven by desire,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re… very in touch with your sexuality and you thrive on your indulgences.”

You couldn’t help but meet his eyes, the dark irises swimming with some kind of cocky smugness at what you had just told him. He pulled away from you, gently standing up. Part of you wished the counter between the two of you would vanish just so you could be pressed up against George at the mercy of his driven mind. “I feel it's only fair I tattoo you now,” he quipped, making your eyebrows raise. Your confidence shriveled yet you swore you wouldn’t let him know that fact.

You chewed on your lip, looking up at him with a hint of suspicion. “Oh, I’ve never been tattooed,” you avowed, voice carrying the slightest bit of your coaxing nature.

He smirked. “I’ll take care of you, I promise,” he cajoled, teeth playing at his piercings again as you were sure he was already undressing you with his eyes. “You read me, I’d like to do the same.”

And how could you refuse such an appealing offer?

You leaned back on your elbows, your skin sticking to the leather chair beneath you as you watched him pull back his hair, elastic band dangling from his white teeth. Despite securing back his locks, bits of his bangs still hung over his forehead. You liked the interior of his parlor, maybe because it was only the two of you.

George began to fill small caps of dark ink. “I think you should get some crystals in here,” you teased, making him smirk. “I could hook you up.”

“What, like a salt lamp?” He joked, pulling on a pair of dark plastic gloves.

You snorted, lying back and looking up at the ceiling. “It might be good. Lighten the place up a bit.” George swiveled his chair closer to you muttering some kind of line about only getting them from you, but his words fell silent on your ears as his hand pushed up your shirt. You were silently thanking whatever divine force above for swaying you towards slinkier lingerie earlier that morning.

You knew he could see the lacy edges of your bra by the way his eyes nonchalantly flashed up to you before laying out his template on your ribs. You could feel hints of his warm breath against your skin as he studied it. “You can look at it if you want,” he stated.

You shook your head, wanting him close to you as long as he could be. “I trust you,” you muttered, your eyes meeting his again. His tongue pressed against his cheek as he struggled not to smile at your statement. He had promised to cover a small scar for you and by the way he explained it, you were ready to be in his hands. You wet your lips as he adjusted the speed on his tattoo gun. “Will this hurt?” You asked, tucking one of your arms behind your head.

The look of unadulterated lust that he gave you made your toes want to curl. “Probably a bit. It feels good sometimes, though,” he answered. He came closer to you, resting his forearm on your stomach to angle himself in the right position. At the feeling of his skin pressed against yours, you swore your body was on fire. It took everything in your power not to moan. It could have been the adrenaline pulsing through your veins, but his soft breath and the anticipation of the needle made you feel like a junky. “I’ll be gentle, darling,” he leered, his accent muddy and low. He let the needles drag against your skin and you bit your lip, trying not to hiss at the pain. His eyes met yours. “See, not bad.”

You let out a breathy wheeze. “Shut up, you sadist,” you quipped, his chuckle coming out rather roguish as he focused on the work in front of him. Your nerves were more focused on the way George’s hands were barely caressing your body as if teasing and hinting at what he could do to you.

You drew in a sharp breath as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Shhh shh. It’ll be over soon,” he cooed, his voice sending goosebumps spreading across your body as his lips tugged into a light smirk. By your palm reading, you knew he was enjoying having this much control over you.

Part of you found it almost torture when George would look at you with soft and lusty eyes for merely a second before his gaze jutted back down to his work, murmuring soft praises about how well you were taking the pain. You would go under the needle anytime he asked, just to receive the sultry treatment he gave.

He was so close, you could have driven your fingers into his dark hair if you wanted. “How did you get this scar?” He asked, cleaning off some of the ink before continuing.

“A knife fight,” you answered without missing a beat, making him scoff. “Actually, I fell into my grandma’s glass table one time. My cousin was teaching me the Electric Slide,” you corrected, making him laugh, shaking his head slightly as he filled in a spot.

He let his tongue dart across his lips. “That’s so cute. Did you ever get it figured out?” To this you shook your head, the both of you laughing. You let out a groan as the needle dug into another area on your ribs, the sound making his eyes dart up to you. He leaned off of you, slipping one of his gloves off. “Wanna hold my hand, sweetheart?” He joked, but you took his offer, squeezing his hand in yours when it got painful enough. You held it close to your chest, hoping he would feel your heartbeat quicken each time he looked at you.

As he finished up his work, his thumb brushed against your hand absent-mindedly. You could tell by the way he gripped your hand as well that he enjoyed that the tattoo hurt you. Most of your mind was excited by how easily he was stirred up by you, while the rest was completely unsurprised and even threatened to bite out that he was a cliché.

When he was finally satisfied, he cleaned you up and stuck on a SecondSkin, biting back a grin at his work as he pulled you up by the hand he was holding onto you with. You couldn’t help but smile at how excited you were to see, swinging your legs over the side of his hair and walking towards his mirror. You held your shirt up, chewing on your bottom lip as you grinned at the ink. George rested a hand beside the mirror, watching you beam at his work.

All of his lines were flawless, your scar completely disappearing within his shading. You’d pitched the idea of an ode to the Creation of Adam. While it was cliche, what better to fit in the space below your breast and give George the impression that you were cultured. Yet you told him he could do whatever he wanted to it, resulting in one of the hands resembling a skeleton and the other holding a sucker. As you praised him, he shrugged off your comments, murmuring about it being his pleasure. He reached out his free hand, letting his thumb smooth over one of the edges of this bandage, which brought you closer to him.

Your cheeks warmed at the close proximity to him as his eyes grazed over your body before meeting your own. His hand moved from the bandage to your back. You leaned on your toes, pressing your lips to his. The tension between the two of you dissipated as he hungrily reacted, pulling you against him and savoring your moans as his tongue slipped into your mouth.

George’s hands moved down your body, swiftly hooking around your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist to bring you back to his chair. Your hands moved into his hair, letting it loose and wrapping the band around your wrist. The leather was cold as your back pressed to it. George leaned back to pull his shirt over his head, revealing more of the tree painting the expanses of his skin.

If you weren’t so eager to be touched by him, you’d be studying the work of art.

As his lips met yours again, you ground your hips against his, eliciting a moan to vibrate through his chest. You raked your nails down his back, trying to further draw out reactions from him as his hands attentively played with the lace of your bra, fingers ghosting over the skin pressing against the cups.

His lips left yours only to travel the length of your jaw and inch his way toward your waistband. Your pants were discarded with a swift tug from him before he pulled your thighs flush against his, grinding his hips against yours, hands gripping onto your sides to keep you in place. You tilted your head back, relishing in the friction as your body screamed to finally feel him take advantage of you.

You reached between the two of you, tugging at his zipper as your hunger for him escalated. His tongue flattened against your collarbone before his teeth pressed into your skin. You could feel his arousal through his jeans at the sound of your whimpering.

He pumped himself in his hand before pressing into you, the feeling of him inside of you making your head spin as if you were on some kind of ecstasy. Your moan came out needy and desperate as he thrust into you, gripping the edge of the leather seat as his breath hummed against your skin. Your fingers threaded into his hair, raking your nails down his neck as he groaned in your ear at the feeling.

One of his hands grasped your wrists together, pinning them above your head while the other wrapped around your throat. His eyes burned into yours as he leaned back, leaning his weight on your wrists and squeezing your throat, the lack of oxygen making each of your senses more heightened as he pounded into you.

Your moans of George’s name were grated as they slipped through your mouth, his relentless pace and intense hold nearly making you drool from the stimulation. By the practice of his actions, you wondered how long he had been stewing on demolishing you in this way.

He loosened his grip on your neck, leaning down to press his lips against yours, dragging his teeth along your bottom lip just to hear you groan from the rough action. You rolled your hips against his, letting him slow his pace to reach deeper within you. A sadistic grin spread across his face as he rubbed a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the makeup smudging around your eyes from his antics and the heat between the two of you.

He pressed his lips to your neck, wrapping his hand around the edge of the chair again to drive himself into you, the new angle muddling your mind and vision as your body ached to come undone. You sank your nails into his back, earning his low, raspy whispers of your name.

At his praises, you came, tugging on his hair as he bit into your shoulder again, basking in the feeling of you clenching around him.

The next day, George stretched his shoulders, peering through the front window of his shop. His mind sparked with the feeling of your legs around his waist and the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. He could practically hear you whimpering his name in his ears as he went back to touching up a fading tattoo on his friend’s arm.

“OW, George,” Clay rumbled, thigh flinching at the jab from George.

George snorted, his mind still on the high he got from your pure trust in him as you laid out on his chair. “I’ll give you something to bitch about,” George grumbled, releasing just how gentle he was during your tattoo. The way your voice got soft and quiet when he rolled over a spot that was rather tender already would most definitely be a guilty pleasure of his.

Clay barked at him again as George jerked his hand, fulfilling his promise. “I’VE BEEN NICE TO YOU ALL MORNING.”

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@karlkitten @more-like-reyna @honk-izzie-was-taken @marrymetheonott @froggyy06 @savingpluto @marshmallow-babe @drunkpumpkincake @little-gremlin-in-the-walls @tinyegg @mintmochiii @clubfairy @aroyaldarknessblr @camerondiaz48104 @madsbbg @rat-poisin @alm334 @cdizzlevalntyne @phsychopathetic @froggerrrr @robinslie @jemalovesmarvel @sbi-is-my-onlysanity

#punk!georgenotfound #punk!george #punk!gnf #georgenotfound x reader #georgenotfound imagine #georgenotfound au #georgenotfound smut #gnf x y/n #gnf smut #gnf x reader #gnf imagine #mcyt x you #mcyt au #mcyt x y/n #mcyt smut

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littlemisspascal · 3 years

Text

The Last Mandalorian

Chapter One: The Warrior in Carbonite Part 3

Fandom: The Mandalorian / Pedro Pascal

Eventual Pairing: Din x Togruta!Female!Reader

Word Count: 4,320

Rating: G

Summary: A series that is a mixture of Mandalorian, Star Wars, ATLA, and my own imagination. The Imps have seized control of the majority of the galaxy, including your homeworld Shili. You and your sister Ahsoka have developed a daily routine despite the stormtroopers keeping your village imprisoned. One morning you make a startling discovery that will change the course of your lives forever.

Warnings: I don’t know much about starship mechanics so probably nothing in this is accurate but it’s fanfiction people so cut me some slack please, reader gets a nickname 🥳, plot plot plot, discussion of loss of loved ones, worldbuilding, dialogue heavy, this is a slow burn but it’s also ridiculously self-indulgent so I’m including as many cute getting-to-know-you scenes as I can, reader is 17 and Din is 19 so I’m going to warn this as underage even though nothing sexual or even vaguely romantic happens in this chapter.

Author Note: Thank you anyone and everyone who has read even a sentence of this story! Special thanks and love to @dindja for creating this stunning, fantastic, amazing piece of fanart for me 💖💖💖 I still can’t believe how perfect it is. I mean, I’m such a sucker for pinky promises it’s not even funny and this is just beautiful 😍😍😍

Part 2

Cross-posted on AO3

For as grand and wide-reaching as the Galactic Empire has become in its ten years of existence, it had relatively small beginnings. A group of radical Force-wielders banded together under the leadership of an old, beady-eyed man named Sheev Palpatine who believed it was his divine destiny to seize control of the entire galaxy, rewriting the ancient laws to match his own beliefs. His cult, the Sith Order, gained attention by attacking Jedi temples, capital cities, places with large populations until every corner of the galaxy had heard of them. Most regarded them with fear, but over time they began garnering a startling amount of followers who were discontent with the status quo and willingly drafted themselves as soldiers in Palpatine’s fight for control.

At first everyone in your village thought Palpatine and his cult of followers weren’t worth worrying about—after all, Shili was a peaceful planet that never drew much attention to itself. But within the first year of its inception, the Sith Order captured Ryloth and the similar peaceful characteristics between the Twi’lek planet and Shili were too glaring to overlook. A seed of anxiety took root in every Togruta’s mind after that, and continued to grow with every planet seized as the years progressed.

The Decimation of Alderaan didn’t start as a tragedy, believe it or not. The Mandalorians, Jedi, and Alderaanians combined their numbers in an all-out fight against the Sith Order. It was the largest battle ever fought in the history of the galaxy, thousands of souls willing to die to defeat Palpatine’s followers. For the first three days of warfare, the fight seemed to be in favor of the allies with many noteworthy Sith members reportedly killed in the fray, such as Palpatine’s second-in-command Dooku and lethal Zabrak assassin Maul. You remember there was a sense of hope felt within your village as everyone listened to the news reports blaring across the Holonet. A belief that things were finally, finally going to return to normal after so much chaos.

But on the fourth day, the Sith Order brought their own ally onto the battlefield.

At the time there wasn’t a name for the droids that slaughtered every opponent they faced. They were described as indestructible, unharmed by blasters and the intense heat of Mandalorian flamethrowers. Not even lightsabers could damage them. The allies didn’t stand a chance, brutally murdered one by one, their dying screams echoing across the Holonet, forever haunting listeners far and wide.

The Dark Troopers were unleashed upon Mandalore afterwards and out of the ashes rose the Galactic Empire, except, in a twist nobody—not even the Sith Order—saw coming: Palpatine died before taking on the title of emperor, passing away in his sleep. A mediocre ending for the monster who permanently altered the foundations of the universe. One of his loyal followers from the cult’s early beginnings took control in his place, a vile man with a penchant for spilling blood and a deceptively bland name: Gideon.

Only seven years-old then, you didn’t understand the unbalance in the Force your aunt kept referencing. You didn’t understand the meaning of the word genocide either. But you did understand the galaxy would never be the same ever again, and the lesson was only further established as truth when the Imperials seized your village.

There is no normalcy to return to anymore.

And as long as Emperor Gideon remains in control, there is no future to hope for either.

Silence reigns in the aftermath of Maar’s explanation as the long list of tragedies hangs heavy over the four occupants. There is tension in the air as you await the Mandalorian’s response to the extinction of his people, whether that be an outburst of anger or tears, and each passing minute only intensifies the nervous energy thrumming through your veins. Your leg starts to bounce restlessly, a bad habit you have had since childhood.

The Mandalorian stands eerily motionless. Your eyes keep flicking from your lap to his visor though you know it is rude to stare. His helmet hides his expression, but you don’t need to see it to know he is floundering right now, mind scrambling to piece together all the details thrown at him. From personal experience, you know the loss of a loved one hits like a tidal wave, hitting you over and over again until you must decide if you are going to stand up or surrender to drowning. Grieving the loss of your parents is the hardest experience of your lifetime to date.

But this...this is vastly different. The Mandalorian didn’t just lose his loved ones. He has lost his friends, neighbors, comrades, acquaintances, everyone all at once. This loss isn’t a tidal wave. It is a kriffing avalanche, burying him ten feet under in total darkness, and there is no one he can count on to save him.

Finally, after the longest five minutes of your life, he shifts, resting his hands upon his belt with an unexpected air of seriousness. “I need to go.”

You frown, head tilting. That is his reaction?

“Go?” Ahsoka echoes, sounding as incredulous as you feel. “Go where?”

“To look for survivors,” he answers, blunt and harsh, the words forced through clenched teeth.

Ahsoka is struck silent, and you feel your heart break on his behalf. Your mother’s stories about the Mandalorians had always included, one way or another, their lifelong bonds with each other. You had felt those ties when you had connected with the Mandalorian, believed for a moment as strongly as he did that his fellow warriors would come search for him, that his absence would be noticed and missed amongst them. And here he is now, still desperately clutching to them, unable—or, perhaps unwilling is more apt—to believe a stranger telling him those bonds have been cruelly severed.

“What you need is to rest,” Maar says, gentle yet firm, letting her authority as the eldest in the room seep into her tone.

He shakes his head, not backing down. “I’ve been asleep for ten years. I don’t need any more rest.”

“Your ship, it, uh,” your shoulders hike up defensively when his visor snaps in your direction, pinning you with its blank stare. Clearing your throat, you continue with a slight grimace, “It’s going to need some repairs before it can take off. I can help you fix it.”

Ahsoka looks over at you in surprise, and then in worry. You don’t blame her, especially since the offer had slipped out without you consciously meaning it to. Once again, the Force is calling the shots and you are just along for the ride, a passenger in your own body.

He considers you for a long moment, then asks, “What do you know about the mechanics of a gunship?”

If anyone else had asked you that same exact question, you would have bristled at their condescension and retracted your offer in the next breath. But with the Mandalorian, there isn’t even the slightest hint of patronizing courtesy. It is a serious question prompted from genuine curiosity.

You sit up straighter, smiling at him now. “Enough to confidently say I’m your best shot at getting off the ground.”

“What’s your plan, exactly?” Ahsoka asks you, braced against the wall with one eye on you and one on the Mandalorian across the garage, patiently waiting for you to finish assembling your tool kit.

“Huh?” You reply distractedly, trying to decide if you should bring your carbon chisel or not.

“You don’t have one, do you?”

Not. There are bigger concerns than a bit of carbon scoring. You move to grab your favorite screwdriver with a tapered socket, only for Ahsoka to snatch it away, holding the tool hostage.

“Hey!”

“Have you thought about what you’re doing?” Ahsoka asks slowly, staring you directly in the eyes. “Once you fix his ship, he’s gone. And he’s taking our best chance at escaping Shili with him.”

A quick glance over your shoulder shows the Mandalorian studying the scattered BB unit parts on your workbench. You are missing a few vital components needed in order to bring the little droid back to life after a stormtrooper shot a plasma bolt through it for accidentally bumping into his leg, and haven’t had any luck convincing the village traders to track them down for you when they went to the capital.

“We can’t keep him here against his will,” you manage at last, turning back to your sister. “Otherwise we’re no better than the Imps.”

When Ahsoka doesn’t say anything, you shrug a shoulder, adding, “Besides, I think I’m supposed to fix it for him. The Force seems pretty insistent about it.”

She makes a face at that. “I liked you better when you ignored your Force instincts. You didn’t make me worry as much.”

A laugh escapes you, embarrassingly loud in the otherwise quiet space, and your cheeks immediately start burning. Ahsoka’s lip twitches like she wants to smile, but instead she schools her features into a blank expression when the Mandalorian’s head turns at the sound. Only once he diverts his attention elsewhere again does her stare lose some of its intensity, looking less like she wants to dissect him beneath a microscope. You can practically see her protective-older-sister-instincts buzzing, reacting to the warrior’s presence.

As much as he is a chance at providing an escape, he is also first and foremost a complete and total stranger. Even worse, he is a complete and total stranger who knows how to handle weapons.

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” You squeeze her arm reassuringly. “Shouldn’t take longer than a couple of hours. You’ll be so busy smoothing the Elders’ ruffled feathers you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Ahsoka finally relinquishes the tool, exhaling a quiet sigh. “You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know for certain you can keep.”

Walking side by side with the Mandalorian in silence isn’t awkward, per se, but it definitely isn’t comfortable either. He is close enough your arm keeps accidentally grazing against his, the cold brush of metal against your skin startling you each time. You would have considered his nearness strange if you hadn’t heard Ahsoka threaten to castrate him if you wound up hurt before she sent him flying at the juni tree branch outside your window with an unnecessarily strong push of Force.

To his credit, the warrior handled her rough treatment with the same ease he has handled everything else thrown at him. You are beginning to think Mandalorians don’t just wear beskar—they are made of it too. Other than the few glimpses of frustration earlier in Maar’s office, he keeps his cards close to his chest, impossible to read.

He watches everything though, reacting to the slightest of movements and sounds. Constantly alert. You are certain he is watching you right now, despite the fact his helmet is facing forward, your nerves prickling in response to the sensation of eyes upon you.

To your surprise, he is the one to break the silence first. “You sneak out often.”

It is a statement, not a question.

You suppose the dots are easy enough to connect to reach that conclusion. Still, the certainty in his voice has your heart skipping a nervous beat. He hasn’t even known you a day and yet he is privy to secrets no one outside your community is aware of. “Yeah,” you nod your head after a brief lapse of silence, “Ahsoka can’t train in the village. Not with the stormtroopers around.”

“Has your village tried to run them out? Fight back?”

It is only because you know he is just trying to understand your village’s predicament with the little bits of information he has that you don’t snap at him for being so insensitive. He has no idea what these past five years have been like for you all. No idea the amount of losses and sacrifices the community has suffered.

Your grip on your tool kit tightens. “I was twelve when they came. The community is mostly traders and hunters, not trained fighters. The few weapons we had were nothing compared to their blaster rifles, but some of the adults tried to defend the village, including our parents. They...” You swallow, or try to, at least, your throat suddenly dry as sand. “Our aunt looked after us until last year we woke up one morning to find a note she’d left to join the rebellion. We haven’t had any contact with her since.”

The Mandalorian’s gloved hand brushes against your knuckles. This time you think it might have been on purpose.

“I lost my parents as a child, too. There was a riot and they died protecting me,” he offers his own private details with the same reluctance as one volunteering to have their teeth pulled out. “The Mandalorians took me in, raised me as one of their own.”

You say nothing about the way his breath slightly hitches when he says Mandalorians, appreciating his openness as it puts you both on somewhat equal footing with each other.

“I owe it to them to look for survivors,” he tells you, and your montrals detect the quietest hint of a plea in his voice.

“I understand,” you answer, keeping your tone light to preserve the fragility of this moment. This kind of situation doesn’t happen often—two strangers on the same wavelength, exposing their vulnerable underbellies, desperate to be heard and yet skittish at the same time—and it is oddly therapeutic.

A decision is made right then and there in the span of a heartbeat. And even more significantly, it is 100% your own choice without any intervention or manipulation from the Force.

You stop walking, causing the Mandalorian to halt as well. He scans the area for a threat, then visibly jerks when he turns back to find you have your hand held out towards him, pinky raised high, reacting as if you are pointing a weapon at him.

“I don’t understand,” he says, blunt and almost suspicious sounding. Are you just imagining it or can you actually hear him frowning? “What are you doing?”

“Haven’t you ever made a pinky promise with someone before?”

“...A what?”

You snort, ducking your head to hide your smile, and then reach for his hand. Surprisingly, he doesn’t protest your touch.

“A pinky promise,” you repeat as you make his hand form a fist, curling his fingers towards his palm, and then adjust his pinky so you can wrap yours around it. He watches the whole process wordlessly. “It’s a sacred vow shared between two people. The Elders say once it’s sworn, the promise can never be broken.”

He cocks his head, skeptical. “Never?”

“Never,” you reaffirm with a nod. Licking your lips, you look at his visor, right where you instinctively know his eyes are staring back. “I promise I’m going to help you. No matter the odds.”

And something leaks into your voice then, something resolute and binding and otherworldly. A tremor shoots down your spine, too quick for you to make sense of it.

Your sister’s words echo in the back of your mind, ‘You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know for certain you can keep.’

You try to pull away, self-doubt gnawing a hole in your stomach, only for the Mandalorian to wrap his pinky tighter around yours, holding you still. A gasp escapes your lips, muffled by the bleeding sincerity in his voice as he swears:

“I promise I will be there when you need me. No matter the odds.”

And although your sister could undoubtedly provide you with a long list of reasons why you shouldn’t, you believe his promise to be true.

The Mandalorian heaves a heavy sigh at the sight of his crashed ship.

“I can’t do much about the landing gear,” you inform him, believing honesty to be the best policy for cases like this. “And I brought some foam-jet for the cockpit viewport, but it’s not a permanent fix. You’re going to have to find someone offworld to replace them.”

“Right,” he agrees absently without turning his eyes away. It occurs to you then that this ship is the closest thing to a home he has now. One of the few precious relics from his past he can still physically cling to.

“Does your ship have a name?” you ask.

He looks at you, as if coming back to self-awareness, and answers, “Razor Crest.”

A good name, you think. Strong. A bit mysterious. Just like its owner.

You nod decisively. “I like it.”

His modulator crackles faintly, a quiet noise produced from a sudden exhale of air. You blink at the unexpected sound, surprised to realize you recognize it. A laugh. The Mandalorian just laughed at something you said. What is next in store for you? Are akul going to sprout wings and start flying?

He steps around you, heading for the side entry door still open from yesterday with its ramp laying on the ground, pebbles shifting noisily beneath his boots with each step. You don’t realize you are staring, oddly entranced by the swish of his cape and his purposeful strides, until he calls out your name to ask if you are coming.

You nearly drop your tool kit in your haste to follow after him into the Crest’s interior, ignoring the flaring heat radiating from your cheeks.

For the next few hours, you and the Mandalorian work in companionable silence, engrossed in rerouting wires and welding damaged components with your trusty hand torch. The gunship is older than you initially assumed, perhaps even as old as yourself, and you idly wonder if the Mandalorian found it in a scrapyard somewhere or maybe inherited it from another Mandalorian. You notice the way he handles each piece with an experienced and respectful touch; the same kind of care someone reserves for their most cherished possessions. Anyone with eyes can see how much he loves the Crest just by watching him.

Once you have finished sealing the numerous cracks dissecting the cockpit’s viewport like a spiderweb with foam, you approach the Mandalorian to see his progress on returning power to the dashboard. He is on his back beneath the steering controls, rearranging a mess of wires, and barely acknowledges your presence when you squeeze yourself into the tight space next to him.

“The red wire goes before the white one,” you point out, noticing the mistake immediately. “Fire hazard.”

He pauses, looks at where you have gestured, and corrects his error without criticizing your intervention. You bite back a smile, pleased to be heard. Within your community, even though you have proven your skills time and time again, some of the villagers, usually men, don’t always adhere to your advice, thinking you are too young and too female to know about technology, until they inevitably make their problems worse for themselves and come back to you with their metaphorical tail between their legs.

You help him reattach the cover plating once he has finished, screwing the bolts back into their corners, and then watch, fingers crossed, as he attempts the ignition sequence, flipping a series of switches.

None of them light up with even the faintest flicker of life.

“Dank farrik,” he growls under his breath, slamming a fist upon the console.

You take a tiny step forward, hesitant to direct his frustration your way. “Can I try?”

He tilts his head, probably thinking he knows this ship better than anyone and if it doesn’t work for him then you aren’t going to have any luck either.

Eventually he steps back with a shrug, uttering a simple, “Sure.”

Although you can’t remember the last time you were on a ship, it doesn’t take long to refamiliarize yourself with the various controls and screens once you take a seat in the pilot chair. When your hobby for fixing broken machines changed into a passion you wanted to pursue as a future career, you started memorizing any reading material you could find on the Holonet, including the flight manuals for different classes of starships. You flip through the stored information in your mind about gunships as you press a few buttons on the panel overhead, trying out different sequences for a response.

When your third attempt fails, you bite your lip, racking your brain for a solution. You think about Huno’s kitchen droid and how you had been on the verge of ripping off one of your head-tails trying to repair it after one of its fuses blew, causing it to malfunction. Your tools and knowledge hadn’t been able to fix it in the end. It had required a special remedy to bring it back to life.

You lay your palms flat on the console, just as you had held onto the droid’s square torso. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the Mandalorian fidget, as if he wants to come closer but is hesitant to crowd you. You ignore him, pressing your fingertips harder against the metal, visualizing in your mind the unseen gears, cables, and components stiff and powerless. You imagine the parts working properly, a current of electricity running through each wire, life ultimately returning to the entire ship, and whisper under your breath a request to the Force.

“Please work, please work, please work…”

An invisible pulse of energy burns down the length of your arms and discharges through your fingertips, strong enough you jerk backwards against the seat. Every button and screen on the dashboard lights up all at once, beeping with alarm at being so rudely resurrected.

You sit there helplessly, stunned and breathless, hands twitching in your lap. The kitchen droid hadn’t required even half as much energy to restart, barely a pinch. Now your body feels like you have been thrown against the electric fence a dozen times. Wordlessly, the Mandalorian comes to your side to help, punching buttons and turning knobs until the alarms quit blaring. A distant part of your brain thinks the Razor Crest as a whole seems strangely soothed by his presence, not quite as cold and dark, but it is hard to follow that train of thought due to the distracting pain throbbing along your temples.

“That’s quite a spark you’ve got,” he says, not unkindly or accusingly, just a statement of the obvious. He looks down at you, not outright asking for an explanation, but giving you the opportunity to open up if you wanted to.

“Yep, that’s me,” you reply, forcing a cheerful smile, praying it doesn’t resemble a grimace. “Sparks Tano at your service.”

He chuckles again, oblivious to how your heart stutters at its raspiness. “Thank you, Sparks. I appreciate it.”

“Well, we’re not done yet.” You rub at your temples under the guise of adjusting your headband. “I need to take a closer look at the engines before we attempt flying out of here. I—”

“I’ll do it,” he cuts in, already heading for the ladder. “You stay here, see if you can update the navicomputer settings.”

You know he knows that updating the navicomputer is child’s play for you. Clearly you aren’t as great at concealing your pain as you thought you were and this is his way of giving you a break. A small part of you is irritated at being treated like a porcelain doll, but you push those negative feelings aside as quickly as they develop. Your aunt always used to remind you and Ahsoka it was okay to accept help when it was offered, that needing support didn’t in any way make you weak.

“Hey, wait a second,” you call out as you spin around in your seat, freezing him right before he disappears from view into the hull. He holds onto the ladder, waiting patiently for you to continue.

“Back at Maar’s place you didn’t introduce yourself and it’s weird just calling you Mandalorian in my head,” you say, awkwardly drumming your fingers on top of the armrests. He doesn’t answer, eliciting a sigh from your mouth after a drawn-out beat of silence. “What’s your name? You do have one, right?”

“I do, but I can’t tell you it,” he admits at last. “By Mandalorian Creed, only other Mandalorians or my riduur—my spouse,” he corrects, seeing your confusion, “are allowed to know my name and see my face. This is the Way.”

He doesn’t linger to hear your response, dropping down into the hull with a resounding thud. You slowly turn back around, staring absently out the glass. Every culture is unique, including your own, but you think there is something especially interesting about the Mandalorians’. It sounds like a lonely existence, only able to show your face while in select company. What would have happened if he had been unconscious and you had slipped the helmet off his head? What consequence would he have faced?

And if there truly aren’t any Mandalorians left besides him, his spouse will be the only one to ever know him completely. It almost sounds like a love story, if not a little bit heart-wrenching.

Two high-pitched dings from the console jerk you out of your thoughts with a wince. You look for the source, finding the radar lit up and actively scanning the area, and bristle when you see a pair of red dots moving across the screen.

Not even a minute later you are sprinting out of the cave, ignoring the Mandalorian’s alarmed shout from the roof of the Razor Crest. They’re early, you think with panic, looking towards the sky where two starships with Imperial logos are heading straight for your village. Why have they come back so soon?

You push your legs to run faster, your surroundings a blur beyond the trail in front of you, but the effort is meaningless. You won’t make it back home before they land.

And when your absence is noted, bloodshed is not a possibility.

It is a guarantee.

Series taglist: @pedro4ever @cannedsoupsucks

Din Djarin Taglist: @a-skov @pedrosbisch @quica-quica-quica @stevie75 @iamskyereads @banga-sama @dincrypt @ohlawdthebirds

Permanent taglist: @promiscuoussatan @vintagesaph @over300books @chibi-yuki @theocatkov @oh-no-a-whovian @absurdthirst @freeshavocadoooo @you-and-i-deserve-the-world @lin-djarin @happiestsparkleofall @randomness501 @gallowsjoker @coaaster @captain-jebi @leilei-draws @disgruntledspacedad @melobee @stilllivindue2spite @pointy-sharp @artsymaddie @waywardmando @asta-lily @thisshipwillsail316 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos @grogusmum @sherala007 @mejswho @uncle-kenobi @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives @tacticalsparkles @mandocrasis @littlebopper96 @you-got-me-starry-eyed @kiss-evans @writeforfandoms @pbeatriz @anaaaispunk

#my fic #my writing #Mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian fanfic #Din Djarin #din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #togruta reader #ahsoka tano #the last mandalorian #pedrostories #art

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roninreverie · 3 years

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5 Things I didn’t expect to happen after watching TOA Wizards last year.

1. That I would re-watch the entire trilogy.

Don't get me wrong, I loved watching the other shows, but I never really re-watched them until after finishing Wizards. In fact, I knew vaguely that Wizards was coming thanks to an old post, and I saw the preview of them all fighting in the floating Camelot castle, but the whole thing was distant enough in the back of my mind that it appeared without me having to wait for it. When it did, I was just like, “oh cool!” and started playing episodes, completely unaware of what was to come.

2. That I would become obsessed with Hisirdoux Casperan.

Again, saw him in Trollhunters and 3Below, but it never really clicked until after seeing him in Wizards. Now his little cameos are like my favorite things! I even watched all of Once Upon a Time afterwards just to hear a bit more of Colin (something I had previously left unfinished since 2013!!) I even started wearing my punk bracelets again from my old retail days.😅

3. That I would become obsessed with Zoe.

This is 100% Tenyai’s fault! I saw Zoe in 3Below, I saw Zoe in Wizards... I liked her, but again… it didn’t click until after I discovered Douxie fanart, then Zoe fanart, then Tenyai’s entire blog site, and now it consumes my everyday life! She might be my favorite character of the entire franchise-- which (as you know) is difficult because she only has like 2 minutes of screen time and an entire void’s worth of unused potential. This obsession brought fanfictions, it brought fanart, I even did my first two prompt weeks ever, going on three now thanks to Zoe Week! (NGL, I’m a little scared at how hard I deep dived into Zoe fandom, and I wonder if the movie is going to help with this at all.) 😱

4. That I would get so into History and Music.

Coming with the territory of obsessing over Douxie and Zoe, and what they might’ve been up to for nearly 900 years, I got really interested in hearing stories about History, or listening to bands I’d either not really heard of before, or who knew of, but didn’t obsess over like I do now. This month, I am apparently into Jazz and Soul music. Now, is that because I just like it or because the 1920s-60s era Zouxie content is so compelling🤔, I’m not even sure I know, but my playlists are growing! I almost learned how to play the guitar...I am not even joking. Then I just think of them whenever I watch anything like any of the stories from Buzzfeed guys, or any of the old recipes made by bdylanhollis on tiktok! 😅

5. That waiting for the movie would scare and excite me so much.

I’m kind of glad I wasn’t on the hype train for Wizards. This life is stressful!!! ROTT is in T-Minus 4 days and there isn’t one day that I haven't had at least a moment of panic or anticipation. This show is going to end me, isn’t it? 💀

#trollhunters #3below #toa wizards #hisirdoux casperan #toa zoe #just personal thoughts #might delete later

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taglegend · 4 years

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Tag Fact #3 - I’ve come to realize I’ve always been a fan artist more than I thought. so here is a timeline of influences that shaped my childhood to now. from nostalgic times, to sad changes, to great loss, to strange rises to fame and phases, to stepping stones and finally a laughing place. all the things that make up your favorite fan artist Tag.

1. Rayman (bumped into this in the year of 1999) was actually the first fandom (with crossovers) I bumped into when I was 9. although the internet wasn’t available at the time it was still fun to dwell in home amusements. I remember the storylines and the OC’s I made but they’re kind of embarrassing and it’s probably a good thing there was no internet. I’ve done fanart and comic crossovers of Rayman with Calvin and Hobbs and Nights Into Dreams, spinoffs of Sonic the Hedgehog OC’s, Yoshi with Pikachu, and the Pokemon/Digimon craze with OC’s and other Nintendo comic shorts. but the drawings and comics are long gone and disappeared in the garage in a backpack due to suspecting my sister’s dad accidentally throwing them away. years later towards the year 2018 (now 28), we decided to move to North Carolina and it was my chance to find them again. unfortunately the backpack was gone just like I suspected (my main stuff), but for some reason I found my Pokemon/Digimon fanart, a good batch of Super Mario drawings (vaguely remember doing these), my sister’s drawings and some other neighborhood kids’ drawings in a dirty box. I was partially happy I found something at least but it was the backpack I wanted the most. sometimes I regret not looking for the backpack (’cause I was too busy being a kid) but it’s alright, noone needs to see that shit anyway, ha ha. anyways, I recall being a fan of Rayman from 1999 ‘til 2002.

2. Sonic Adventure 2 Battle (bumped into this in the year of 2003) my second fandom I bumped into when I was 12 going on 13. at the time, my sister and I both liked the Sonic The Hedgehog Franchise based on the Battle remake and ended up making our own secret fanart club that consisted of only us two members. she liked Sonic (and that was her boyfriend, ha ha) and I liked Knuckles (and he was my boyfriend, ha ha) and we were crazy in love about Shadow’s backstory. we listened to the game’s soundtracks as we drew fanart and comics after school and man, those were good times. however, as we grew older towards the year of 2005, we ended up having separate rooms and I believe it played a part in disconnecting on the same interest. then one day, I asked her why she wasn’t into Sonic anymore and she replied, “Because I grew up.” I was sad after that and slowly observed that she was influenced by the emo culture and the new friends she’s made. I was the only member of our little club for a little longer...but eventually I moved on too. I still have some surviving fanart we did together but it doesn’t mean shit anymore since she turned out to be an abusive mother from the last I’ve heard of her.

3. Gorillaz (bumped into this in the year of 2006). as the Sonic years were at its end, I first heard the song “Feel Good Inc” on Music Choice and seeing the first image of them as displayed on this post (except the fan-made background doesn’t count since I can’t find the original artwork). this was my third fandom and later had proper access to the internet to the website I still currently use called DeviantArt. at first I liked 2D but eventually fell for Murdoc and developed a spiritual connection towards the character as obviously seen in my old fanart and rare photos of my devotion shrines on Valentine’s Day and his birthday every year. for the longest time since being a permanent fan from 2006-2017 (11 1/2 years) I had no knowledge that it was a political propaganda band and other realizations I don’t want to talk about. I only followed them because it was a cartoon and not the bullshit behind the musical project. the world I’ve built and support for them for all those 11 1/2 years shattered the fuck out of me and I just wanted to be left alone to find myself again, somehow. activity stopped on all my profiles, the flow of fanart stopped since I now cringe from the fan service and felt I was used for my talent. I didn’t want to be reminded of it all so I took down all my Gorillaz fanart and archived them for old followers’ nostalgia but also in the hopes they’ll be forgotten in my timeline. I ceased to exist in the fandom for huge personal reasons but it’s best to not say why. I know for sure that the fandom wonders what happened but it’s none of their business. THE END.

4. Waluigi (although I knew he’s been around since 2000 during childhood, I took deep interest once I revisited the character again in the year of December 2013). as silly as this sounds, when I revisited him again, the character was so bizarre that I ended up staying up 3 nights and 3 days in a row just looking all over the internet on everything about him and the questionable “hush-hush” absence of a backstory. despite there being no backstory he slowly gained a cult following and in many ways it’s a good thing. however, since the early 2010′s tension has been building up between Nintendo and its fans about him starring in a main game but everyone hasn’t fully gotten it in their heads that it’s not gonna happen. as long as Nintendo is in control of that, the fandom will not win, I’m sorry to say. on the other hand, if it’s going to be this way, then that’s what fanart and comic projects are for. as for me, I am doing my very best to get my comic project “Waluigi Land” going. again, I apologize if it’s taking very long to get Chapter 2 going if you’ve been keeping track but aha moments need to develop before I start permanent drawing (since concepts, character design and storyline needed improvement badly). as of right now I am still a Waluigi fan and I will not quit on him.

5. Turbo from Wreck-It-Ralph (although it debuted in 2012, I watched the movie two years later into the year 2014). for some bizarro reason, I had an unhealthy obsession with this character to the point where I dressed up as him for Halloween 2014. only 2 fanarts of him and the Turbo Twins exist on my profiles, mainly because my mind was more focused on just ‘thinking about him’ or ‘being him’ rather than drawing physical drawings. luckily, this supposed alleged fandom didn’t last long a little after Halloween so I chalk it up as a very short phase. to this day I don’t know what has gotten over me about him. the only thing I can think of now is that I think it’s because the character had yellow eyes and teeth but I don’t know. now that I think of it, that little fucker was ugly as hell and I STILL don’t know what had gotten over me. one day, my brother mentioned what that was about, and I said to him, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

6. Undertale (although it debuted in 2015, I later took interest in it in 2016). It was all about Sans and Papyrus. I couldn’t get enough of the skeleton bros. eventually Toriel and Mettaton EX became my favorites but it took a long time to draw more of all 4 of them because I had other important things to do in my life plus I was still waiting for the next Gorillaz album to revive my imaginative juices (or so I thought). I really want to have this as one of my frequent fandoms but I just don’t have time for it anymore. it’s still in the back of my head to want to draw them but at this point I still have other better interests to be in. and besides, I’m lazy just like Sans.

7. Cuphead (June 28th, 2017 was the official day I called quits on the British-based band Gorillaz due to the bullshit behind it. since that date I was lost, had no inspiration to look forward to and no cartoon guy to make me smile...but lo and behold of the same year, I took an interest in playing the game Cuphead and man...that shit was a frightening exaggerated metaphor for being on that one drug (forgot the name though) and having sex at the same time but man that was the best fun I’ve had in years. I mean, it’s like, enemies are just so happy to murder you and that scared the shit outta me. and the facial exaggeration?....I think I should stop, ha ha. anyways, the Moldenhauers saved my ass from spiraling down, they have no clue. anyways, eventually I became a permanent fan of their work so to ease the hurt and erase my past from the G-fandom I had to re-wire my brain into a different cartoon category that’s a rather more American, so anything Toon related like Roger Rabbit, Felix the Cat or another favorite that’s a western-based cartoon makes me feel better, especially my new man .......King Dice <3 <3<3<3. however, there was something about this new fandom category I still didn’t quite understand until the date March 14th, 2020. I finally understood what it was but I feel I shouldn’t bring it up. anyways, Cuphead and anything western or rubber hose is my last stop in inspiration for the remaining years of my life. many say never say never but I believe I’ve found my laughing place and that’s all that matters.

#tag facts #influences from cartoons #likes and dislikes #thoughts i have about characters #toons #rayman #sonic the hedgehog #gorillaz #waluigi #turbo #wreck it ralph #undertale #cuphead

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ohblackdiamond · 5 years

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till it shines (peter/paul, nc-17)

"Look, I'm not gonna quit, I swear. If we have to end the tour, we have to end the tour. We get dropped from the label, we get dropped from the label. We lick our wounds and we try somewhere else. But until then, we got awhile in this hotel." "And no shows." "Yeah." During a five-day lull in concerts, stranded in an Atlanta hotel, Peter and Paul find a means to entertain themselves.

Notes: Inspired and based to a heavy extent on a very lovely, NSFW fanart concerning Paul's on-tour artistic endeavors. No, not the ones he showcases in galleries.

“till it shines”

by Ruriruri

It was the last day of the Gay Kitchen, with honorable maitre d's, cooks, servers, and busboys Peter Criss and Paul Stanley manning KISS' dwindling hotel fridge and supply closet. At least, it was supposed to be. Peter didn't know if after last night, it was still on the table.

At first, they'd really wanted to go all-out with the band dinners, but their budget hadn't permitted it. One last hurrah before they had to limp back to New York, with a single failed record to their names and all the notoriety of four strays in a junkyard. Back to Lydia for Peter-and Lydia wasn't so bad, Lydia wasn't so bad at all; she'd supported him through worse screw-ups and disappointments, but it was what she represented. A guy who still wasn't paying the bills four years into the marriage wasn't any better than a bum. She'd thought she'd found somebody who'd be going places. She'd been wrong.

For Paul, the prospect of going home was just as disastrous. At least, that was how he made it out to be. He'd get into these depressed rambles about his parents and his sister and his niece and how coming back just wasn't an option.

"Not an option? C'mon, you were in college, what, a couple of quarters-"

Paul had winced and licked his lips, a quick, nervous tic Peter had gotten far too accustomed to seeing as the band's money situation worsened.

"I only went a week. Don't tell Gene." And a swallow. "Look, it's stupid. I know. But I was born to play rock and roll, okay?"

"You're preaching to the fucking choir."

"I mean. if I can't do this, if I can't make this happen, I might as well not be here. This is the only outlet I've got."

Peter had rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to groan. Overblown as ever. Paul thought Peter was the dramatic one, the tetchy one, just because he had enough balls to address what was pissing him off instead of keeping it to occasional bitchy comments. Paul never seemed to hear his own whines.

"You think you're the only one with a dream around here?" Peter couldn't even bite back the rest. "How old were you when the Beatles got on Ed Sullivan? Ten?"

"Twelve," Paul had grumbled back. "Don't make this an age thing-"

"I was just out of high school. And I was already in bands-"

"Pete, I know, I know already. You keep telling me." Paul heaved a sigh. "You keep telling all of us."

"You've got to pay your dues, that's all it is."

"Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues." The right edge of Paul's mouth was starting to perk up.

"Yeah." Peter tugged absently at his bangs, trying not to let himself get too good a look at what he'd been seeing since before he even auditioned for KISS. The semi-permanent dye they all used worked fine on brown hair, but past that first wash, it was useless on gray. The streaks were more obvious against the jet-black backdrop than they'd ever been when he left his hair alone. "Look, I'm not gonna quit, I swear. If we have to end the tour, we have to end the tour. We get dropped from the label, we get dropped from the label. We lick our wounds and we try somewhere else. But until then, we got awhile in this hotel."

"And no shows."

"Yeah." No shows for the next five days at least. Their last pitiful handful of concerts, they'd opened for some redneck band. Outlaws or something. That was another depressing thing. Peter had always expected to at least be friendly with the bands they were the lead-in for, but they'd only been met with indifference at best and hostility at worst. Never ended up opening for the same band more than a few times, either. It just made the whole tour all the lonelier.

He realized after a second that Paul was staring at him. The guy had a weird stare. Kind of like a broke bagboy waiting on his tip, or maybe just like a girl who was really hoping for a proposal. Big-eyed, eager, and not remotely calculating. It might have pissed Peter off, if Paul didn't always follow it up with an abashed grin once he was caught.

"You're thinking about something," Paul said, before Peter could make the accusation himself.

"Yeah. I'm thinking we all need cheering up."

"You need cheering up, Peter."

"You just finished telling me you'd die if you didn't make it, Paul." He paused, still staring at the fridge. "And fuck, I'm gonna die if I have to eat at McDonalds one more time."

"Well, they've got Steak 'n Shake here, if you'd rather."

Peter groaned.

"Not when you're in a fucking blouse and heels. The crowd thinking we're fruits is bad enough." Before Paul could even stammer out a protest, something about it being rock and roll, or about needing more practice in the heels-God, c'mon-Peter continued. "No. I thought we could make our own dinner while we're here. Really make it, not just sandwiches and shit. Real food. We got the kitchen for it. And it'd save Bill some money. You know how to cook, right?" He knew Gene didn't. Ace just wouldn't.

"I'd hope so. My mom started leaving us home alone when I was eight."

"Poor, poor little Paulie." Peter rolled his eyes. "We could-we could make it themed, even. Make out like it's a restaurant. Menus and shit. Invite the guys down for dinner."

Paul brightened, which surprised him. Usually he'd be sore for hours over the slightest crack at his expense, like some spoiled, anxious kid. But for once, he actually seemed excited.

"Like Italian one night, maybe? We could make pizza."

"Yeah, sure, lemme get a shopping list going."

After three beers apiece, they'd named their restaurant the Gay Kitchen, decided they'd act the part of its bent proprietors, and written up a menu full of double-entendres. An hour later, still drunk, they'd pooled their money and ventured out to town in jeans and the lowest of their heels. They'd bought twenty bucks' worth of groceries, which should have been plenty. Then they'd started in on meal prep.

Strange how fun it was. Especially that first night, working on a poor man's casserole, with the radio on and Paul standing next to him chopping up onions, his hands encased in Ziploc sandwich bags because he didn't want the smell on his skin, while Peter cut half-frozen chicken breasts into ragged little cubes. They'd tossed the whole thing into the pan with some salt and pepper, dumped a can of cream of mushroom soup on top, stuck it in the oven and hoped for the best. He knew they should've gone with canned stuff entirely, especially for the meat, if they'd really wanted to save money, but the Gay Kitchen experience demanded the expenditure. At least, that was their excuse.

Besides, Ace and Gene had loved it. Not for the food so much. Peter figured their dinners were decent, maybe even good, sometimes, but he couldn't kid himself. There was nothing impressive about a dessert course that included Hostess cupcakes "with fresh Cool Whip." But the makeshift restaurant had done the job. Cheered them all up. No one said a word during any of the dinners about the tour ending or going back home. Not a single word. And he and Paul had screwed around, too, acting faggy, hitting on each other and the guys indiscriminately throughout the meals. Last night, Paul had even groped his ass while he was mincing around plating everyone's food.

"I had to take him off the menu." Peter could've sworn Paul was deliberately making that annoying lisp of his even worse during each dinner. Pitching his voice into a whine, too. Some commitment. Peter had glanced up, questioningly, but Paul had just ignored him and continued. "You see why, right? He's got such a nice ass-all the boys were looking, I couldn't help but get jealous-"

"Course you're jealous. You dieted yours off, Paulie," Ace had retorted with a laugh. Peter had been vaguely surprised Paul didn't break character at that, just clicked his tongue disapprovingly, his hand still on Peter's ass. Not squeezing anymore, thank God, but Peter had still felt the ghost of Paul's fingers there hours later when they'd both turned in for bed.

Looking back, maybe that was where it had really started. Glancing over at Paul on the double bed next to his, watching him, knees up, with the pad of hotel stationery in his lap and a pencil in his hand, Peter had cleared his throat. Paul lifted his head from where he'd been scribbling.

"Yeah?"

"What're you drawing?"

Paul held up the stationery without a hint of embarrassment. The usual weirdly accurate assortment of veiny, disembodied dicks covered the page.

"What do you always draw those for, anyway?"

Paul shrugged.

"I dunno. Why does Gene refuse to shower?"

"Because his mom told him even his B.O. was sacred." Peter rolled his eyes. "You got a fixation."

"<i>You've</i> got a fixation. You're the one always getting your dick out."

"Getting it out's not the same as drawing it. . That's not even your dick. Whose do you keep on-"

"I went to art school, asshole." There wasn't much of an edge to Paul's words, Peter noticed. "Life drawing comes with the territory."

"In high school? Jesus." Peter cocked his head, trying to decide if Paul was bullshitting him, but Paul was already back to doodling, his eyes averted. "You ever gonna attach them to anybody, or are they just gonna keep floating around?"

"Well, I thought I'd attach them to you, but then I realized that'd mean I'd have to draw your face."

"Oh, fuck you, Paul." He didn't know why, but he got up then, moved to sit on Paul's bed. Paul stopped scribbling just long enough to shift over for him. Peter leaned in, vying for a better look at the sketches. Six, no, seven dicks, from a couple different angles, all varying levels of erect. The balls were so accurate it was almost disturbing. "Ain't even mine. They're too small."

"These are scaled down."

"The shape's wrong, too. Was that one supposed to be bent like that?" Peter pointed at the offending cock, right in the center of the paper. He kind of thought it was intentional. There was something uncanny about Paul's artwork-well, the dick drawings, anyway. His other offerings, at least the ones Peter had seen-splattery acrylic abstracts from his high school portfolio, and the occasional insulting cartoon of his bandmates on the back of a paper napkin-lacked that attention to detail. And that enthusiasm. It was weird. Forget the rockstar shit; Peter almost wondered if Paul's true calling was illustrating gay porno mags.

Paul shifted the paper, blinking at him slowly.

"Are you really critiquing my doodles here?"

"Well, yeah. If you're gonna draw dicks, at least don't draw them bent."

"What's wrong with drawing them bent? Some guys have fucked-up dicks."

"Who do you know with a fucked-up dick? Gene?" Paul's was fine. Smaller than his, sure, but there wasn't anything the matter with it. Peter got a good look at it in the showers after concerts, and during occasional threesomes with college girls that didn't qualify as groupies. Paul didn't care about nudity any more than he or Ace did, which was a relief. Especially since Gene was so weird about it. Months on the road and he still wouldn't strip down in front of the band. Peter had asked Paul why. Paul had said something about Gene going to some Jewish school and that giving him hang-ups, which sounded ridiculous to Peter. If Jewish school was anything like Catholic school, then it was a flimsy excuse for changing in closets and behind closed doors like some chick. Gene probably just had something terribly, shamefully wrong with his dick. Smallness or herpes or both.

"What? No."

Pete scooted over some more. Paul's posture was slightly stiffer than it had been before, but he still moved to give Peter room. Not that the double bed had much space to begin with.

"Does that mean you've seen it?" Peter wasn't sure why he was pressing the issue. Probably because Paul didn't seem all that uncomfortable. In fact, ever since the start of the Gay Kitchen, he'd been more relaxed, more talkative. It'd been nice. Peter watched Paul's lips purse for a second before he replied.

"Come off it. I don't have the right equipment for the privilege."

"Just eat some more and you'll get the tits down."

"Oh, fuck you, Pete." Paul jabbed his elbow into Peter's ribs, just hard enough for Peter to jerk back, but after a second he was scooting in closer again, just to prove he couldn't be nudged off that easily.

Maybe it had been a lower blow than Peter had meant to take. God knew the poor guy worried more about his weight than a chick. Lydia once said Paul was shaped like a rectangle. Just thick, straight lines from his shoulders all the way to his ass, and no definition anywhere. And he had been, but that wasn't the case these days. Paul had ended up with a bad bout of stomach flu about a month and a half into the tour. He would pull himself together enough to do the night's show, but afterwards, Peter'd had to listen to him get up, agonized and grunting, at two in the morning, and hear him retching into the hotel toilet. Paul had probably dropped fifteen pounds since then. Maybe more.

He looked better now. His abdomen still wasn't flat and he still cinched in his waist with a corset onstage, but Peter figured Paul did look a little closer to-well, whatever the hell a frontman was supposed to look like-and a little farther from the shy kid from Queens who drove the band's milk truck to and from gigs. Shouldn't be something Peter was already nostalgic about, especially since they were probably right about to head back to the milk trucks and ballrooms, but he was.

He could hear the scratch of Paul's pencil against the stationery. Paul wasn't going to retort. He'd just sulk and doodle more dicks until he got tired enough to turn off the lamp and tell Peter to get off the bed so he could sleep. Peter licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and he spoke.

"You know what? Maybe you should draw mine."

He hadn't thought the comment through. It just splattered from the corner of his brain to his mouth. Maybe he was just trying to get a response out of Paul, see if he could come up with an insulting way to put him off, or if he'd just stammer out a refusal. Instead, all Peter got in return was a raised eyebrow.

"Your dick?"

"Yeah, my dick."

"You're volunteering?"

Shit. Shit, now he had to commit to it. Peter shrugged, somehow managed a tilted sort of grin, and leaned back on his hands.

"Why not? Least that'd keep you from doing all those crooked, veiny ones."

"Yeah, 'cause yours is fucking Adonis,' right-"

Adonis must've been some underground rocker only college kids had ever heard of. Peter wasn't about to admit to his own ignorance.

"Nobody's complained yet. C'mon, Paulie, how about it?"

Paul hesitated visibly. Peter almost didn't think he was going to agree to it. Too nerved-out by the suggestion. But then Paul nodded, his black curls-somewhat limper without the Aquanet and teasing brush forcing them into bushy, puffy proportions-bouncing slightly as he did.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

Peter yanked off the ratty pajama pants that were all he ever went to bed in, tossing them to the floor. Turned around so he was facing Paul head-on, legs stretched in front of him. He could feel Paul staring at his face, and then at his cock, as he tore out the doodle-covered paper and started on the fresh one beneath. He hadn't gotten more than a few scribbles in when Peter realized-

"Hey, wait a minute. You're not drawing it soft."

"I'm just gonna draw what I see."

"No, you aren't. Hang on."

"Hang on?"

Paul blinked, the beginnings of a mild smirk edging across his face. The expression didn't really sit right on him, somehow. Paul's mouth seemed to Peter to only really look okay when it was either pursed in a pout or spread in a hopeless kind of smile.

Luckily, that smirk of his dissolved as soon as Peter closed his hand around his dick, starting to pump. He didn't look at Paul while he was doing it, not at first, his gaze veering more towards the pad of paper and the burnt orange florals of the covers. His breath wasn't hitching yet, but the pleasure was starting to seep through on practiced automatic. A little harder. A little faster, and Peter's brow was furrowing, eyes glazed, focus on anything but his own dick starting to fade.

Except it couldn't fade completely. Not with Paul barely a foot away from him, his big brown eyes furtively darting between Peter's cock and the pencil, his mouth tight. Looking over at him, Peter could almost swear he saw the faint start of a blush cropping up on Paul's cheeks. "Jesus, relax, would you? I'm not gonna come here."

"Wow, isn't that a relief," Paul mumbled, rolling the pencil back and forth between his finger and thumb.

"'S not like you haven't seen this before." A solid five or six times by now, minus the fact that it was usually a girl's mouth or hand on Peter's cock instead of his own. They weren't great at sharing the not-quite-groupies yet. It had taken awhile before they figured out positioning that'd get all three of them off, and that always hinged on whether the girl was down for it. Once they'd ended up with a chick who'd gotten too intimidated by two guys at once, and after a round of debate over who'd go first, Paul had ended up slinking off to the shower while Peter made it with her. Unsurprisingly, she'd been so satiated she'd fallen asleep by the time Paul returned, and they'd both had to lug her out of the hotel room and into the hallway. Paul had been pissed off. Peter just found it funny.

Paul looked as if he were about to say something, but then he shut his mouth. Peter exhaled, letting his eyes shut for a second while he kept pumping, no fantasy in mind, just the simple mechanics of pleasure. Jacking off was mindless, with or without an audience. Nothing meaningful. Nothing to consider. And Paul, for whatever reason, was still just watching him do it. That pencil lead hadn't even touched the paper. Peter took a sharp breath before he spoke again.

"Good enough?"

He'd stopped himself once he was fully hard, but before any precome could dribble out from the reddened tip. He could feel his face getting flushed, a little sweat starting to trickle on his forehead, but he was all right. If things got too bad, he could always head over to the shower to finish rubbing it out, after Paul was done drawing. But he didn't think it would come to that, though his cock twitched in protest. Paul gave a distracted nod.

"Yeah. It's fine."

Then he finally started to draw again. Peter leaned over, trying to get a glance in, but Paul kept covering up the pad with his other hand, swatting at him when he got too close. Peter snorted.

"C'mon, you're not drawing the Mona Lisa here."

"You throw me off watching."

"What'm I supposed to do, just sit here?"

"That's exactly what you're supposed to do." Paul was erasing now, but carefully. One of those cheap pink erasers. He brushed the residue off the paper, and it landed on the covers, tiny black streaks of rubber against the orange comforter. Deprived of watching Paul at work, Peter tried to focus his attention on the eraser remnants, flicking them.

It didn't really help. Despite himself, Peter was starting to squirm. He didn't think Paul was drawing anything past his dick, but he'd been trying to stay still anyway. His thighs kept twitching involuntarily. The ache in his balls was getting irritating enough that he gave in to a few more strokes, shoving his hand in the covers as soon as he heard Paul laugh.

"You having trouble keeping it up?"

"Fuck you, you know that's not it-"

"Gimme a couple more minutes, all right, Pete?" A pause. "And get a little closer, there." He reached his hand out, fingers curving lightly around Peter's bare knee, just for a second. Immaculately manicured nails, bizarre for a guitarist, even one who hadn't played a gig in almost a week. The black nail polish hadn't even chipped. But Peter only really noticed how the warmth against his skin seemed to linger on after Paul had withdrawn his hand. "There."

Peter got closer. His legs were flat on the bed and spread slightly, toes touching the wall by the time he got closer; he'd ended up more to Paul's side. His painfully hard, flushed dick stood out sharp against the rest of his body, craving attention he couldn't-wouldn't-give yet. He'd get that touch in later. He'd get off on his own. A couple more minutes, like Paul said. Yeah.

The amused expression on Paul's face had shifted, gotten focused and intent. The way it did when he was trying to pull a riff together, or a set of lyrics. Peter didn't much care for that look-usually it meant Paul would try to banish whoever was in the same room, whether it was him or Ace or even Gene, so he could be alone with whatever brilliant thoughts he had. But now that look was locked on him instead. Partially. Flattering, maybe, to be mulled over like a rhyme that didn't flow, or a chord that wasn't right yet, but Peter knew that if he thought too hard about it, he'd get disgusted. So he just let his mind wander to the sound of Paul's pencil scraping across the page.

Peter didn't really notice at first when that sound stopped. Or when Paul put the pencil down. The pad of paper was still resting on his lap. Peter inhaled, waiting, figuring Paul would hand it over-with a joking autograph, probably-any second-but then a mass of dark curls ended up right in Peter's face. Paul was leaning in, heavily, breaths hot and heavy against Peter's neck. He pushed away the pad of paper, his bare chest pressed up flush against Peter's. Peter opened his mouth, started to say something, and then swallowed it down when Paul's hand wrapped around his dick.

Peter couldn't believe it. Didn't protest or argue-didn't want to. He was surprised, that was all. Surprised Paul would go for it. Have that kind of nerve. Paul didn't pull back enough to look him in the eye. Didn't say a word.

His palm was sweaty against Peter's cock, fingers only a little callused. The first few strokes were too slow, unintentional teasing, but then Paul got steadier, built up a rhythm. Like doing it to yourself, Ace had told him once, lazily, in the worst and best advice Peter had ever gotten on handjobs, but different. Different. Peter could feel Paul's heartbeat against him, like a pinball smashing against the bumpers. Each breath was getting more tattered, soft curses forcing their way from Peter's throat; each inhale pushed more of Paul's Aramis cologne into his lungs. Peter's hands, curled up into the covers, flew up desperately as he got closer, warmth and need pulsating inside him, threatening to burst-clenching Paul's shoulder, his back-holding him there, right there, as he spilled into Paul's hand.

Paul let go as abruptly as he'd started. His whole body froze up, and he shifted backwards, brushing away Peter's hands, dark eyes wide, almost scared. He scrambled off the bed and onto Peter's, yanking the covers around him like a little kid caught up too late.

"Paul?"

"I'm sorry," he said, and shut off the lamp.

Peter got up early the next morning, before the alarm clock, but it didn't matter. Paul was already gone-got a cab, evidently, leaving everyone else with the crappy tour bus. Peter could hear Ace and Gene grumbling about it through the wall before he got out of bed, stopping short of the pad of paper and pencil on the floor. He picked both up and took a look.

The drawing was immaculate. Paul had gotten the balls just right. Everything. Taken the time to shade it, even, like it was a serious study. He'd signed it, too-initialed it, rather, P.S. nestled in a forlorn corner. No date. Peter tore the sheet carefully from the pad of paper, looking at it, unsure of what to do with it. Whether to keep it or not. He ended up setting it on the nightstand, face down, before crossing over to what had been his bed up until last night. He didn't have to pull back the sheets to see the semen stain from where Paul had wiped off his hand.

He could've used some washing off himself after last night. No Paul hogging the shower was an empty comfort right now, as Peter turned on the water, letting it get blisteringly hot before stepping inside. It didn't really help.

Paul was back before lunch, anyway, quiet and withdrawn. Bill was talking about booking them a couple more shows further down South-a terrifying prospect, but better than heading home-and Gene was chatting about it with all his usual enthusiasm, while Ace added vodka and ice to his coffee. Paul just looked sunk. Gene kept throwing questioning looks Paul's way, and glancing at Peter, but if he ever asked outright, Peter never heard it.

The band meeting drifted off into nothing after awhile. Paul got up abruptly, saying something about a headache, and excused himself with about as much subtlety as a dying animal. It was a few minutes before Peter got up the nerve to follow him back to their room-and, as expected, Paul had locked the door.

"Paul, c'mon-"

The sound of the knob turning was almost gratifying. Paul was standing there, looking awkward, mouth pursed. Peter noticed, belatedly, that for all Paul had gotten up early that morning, he hadn't shaved, stubble poking hopelessly all around his jaw. His t-shirt and jeans-one of maybe ten street outfits he'd rotated over the tour, same as Peter, same as everyone else-were rumpled past what Paul usually would allow for.

"You didn't have to come check on me."

"I did, we share a room."

Paul swallowed.

"Look, if you wanna change rooms, go ahead, just don't tell Gene about-"

"I ain't telling Gene nothing. And I don't wanna change rooms." Pete exhaled. The look on Paul's face twitched just a bit, but Peter didn't give him a chance to respond before plowing back in. "Are we gonna do Gay Kitchen tonight?"

Paul flinched. Almost like he thought Peter meant it badly, or was making fun of him, or something. Like one of those Japanese trees, the ones with flat leaves that folded up after the briefest brush of a hand. One word and he'd curl back up. One touch, leaving Peter all out of sorts, trying to undo the trick, get those leaves to unfurl again.

"Do you want to?"

"Ace was asking earlier."

"Oh." Paul turned away, walking over to the kitchenette on the other side of the room. He pulled open the fridge, getting out the last can of Coke, popping the top before he really answered. "I guess."

"C'mon, it's our last night here. It'll be fun."

"We're almost out of food."

"We've got enough. Still have those hot dogs." Peter felt awkward, still standing there, barely past the doorframe, as if he was a visitor to his own hotel room. He stepped over to sit on one of the beds. The drawing wasn't on the nightstand anymore. "Hey-"

"What?"

Peter's throat was suddenly a little dry. The words were out before he could hold them back.

"You didn't have to get rid of it."

"It was stupid."

"No, it wasn't. It-it was good, Paulie."

Paul was still all tensed up. Like a battery coil on the verge of springing. Peter almost thought he was going to walk out, more prepared to face Gene and Ace or another lousy cab ride than spend the rest of the day with him, but instead, Paul sat down on the other bed.

"You really don't wanna change rooms." He said it flatly, borderline disbelieving, clasping the Coke can in both hands. He looked strangely young, sitting like that. The six years between them never felt like much except when Peter really let himself give it some thought. At twenty-two, he sure as hell hadn't been on the road with a record, however indifferently-received. Hadn't made it-with threesomes, even-with a whole bunch of girls. He resented it when he considered it, but right now, all Peter was considering was the tightness of Paul's lips and the way he was staring at the floor.

He was just a kid, really. Scared of getting rejected as any other kid, hell, as any other adult. Putting on onstage, putting on during their dinners, only ever peeling back how he really was during all the time in between. The worries and frets, the painful, painful shyness behind every sharp retort. The panicked heartbeat against Peter's chest last night as he'd pushed past his nerves for something he wanted.

Something Peter wanted, too.

"Fuck, no. You and me are the only ones around here that know how to pick up our own shit."

"Pete, that's not it-"

"No. No, it's not it. C'mere. C'mere," he said, quietly, scooting forward on the bed, hands resting awkwardly on either side of him, those orange covers clashing badly with his chipped black nail polish and cheap silver rings. He watched as Paul set down the Coke can and stood up, crossing the tiny threshold between their beds. He still looked like he was about to flee. One wrong word, one sudden movement and it'd be over.

So Peter was slow, agonizingly slow to take his arm and tug him forward. Paul let him do it, didn't go rigid at all, though the fear in those wide eyes was still there. Peter wanted it to fade; suddenly, he wanted it to fade more than anything, as he got to his feet, palm hot against Paul's arm. As he leaned in, pushing Paul's dark curls behind his shoulder, and pressed his lips to Paul's neck.

Paul didn't respond at first. Then, just as Peter was about to pull away, he felt Paul's other hand close around his. Too shy to even lock their fingers together. But that was all right. That was all right. Peter did it for him, shifting his hand in Paul's until their fingers were laced. He raised his head, and Paul's mouth met his, cautious and careful. None of that too-eager fooling around like with the girls. None of that silent desperation from last night. Peter liked this better, every second feeling warmer and fuller than the last. As if he was just on the brink of discovering something grand as his tongue slid across Paul's lips and he let go of Paul's arm to trace the stubble on his jaw, cup his chin in his hand. Paul parted his lips for him, Peter tasting cereal and toothpaste when his tongue slipped inside, but he didn't care. Paul was opening up for him. Finally opening up.

It wasn't too long before Paul started pressing up against him, hips rocking meaningfully against his. Somewhere along the line, he'd ended up with Paul's hair in his fist, and he tugged, lightly, urging him forward as he sat back down on the bed. Tugged his hand, too, as if he needed to. Paul got the picture, following him down, timidity shifting to urgency, until Peter's back was pressed against the mattress. Peter thought about yanking his hair hard for that one, and he might have, except Paul kept kissing him all the way down, except Paul's knee was rubbing against his crotch, his thin blue jeans barely a barrier at all.

Peter's breath hitched as Paul shifted lower, moving off of him enough that Peter could shuck off his own shirt and toss it to the floor. Paul was unzipping him, those long, thin fingers hooking around his belt loops and pulling down his jeans. Freeing his cock, already far too hard, worse than last night, easily. Peter took a sharp inhale when Paul sank down, pushing his thighs apart with his knee, and started to lick at his cock. All the way down, pouring on the attention, fingers pressing hard against his hips, keeping them steady. Peter watched, dazed, breaths hitching, until Paul's warm mouth was around just the tip of his cock.

"Paul, hold on."

Paul pulled back, lifting his head like he'd done something wrong.

"What?"

"You don't know how to do it, don't worry about it." It was just a guess, but Peter figured it was a good enough one. And that wasn't all of it. He didn't think Paul would give himself enough leeway for a screw-up. Perfection or nothing.

Paul hesitated.

"But-"

"It's okay, man." It was hard to think past the blood pumping straight to his dick, going untouched for now, but Peter was managing, barely. The brief image of Paul with his lips around his dick was promising enough, the lead-in for a dozen jerk-off fantasies already. Maybe more than that. "Just-c'mon, let me-"

He tugged Paul back up, helping him peel off his t-shirt, then his jeans and underwear. Taking him in like this, with no girl between them, didn't feel strange or wrong or any of that bullshit; it felt good, every shed layer lending Peter more skin to touch, making him more certain of everything. Despite the concert performances, despite the threesomes and the locker room showers, he'd never really gotten a sense of Paul's physicality before. Now that Paul was straddling him, hair hanging in his face, mouth pressed to his neck, his ear, Peter could really see it all, the wide, powerful build of his chest before it bore down against Peter's, his arms, taut and muscular, tensing as Peter's hands tightened around them. Paul's cock brushed against his, sending a jolt of electricity through Peter, and then he was grinding up against him, their hips flush, flesh against flesh. Peter was cursing before long, the stimulation maddening, almost agonizing because it wasn't quite enough. Paul seemed like he sensed it, reaching over, taking both their cocks together in one hand-but Peter shook his head.

"I've got a better idea."

"Yeah?" Paul's fingers rolled up against his cock just so, the pressure of his hand and his dick incredible enough that Peter almost changed his mind. Looking up at him, that slightly-sweaty brow, those dark eyes, dilated and needy, Peter nodded, fingers closing on Paul's wrist.

"Yeah. I already know you can jack me off." An exhale. "Get on your back and I'll show you what I can do."

Paul let go of him. There was a little consternation somewhere in his expression, a hesitancy Peter tried to erase, hand running down Paul's hairy chest, fingers tweaking a nipple, but Paul did as he'd asked, grasping Peter by the shoulders and rolling them both over. Peter shifted, repositioning himself on top of Paul, putting his hands beneath his thighs. Almost immediately, Paul stiffened up, started to try and lift up his legs. Peter pushed them back down before he could.

"Nah, we're not doing that. Don't worry." Peter watched some of the tension fade from Paul's face, curiosity replacing it. "Spread your legs out a little. there, now." He slid his dick between Paul's thighs, tip right up against Paul's taint. He didn't need to instruct further. Paul's mouth tilted in a distracted grin, his thighs closing tight around Peter's dick-and from there, Peter started to thrust, the soft warmth surrounding his cock nearly overpowering.

Paul was finally making a few sharp sounds as Peter's thrusts sped up, thighs squeezing hard against his cock. The sounds got louder, turned into curses, turned into strangled attempts at Peter's name. Between Paul's moans and his own urgency, Peter couldn't think, his pace speeding up, every brush against Paul's cock, every tensing of Paul's thighs pushing him closer to the brink. He came with a cry, spurting hot between Paul's legs, Paul still urging him to keep going, just a few more, a few more. He managed, grunting, shuddering with exertion as he kept thrusting. Beneath him, Paul looked out of it and focused all at once, dick throbbing against his. So close. Too close. It was seconds before Paul came, quieter, spilling all over them both, head lolling back in the aftermath. Peter was still panting as he slid his cock out from between Paul's slick thighs, as Paul put an arm around him, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, before finally meeting his lips again.

The Gay Kitchen's final evening went well. Ace and Gene had brought dessert-a box of oatmeal creme pies and a gallon of cheap Neapolitan ice cream-and they'd served it along with the hot dogs and stale chips. A beer apiece, except for Gene, who got a Sprite from the machine downstairs in a rare spendthrift moment. Paul's come-ons and gropes weren't any heavier than the night before, but there was a warmth and a relaxation in him that was new to Peter. A softer look to his expression he'd only been privy to late, late at night in the hotels, just before he drifted off.

Peter liked that. He liked that a lot. Feeling that, maybe, something of Paul's might be reserved for him. That maybe he'd be let in for more than an afternoon. He thought he might be. He figured he would be.

They didn't fool around that night. They didn't really have the time to. Once dinner was over and Ace and Gene had gone back to their room, Peter took a shower, and then he started packing, too-aware of how quick check-out came. Particularly when they were headed straight down to the bottom edge of Florida tomorrow, a solid ten or eleven hours on the road, to play at some college or auditorium or-something. Peter was just glad Bill had secured them another handful of tour dates, no matter the location.

He tossed his makeup kit and street clothes and shoes back into his suitcase, fiddling with the wobbly latches, tracing the crack down one side. Ten to one the damn thing would break before they got out of Atlanta, but maybe he could tie a scarf around it or something to hold the luggage together. He turned to Paul, who was sitting on the floor next to him with his own ratty suitcase half on his lap, about to ask him, but Paul spoke first.

"You forgot your heels."

"I didn't. They're in the laundry bag with everyone else's."

"Not the ones that go with your costume. The other pair." Paul pointed under the bed. There they were, three-inch platforms he'd barely worn all tour, neatly placed. He didn't remember putting them there.

He pulled them out, a piece of paper under one heel catching his eye. Setting the heels aside, he picked up the paper.

"Paul?"

It was the drawing of his dick. Paul hadn't thrown it away after all. He glanced over at him, and Paul smiled, a little bashful. That hopeless smile he hadn't been able to plaster on a single promo picture, more endearing and elusive than any sketch.

"It's for you. I don't know if I'd frame it, but."

Peter felt himself grin back.

"Are you kidding? It's the best drawing of my dick anyone's ever gonna give me. I'll keep it forever." Peter held it up, examining it anew. "There's only one problem."

"I thought you were done critiquing my art."

"Hell, no." And Peter handed it back. "You gotta sign it for me."

"I initialed it-"

"Sign it. Make it worth a million bucks someday." Peter didn't think he'd stop smiling as he leaned over, tousling Paul's hair. "You can even add the star."

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley x peter criss #peter criss #paul stanley

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aliemah · 4 years

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Get to know me????

Once again... tagged by @helmet-princess ages ago and I’m only now getting around to it:

Rules: answer these questions and then tag blogs you would like to know better!

Nicknames: A stretched out pronunciation of ‘Rachel’ like how it is in Pet Semetary (blame my co-workers for that one), and Ray-ray which was placed upon me by my friend group in the 4th grade when we all decided it was MANDATORY to have nicknames.

Zodiac: Aries.

Height: tall enough.... to be considered 5′5″ OR approximately 165 cm

Time: 6:25 PM

Fav band/artist: PFT UHHHHHH... Yes. I’ll go with Rynx.

Song stuck in my head: Boys by Lizzo (it’s so catchy y’all)

Last movie I saw: In theaters? I think it was the Han Solo movie. At home? Enchanted.

Last thing I googled: Where did Walmart start (my brother and I were messing around in google earth and he thought it started in Arkansas. Fun fact, it started in Rogers, Arkansas!)

Other blogs: Nope. All my shitposting goes directly here, to mingle with my collection of fanart and fanfiction.

Do I get asks: rarely. but I love getting them so send me more.

Why this username: It was the name of my first real original character and it looks elegant and I just really like it a lot okay?

Following: 152

Average amount of sleep: I sleep in shifts so like.. collectively maybe 12 hours but otherwise it’s like.. 8 hours and then a sort of 4 hour power nap sorta deal. I tried the whole “sleep all at once” and my body just doesn’t like it so I do the naps.

Lucky number: 6

What am I wearing: denim shorts and a hot pink tank top with NO bra because we give zero fucks about tucking these beautiful tits away

Dream trips: For an immediate future: Disney World in Orlando, Florida. More long term “someday when I have lots and lots of money to throw around” I would say just a giant tour of Europe or even a trip to Japan/South Korea.

Favorite food: It’s a toss up between chipotle bowls and lemon pepper chicken with plain white rice.

Instruments: I learned how to play guitar in elementary school and piano in high school for a semester. Otherwise no.

Eye color: Brown baybeee

Hair: also brown but I’m (still) debating whether I want to color my hair fire truck red (debating because my hair is like... halfway down my back so there’s a lot I’d have to color) .... (also I may or may not be debating getting it cut super short)

Aesthetic: according to buzzfeed, I’ve got mega e-girl vibes and aesthetic but honestly I vibe more with the Bella Swan a-la New Moon when she’s discovering how to have fun again.

Languages: English, I can vaguely recall/speak French and I started learning some Spanish via duolingo but the owl got really scary so I stopped.

Most iconic song: Country Roads because it just makes me feel so good.

Random fact: DID YOU KNOW on the Apollo mission to the moon, they sent up a geologist (whose name unfortunately escapes me) and he got so excited upon seeing ORANGE SAND on the moon and brought some back? It looks really cool, it’s little orange and black and transparent spheres.

I’m gonna tag NO ONE because this is a long thing, but you can go ahead and say I tagged you if you want :D

#about me #about the blogger #personal #aliemah #tagged

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neioo · 6 years

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Fanfic Rec! ( • ω • )

Rules I’m constraining myself to: I’ve either had to read the fic more than three times and/or have thought about it years in the future. (This means I’ll have to leave out some other fics I really enjoyed reading and thought were well written)

A bunch of different fandoms will be under the cut! (as I expose what I ship across the board too lol)

We’ll Meet Again by George deValier (usuk) (complete)

This is the first fic of george’s that I read, and I’ve read it multiple times, and it’s been integral in my shaping of characterizations within my own hetalia fics. I could include all of his works, but this one stands out the most. I also listen to the vera verse songs and get extremely nostalgic, so there’s that

WW2 AU. London pub owner Arthur Kirkland is driven to distraction by loud, brash American fighter pilot Alfred Jones. Unable to stop it, Arthur finds himself falling for Alfred’s charms… just as the pilot is preparing to leave for war.

Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue… by anonymous (pruaus) (unfinished)

This fic is odd in the sense that I found it while suddenly getting on a pruaus kick, during which I followed a bunch of pruaus people on tumblr. Eventually, I would find out years later that I was going to the same college as one of these people and become friends with them. So not only does this fic have a nostalgic tie to it, I find the story brilliantly written with wonderful characterization, though it is in a weird format.

Inspired by the film 500 Days of Summer, I’d really like to see a couple meet and fall in love, but eventually one (or both) ends the relationship because they realise it’s not working/they can’t imagine spending their whole life with this person/what have you. I’d really love to see how the relationship develops, with the happy times and the eventual bad times as it falls apart, and then the hope of finding love elsewhere.

Redeemer by CocoaCoveredGods (L x Light, Mello x Matt, Mello x Light) (complete)

I can’t tell you how happy I am that I found this fic after 6 or so years. I can’t tell you how nostalgic is makes me for my death note phase, remember when I would read this in my mom’s office, minimizing the fic on a laptop I hope she never checked. The writing is phenomenal. The format on this site is wonky, but doable to read. (I’m even reformatting it myself right now). It’s mostly everything I could have wanted in a death note fic; it even inspired my own very complex death note AU back in the day. In some alternate reality, I wrote that instead of AWH. I plan to maybe make a personal paper copy for myself of this fic I love it so much. It is on the level of George’s stuff on how much it means to me.

The story takes place *after* Death Note ends, although the main characters have not died. Here the Yellowbox Warehouse is essentially the pinnacle of L's 6-year long offensive against Kira, who believes L to be dead, when he really isn't. L faked his death, and proceeded with the case behind the cover of his three top heirs, Mello, Matt and Near. Kira himself doesn't succumb to his defeat, but is instead rescued at the last moment by his nemesis lover who decides that a more apropos end to the God of the New World is not death--but redemption, in the form of a new case and a 5th so-called Kira, that L and Light must bring down together... or risk losing everything. Yes, there is actually a plot LOL Buuuut, this puppy has yaoi and pairing's aplenty. LxLight and MelloxMatt are technically the mains, but when you cut straight down to it, this is a story about Light and Mello and how they go from hate to need, from enemies to lovers, and maybe even something more...

and indeed there will be time --orginally by lawlietismyfavorite, but they have since deleted their account :’( (the fic is still on AO3, though!) (L x Light) (unfinished)

I love death note, okay? After the beautiful live action series came out (the recent japanese one not that fucking netflix shit), I felt the need to read some fanfic of the series again, and I found this. HOLY SHIT. It’s a soulmate AU that goes through the plot line of the manga/show and fuck. Light is Ace?? The writing is so good??

L is the greatest detective of not only this century, but of six centuries. And then there’s Light.

Between the Lines by Klitch (Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki) (complete)

I’ve read this fic about 5 times and have accepted it as canon for this stupid show

The first time Yata saw him the kid was sitting in the corner of the cafeteria all alone with his bought lunch spread out before him, painstakingly picking out the vegetables and stacking them according to color and size.

Picking up the Pieces by SilverThunder (Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki) (complete)

I really like K. It’s a weird show, and it has copious faults. Maybe I just really like that the characters have so much potential, and this fic (as well as the one above) truly expands on that potential. This fic is an excellent exploration of these two character’s relationships, there’s just the right amount of angst. I’ve read it multiple times.

A whole year, gone from his head just like that - and how many memories could you fit in that time, anyway? It wasn’t a question Yata thought he’d ever have to ask, but with so many things changed between Saruhiko and himself, he wasn’t about to leave it alone.

It just sucked that the new world they’d built was still so easy to break.

to be first, to be best by kittebasu (chanyeol) (iwaoi) (complete)

haikyuu!! is odd for me because I don’t care about it anymore, but I really like this fic, and I’ve read it about 5 times. The characterization is on point, and the story is extremely well written.

Hajime is apparently something of a masochist, and as he stares down at the tie-dyed AREA51 T-shirt in his hands, he thinks“I’m totally in love with this asshole, aren’t I?”

Cat's Cradle by evocates (Fujioka Haruhi/Ootori Kyouya/Suoh Tamaki) (complete)

every new years eve, since 2011, my brother and I have watched Ouran High School Host Club. for the past 4 years, I have read and re-read this fic without fail in the days after

Kyouya had been able to see the red threads between people’s fingers since the day he was born. A song of fate, and the breaking of. Tamaki was a man who could never be predictable. Vague spoilers up to Chapter 63.

"Relationship Stuff" by arokitty, Ponderess (shinara) (complete)

This fic helped me realize I was asexual. It’s beautifully written.

"Relationship stuff" — that's what Yasutomo kept calling it on the occasions we discussed how things were going between us. He never failed to say it dismissively, as if it was an annoying plague he was forced to put up with. But even when I told him that he could opt out of it at any time, he did not pull back.

[lithromantic asexual Shinkai, aromantic asexual Arakita, quasiplatonic Shinara]

You Really Ought To Know by isengard (midotaka) (complete)

I really like this ship, and out of all the fics I’ve read of it, this is the one I adore the most (obviously enough to read it three times)

The Fates have an important message for Takao Kazunari.

A Gradual Fall by grassandcitrus (originshipping) (complete)

This maybe isn’t the best written fic, but it has a lot of heart, and for a ship that there is little content for, this fic served me well. It’s hard to write a realistic pokemon AU, but this feels grounded. For whatever reason, this ship still means a lot to me, so when I get in the mood for it, I’ll re-read this fic.

Meeting Wallace turned out to be a life changing event for Steven. He realizes that pretty early on. Other things, however, come with time.

The Punchline and the Resulting Silence by youremyqueen (thiefshipping) (complete)

from the author: “so i went ahead and wrote ygotas fic because, hell, if LK can record videos in which he vocally flirts with himself while playing video games, and then write gay porn about it, I sure as hell can write gay porn about it too.” yeah.

In which Marik destroys many household appliances, Bakura naps doggedly, and they sometimes pretend - with very little success - not to be in love. (YGOTAS, thiefshipping. ridiculousness meets poeticism meets more ridiculousness.)

Six Days As Boyfriends by sitabethel (thiefshipping) (complete)

I just really like this ship and I have since I was a 14 don’t @me

In order to avoid talks of arranged marriage, Marik convinces Bakura to trick Ishizu into thinking that they're in love.

The Longest Job & The Smallest Favor by emanthony (hisoillu) (complete)

everyone in like march-ish of 2018: omg in the new update of hxh illumi says that he and hisoka are engaged!

me having watched 10 episodes of hxh 4 years ago and having a faint idea of the series: who?

me: *looks up fanfics of them*

me: *finds these two*

me: *proceeds to read them 15 times and gets obsessed with the ship*

Illumi is forced out of the Zoldyck estate and seeks a living arrangement with an associate. He's not altogether pleased with it.

Hisoka is a floor master at Heaven's Arena and has the unexpected pleasure of spending time with one of his oldest acquaintances. He doesn't share Illumi's frustrations.

///

A sequel to the Longest Job, another HisoIllu fanfiction.

Hisoka and Illumi have been living together for six months now without much trouble. But when Illumi's youngest brother goes missing, Hisoka manages to make the situation just a bit too complicated and much more fun.

Lessons in Etiquette by KnockKnockBadminton (promtis) (complete)

I knew nothing about this video game but for whatever reason decided to look up fanfic for it after seeing some fanart, and then because this one was so well written, I, again knowing absolutely knowing about this video game or the series it’s a part of, binged the entire 164k fic in like two days. I’ve also re-read it and convinced my brother to buy the video game as a result. He refers to them as the “leather boy band” and sends me updates about his play through lmao

Begins in high school. From Prompto's desire to befriend the sullen, bullied prince blooms a relationship even the Astrals themselves could not have foreseen. Basically fills in the gaps from Brotherhood to the fall of Insomnia. Some liberties taken.

say it like you mean it by spaceburgers (takuleo) (complete)

Ever since playing the video game, I loved the dynamic between these two characters, and this fic is a wonderfully crafted and fun to read AU staring both of them.

Wherein Leo is a transfer student, Takumi is overly competitive, and they're doing Romeo and Juliet (but not as the titular roles).

#the hour i spent doing this was fun c:#miscellaneous #the fandoms are uh..#hetalia. death note. k. pokemon. yowyapeda. fe fates. hxh. final fantasy.#ouran high school host club which i know that's spelled wrong #haikyuu.. kurko no basket. and yugioh.#lmao that's a mixed bag #anyway \o/ feel free to check them out but i also made this for my own reference haha

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princeasimdiya12 · 6 years

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Piqua Falls Part 2

So here is part 2 of the Captain Underpants Gravity Falls AU created by @tornrose24 along with @jackie-sugarskull @nintendogamergirlexe and myself. But we highly encourage any and all fans of CU and GF to participate in this AU either by sharing ideas for characters, potential plotlines or funny memes and fanart. This is an open discussion that all are welcome to join in on. The first part along with the last reblog can be found here.

Ooo yes. Definitely. Absolutely. Weird Al would be a perfect fit for the Several Times boy band and the gang would be hyped to see and interact with him. Since there’s no cloning of any kind, would you like there to be some other abnormal activity that he’d be involved in or him just being himself would be more than enough of the adventure?

And okay, I’ll be fine with Sawyer as Abuelita. I’m not sure where that post was where you made the comparison but I’ll be sure to find it.

I can see Erica wanting to work at the Mystery Shack despite Krupp being an overbearing and ruthless boss. She needs a challenge to test her endurance and mental capabilities. And it would be fun for her to rub it in Krupp’s face when she shows how capable she is. I also have some thoughts on what her character arc would be about. I was thinking that she’d be like a foil to George who is also an academically smart kid who has what it takes to achieve higher standing and seeks challenges that are stimulating to her. She represents George but if he was focused more on himself and what he could accomplish rather than just having fun in the moment and not accessing that potential. And to add on to it, he also has his close friendship with Harold which gives him more reason to have fun and not think of himself as much. Thus, Erica would come off as more detached from other kids her age. She’s friendly and willing to interact with them, but she doesn’t have the same bond as the boys have with each other. It’s something that perplexes her and sometimes she feels jealous that George has something he deems more valuable than his own potential. (And it would be cool if she was hiding some of her own secrets. Particularly if she conveniently found a way to deal with the monster of the week that no one sees coming. Do you think she’d be part of the same government agency that Rhee and Yewh work at, thus setting her up as a potential Judas? Or is she from another dimension who is trying to keep Piqua Falls safe from the imminent threat of ‘He Who Must Not Be Named’. Because you end up laughing for hours on end if you hear or speak his entire full name.)

I’m really happy that you love the ideas! And I think that would be adorable! I love that Bo and Gooch would get to show off their musical talents. I’m not sure if the Bobeesas would allow it, what if as part of their mansion party, they hold a talent show in their mansion encouraging the youth of Piqua Falls to come and display their musical talents for the town and uppercrust. Bo and Gooch already have their banjo-organ duet set up but they take a drastic turn when they meet Annie Manda Presto (animando presto which is Italian for ‘to be fast in spirit’) a fierce girl with a serious attitude and a protégé opera singer. So while the boys try to get her attention for music advice, they also start to worry about their own music and may end up in conflict over the other’s musical taste. As for Harold, I take it that something happened in which Billy had to uphold his end of his deal with the devil which ended up crushing Harold either because of what Billy had to do or some misunderstanding. The gang tried to take him to the party to get his mind off of it but he was still in a slump. That is, until a mysterious masked boy with an aquatic necklace offers him his hand to dance…

You also make a valid point regarding Anthrope. It’s hard to imagine her being as insane or deadly compared to McGucket. Although her having emotional mood swings would definitely help her in that regard. (It’ll be kinda like Junko going through her personality changes in the last trial right @jackie-sugarskull ?) But if you’re not completely sold on Anthrope for the role, we can always change her for someone else.

That totally makes sense for Melvin. He’d be an established rival of the Shack since he’s trying to win over the public with his mechanical wonders. Made even more wonderous when he finds the second Journal and uses it to his advantage. His reputation in the town is often tarnished thanks to George and Harold publishing comics about Melvin that demean him and paint him as a laughable dweeb (this is one of the few times Krupp is okay with them making comics and even offers to copy them himself so there’s plenty for everyone). I’m thinking that he would end up creating his own monsters of the week in order to terrorize the gang while also trying to find a way to break through and learn of the Shack’s secrets. He’d still have his obsessive crush on Erica and would try to woo her with his smarts and superiority. And Erica returns the gesture with a knuckle sandwich.

Ooo I just had an idea. What if Krupp originally hired Melvin to help him rebuild the machine after he learned from the papers about him being a prodigal genius when it comes to inventing. So he brought him over to the shack with the promise of him being the next Einstein if he could figure out the machine and get it up and running. To Krupp, it actually seems like a miracle since the kid is a whiz at machines. But just because Krupp hires him doesn’t mean that the partnership is easy. Melvin is as insufferable and nitpicky as ever while Krupp doesn’t want him to ask too many questions and wants him to get it done asap. So while Melvin looks around the computer room, she comes across the Author’s loose notes and personal entries where they discuss the machine in vague terms while also referring to the danger of Poopypants as a powerful cosmic entity. Something clicks to Melvin that he becomes drawn to the entity and learns about the other journals which can lead him to personally communicate with him just like the Author did long ago. But Krupp realizes what’s about to happen and doesn’t want a repeat of his past mistake. So he stops Melvin from leaving with this new info by using one of the memory wipes left lying around. Thus, Melvin no longer remembers anything about the portal or him working for Krupp. But he knows that something big is hiding underneath that primitive shack and he wants to find out what it is. And fortunately, he already knows where to look thanks to a note book page he stashed on himself that reveals the location of Journal 2.

And after that scuffle, Krupp becomes even more secretive regarding the portal and the shack itself. Even if the boys make fun of him for it, no one is learning his secrets on what’s underneath the shack. Huh, I’m honestly seeing a lot of symbolism regarding the crummy shack that everyone knows and sees followed by the secret portal that no one knows about and how it harbors his darkest secret.

Awww that’ll be adorable. And if they do time travel back, then they may just meet only CU. If CU lived in Piqua Falls his whole life then Krupp wouldn’t have been around at the time. Unless of course he came to visit for a reunion of sorts thus giving the boys the chance to meet both men at the same time. Aww now I’m imagining CU in his cape and underwear trying to ‘help’ people while freaking them out.

I’m really glad you like that zodiac sign for him. Lol And for the other characters, maybe we can include Lisa’s who’s symbol would be a musical note. Or the emblem belonging to her family which has a musical theme. Billy’s would be a seashell with a star in the middle; the shell representing his heritage and the star to show how his wish inspired him to change in different ways.

THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS SPOILERS THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN, TEENS AND ADULTS WHO HAVE NOT YET WATCHED GRAVITY FALLS. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

Ahh I see what you mean. Well if necessary we can base them on the villains that are directly from George and Harold’s comics both in the book series and the animated series. ( The Wicked Wedgie Woman, the Egg Salad Manwich, the Turbo Toilet 2000, the 3 Robo-Boogers, Sir Stinks A lot, the Jorts Alien, the Socktopus, Jessica’s evil twin sister Messica etc.). As for Edith, it would make the most sense considering that neither she nor Krupp would willingly throw their frustrations at each other like the Stan twins. To quote Phineas Flynn, “Yes, yes we do.” And in all fairness, it’s hard not to make him suffer considering all the messed up things he does to everyone in every adaptation of CU ever. He brought this on himself and we’re at least thoughtful enough to give him a happy ending in any AU. Provided that he works for it. :p And yeah, Edith isn’t one to hold a grudge so she’d be willing to let Krupp into her life. But she does need a lot of time to readjust to every that happened in her absence along with ensuring that Poopypants isn’t successful in crossing over.

*ominous Latin music plays in the background even louder*

Ahh alrighty. Either way, it still sounds like a great outfit idea. :)

#captain underpants #gravity falls #piqua falls au #tornrose24 #jackie-sugarskull #ninentdogamergirlexe #cu au #george beard #harold hutchins #mr. krupp #erica wang #melvin sneedly #professor poopypants #bo hweemuth #gooch #ms anthrope

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primaryconsumer · 7 years

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#Handers Secret Satinalia

To: arwingyoshi Prompt: Hawke and Anders dancing alone in the bedroom. Bonus points if Justice gets involved somehow (fic prompt) Title: Simple Solutions Rating: G Warnings: N/A

I intended on only doing fanart for this exchange, but i was frustrated by not being able to tell the story in illustration alone, so i wrote my first fanfic in 10 years to go with it! Three Illustrations throughout the fic, enjoy!!

It had been in the room Hawke occasionally lent him on nights too cold or dangerous or weary to return to his Darktown clinic after a long day solving problems for strangers. The Mansion had been nearly empty when Hawke had deemed it safe and sanitary enough to move in. He and his mother had few possessions after their flight from Fereldon, and certainly not enough to fill a Hightown mansion.

Luckily Leandra knew this place, aged and altered though it was, and she often passed the time exploring the cellars and store-rooms, delighting in small things that the slavers had overlooked or simply thought worthless -but nothing was worthless to Leandra, whose husband and only daughter were dead, her youngest son conscripted by the Wardens, and her only remaining child risking his life daily.

And so it was that Anders was not particularly surprised to find the little lyre-harp on display on the mantle as he stoked the fire one particularly frigid night in the dead of winter. It was still early despite the dark, and he was feeling jittery with nerves for having accepted Hawke's invitation to come to the mansion.

Truly, the walk from the Hanged Man to his clinic would have been shorter, and with the sickening heat of the sewers, it would have been much warmer than the icy steps to Hightown. But Hawke had offered and Anders, perhaps a little drunk, had imagined Hawke offering him other things too.

He’d sobered quickly once out in the cold, fingers numb and nose surely about to shatter right off his face. Hawke, furnace of a man, was not even wearing extra layers. The only indication of the subfreezing temperatures was the flush to his face and neck. It was no wonder that it didn't occur to Hawke to pull Anders in close for the heat. He must think Anders perfectly warm with his thick coat, his collar pulled high to shield his ears from the biting winds.

Still, Anders couldn't help but feel disappointment as he retired to his room early. If not in Hawke's lack of reaction to his rather desperate (and admittedly subtle) glances, than disappointment in his own inability to be honest about his intentions.

Guilt crept in as he listlessly took the small instrument down from its place above the hearth. He strummed without purpose while searching within himself for the strength to either make his feelings for Hawke known or to give up entirely.

He found himself wishing for dialogue with Justice. His friend's naiveté surrounding human nature was not good for providing advice, but, sometimes being forced to break his motivations into simple terms so that the spirit could understand was more helpful than the biased opinions of a mortal friend. Now that they were one, however, there were no more careful requests for clarification that often guided him towards a delightfully simple solution. Aside from flares of emotion that he was relatively sure were not his own, or the occasional inability to drop a train of thought, Anders was alone.

Anticipating a long and lonely night spent hiding in this borrowed room, Anders attempted to focus on the Lyre in his lap. His fingers had reflexively been playing something, and as he listened he was pleasantly surprised to find the tune familiar. It had been many years since he had played anything at all and frankly he was shocked at the accuracy of his fingers on the wires, the ease with which the song grew in complexity as he played.

As the song progressed and he still hadn’t fumbled even one note, He began to suspect that his memory of the instrument was being augmented by unnatural means. Anders laughed aloud as affection for his old friend surged within him, a short, clipped thing that would have embarrassed him if overheard.

Soon Anders was playing with a skill he knew was not his own, having never been more than a mediocre musician at best, even when he had the opportunity to play semi-regularly. Knowing that he was not controlling his own hands should have frightened him, but this was nothing like when he almost. . .

. . . No. Instead this felt like a gift, a reminder of a simpler time in his life. It was one of the few pleasant memories he had of growing up in the Circle. On cold nights when the dark came too soon and none could focus on their work when it felt so late despite being so early - on those nights the mages would gather. Someone inevitably began playing some song or another under the guise of teaching an apprentice how to work the instrument, and in no time at all there would be a small band going.

Even the templars hadn’t complained at the happy display. Sometimes the whole tower would fill with music, a strange orchestra formed from mismatched instruments and songs from across Thedas combined into one merry show. There was dancing, and singing, and –

Anders stopped short, heat rising to his face as he suddenly realized that Hawke was in his doorway. How long had he been watching Anders get lost in memories? He'd surely been making a horribly embarrassing face as he played -it was nearly impossible not to, even when he had played regularly but now, while thinking himself alone and completely lost in memory? fuck!

But Hawke was smiling at him with gentle eyes. If Anders allowed himself weakness, he would have called the man's expression 'dreamy.' If he allowed himself to be weak he would interpret that dreamy expression as affection. Maybe even affection towards himself.

Instead, Anders falls back on his defenses, feigning confidence and forcing a smirk, "Bewitched, Hawke? Careful! While I do believe Justice is in control of my hands just now, I don't want you flirting with demons to gain such skills. He's only taking advantage of my muscle memory, so unless this Lyre is yours, which I doubt because then why isn't it in your room, then-"

"You're babbling, Anders. Do you know any other songs? Something a bit livelier?" Hawke was laughing now and were it anyone else, Anders may have made a show of being offended by the interruption, the demand, or both. But this was Hawke- the man who was everything he wanted, for himself as a partner and for mages as a representation of how things should be. Raised in a family with three of the five members possessing magic, only vaguely aware of any templar threat. He took joy in his abilities in a way so few who had lived Circle life were able to -and that joy was contagious. Unlike so many free Mages, Hawke listened to Anders. When he learned of the plight of Circle mages he didn't look the other way in favor of the privilege he'd enjoyed. He supported the cause as best he could, or as best as Anders would allow him. Maker, Anders would do anything to protect that smile.

..That amused smile which caused his face to heat when he realized that he'd been lost in thought. He stammered and fully intended to deliver a smart reply - except as he prepared a biting remark, Hawke dropped heavily onto the edge of the bed next to Anders, knocking shoulders with him and nearly causing him to drop the instrument he was still holding only loosely.

Without hesitation, Hawke placed a hand on either end of the Lyre without removing it from Anders lap, leaning farther into Anders's space as a necessity. He turned to speak, a conspiratorial grin on his face, and said simply, "Now play for me, Anders."

Anders wanted to close the distance between them, and he nearly did - but for reasons that felt eerily out of his control, instead of kissing Hawke senseless, his fingers again began to play. Something that started simply but built into a fast jaunt that had been popular on the more rambunctious nights in the Circle. It soon had him tapping his foot and had Hawke laughing with delight.

It was awkward, watching his hands play while Hawke seemed to focus in on the lyre itself - which was too small to be held comfortably by two adult men - but somehow not a note went wrong despite the speed required by his fingers that still felt stiff from the lingering cold.

When the song was complete and the strings of the lyre were finally still again, Hawke snatched the instrument out of his hands and stood so quickly that Anders nearly fell into the space that had been occupied by the heavy man a moment before.

He watched Hawke place the lyre back on the mantle and Just as a sense of disappointment was again settling tight in his shoulders, wondering what he had done to end the intimate (if awkward) interaction between them, Hawke extended a hand to him in a clear invitation.

Curious, and definitely not blushing up to his hairline, Anders took the offered hand. Hawke was strong for a mage, but Anders was still surprised to find himself in the man's arms faster than he could register the movement that got him there.

Hawke laced the fingers of his right hand with Anders' and grinned up at him, "And now I'll show you one of my skills, which I promise required no Demon's help to learn" Anders may have been blushing after all.

With his free hand, Hawke glanced towards the mantle and made a quick gesture that Anders missed entirely, overwhelmed by the slight stretch in the webbing of his fingers caused by Hawke's much thicker fingers wedged in tight, by the intense heat of the shorter man, and of course by the pressure of Hawke's dense form pressed into his sternum.

And so Anders was caught off guard when the first few notes of the song he had just played rang out into the air. Transfixed, he watched as the lyre strings plucked themselves. He looked back at Hawke who, if possible, was grinning even wider than before, "How ..?"

His confusion was rewarded with a bark of laughter and Hawke’s free hand now on his hip. "My father used this trick whenever mother was angry with him! The spell stores a memory of movement within an object"

As the tempo increased Hawke began to move and brought Anders with him. Anders was tense only for a moment before he realized that the man he had been pining over for the better part of three years was dancing with him. Alone!

Anders let himself be led around the small clearing in the room and silently thanked Justice for providing a delightfully simple solution to the problem that was Garret Hawke.

#handers #anders #hawke #mhawke #m!handers #Handers Secret Satinalia #justice as a nice friend #my art #my writing

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loving-jack-kelly · 7 years

Text

Newsies Boyband AU!

Now first of all I would call them the Newsboys but like...that’s a real band that exists so idk what their name would be

But anyway! Boybands! Fun and cute and lots of wiggle room!

Crutchie

lead singer

beloved by his bandmates and by most fans but every once in awhile there’s that one fan

Idk I just think Charlie is overrated....he can’t sing that well, Jack has a nicer voice, and I think he only gets to sing lead because of his leg :/ I’m not ableist or anything, I just don’t like him

Mostly Crutchie ignores things like that but once in awhile he wonders if they’re true

Jack

lead guitar/harmonies

very much the Hot Onetm but people tend to overlook his talents

designed the logo and does all of the shirts and album covers but doesn’t make that public knowledge

the Crutchie Bashers usually use Jack as an excuse and Jack is having none of it he’s a master vague tweeter

I love all my bandmates and everyone is perfectly suited to what they do, from lights to vocals!

I feel like people forget Crutch and I have been best friends since fifth grade and I have videos like this cause if they didn’t they’d ask for more [video of Crutchie singing The Wizard and I at a middle school talent show]

he loves singing harmony, and only sings lead if somebody makes him. two songs in their repertoire include him on melody

Race

the drummer

(haha guess who still likes EYDW with all his heart?)

he’s the Wild Onetm but everyone adores him because he’s cute and funny

Racetrack Higgins Highlights:

“So I was like, fuck it-wait shit I can’t swear in interviews-fuck! Dammit, sorry, I-” “Race just stop talking”

he broke a snare during a concert once and put it on his head like a hat

pictures of him kissing everyone in the band, on crew, and even fans on the cheek but it’s because that’s what he does. In Italy. That’s how you greet people. and it just carried over

always wears a necklace with a shark tooth. gazes into the distance when asked where it was from and responds with, “I’ll never forget her.” Actually bought it Wings on a day off in North Carolina

changes hair colors every other week. fans go to two concerts in two days. first one he has bright red hair. next day it’s bright blue.

slowly acquiring more piercing until one day they’re all gone.

“Lmao you though those were real? I cried when I got a single ear piercing.”

then people think his tattoo is fake and it isn’t but it’s ridiculous. like literally the word “THOT” on the back of his neck. Spot dared him to.

so people love him even though he’s wild

Spot

designs sound for recordings and live shows

most fans only know him as the one goading Race on

but once in a while somebody recognizes him in the sound booth and is like “ahh, that’s who he is”

also secretly write lyrics sometimes but asks to be credited as “Sam Carlson” so his poetic writing doesn’t ruin his tough guy image

which makes people think of all these crazy theories as to who Sam Carlson is and why he writes songs randomly for the band

is the only reason Race hasn’t gotten lost on tour in a gas station

is the one who set up the Walkie Talkie system that keeps everyone organized

the star of Jack’s snapchat story half the time but never caught doing anything strange? people just know he’s awesome and says funny things

is the one who adopted the cat and resulted in him being named Asshole but it was an accident

Katherine and Sarah

managers and lighting designers

really cool and really gay

every time they’re doing a show around a Pride parade time or during Pride month there are rainbows and other flags everywhere

Sarah is also in charge of PR after the Incident of Race accidentally DMing a fan who’s username included Jack’s name something along the lines of “sup fuckface where are you everyone else is here and you’re the one who said he was bringing the good stuff”

by good stuff he’d simply meant the Purple Doritos but the fan didn’t know that and it took a while for people to let that go

People think Jack and Kat are dating for a long time because they’re always together

it literally took like fifty pictures of Kat and Saz kissing before people stopped denying how gay she was

Davey

plays bass but also violin and other related string instruments

sometimes sings a third part but not usually

people don’t give him much credit until there’s a new song

which starts out really slow and is only Jack singing and Davey playing cello but mid song it picks up and Dave changes instruments really fast like in the space of one beat to violin and goes really hard and the song tops the charts for weeks because it’s like crazy good

“yeah I’m a classically trained violinist, I just usually have more fun on bass” “...” “but i like that song a lot, most times I’m on violin it’s slow and boring”

that song is also when most of the Crutchie Bashing started because it was the first really popular one that featured Jack on melody since only Jack sang

Their shows are legendary for being good like the vocals the instrumentals everything is always good

they got their start in college where Crutchie got them into one of the theatres and it was just for fun

but Race, the wild one even in the very beginning, realized that they were actually really good and signed them up for some show like America’s Got Talent or something like that

and while they didn’t win overall, they did get enough attention to get a record deal

and then they just EXPLODED and became the new big thing

which kind of freaked all of them out a little bit because what has started as fun music with friends was suddenly paparazzi and crazy fans and people wanting to know “when is it what is it where is it how are you will you” about their songs

but they mostly acclimated pretty fast

Crutchie had the hardest time because while he’s friendly he’s also a but of an introvert and needs his privacy which was suddenly a lot harder to find

like most boybands, instantly there were Those Fans who shipped people

the most common one became Jack and Race because they seemed like the ones most likely to like each other

really though it was Spot and Race, who balanced each other out, and Jack and Crutchie, who’d been in love for years and only figure it out when people started trying to ship Jack and Race which made Crutchie really jealous, and the people who nobody knew as well like Specs and Romeo, Kat and Saz (at first they became better known later), etc

they get a really good rep with people because they’re always willing to take a selfie or like fanart as long as it isn’t creepy, or answer questions

Jack hosts monthly Q&A sessions on his snapchat and each time it’s somebody new

so like the first one is Crutchie, then Davey, then Race, then Katherine, then Sarah, the Romeo, etc

They don’t come out for a long time but one day they’re performing in a town where there's this big news story about a gay kid getting harassed at school and they know the kid is there because it was the only positive thing they found on his twitter, so they all come out together like the entire band and crew

“So we’ve heard about some of the stuff that’s been going on here, and we want everyone to know that we don’t agree with it, at all. In fact, things like that effect us, too. I’m not the most eloquent speaker, but if you’re hurting today because of who you are, of how you’re born, know that you’ll always have support with us.”

And Jack kisses Crutchie in public for the first time which leads to Race stealing Crutchie’s mic and yelling something about “get up here asshat we can’t let him show us up!” and then suddenly every single couple involved in the band is on stage being proud of who they are

the kid who was getting bullied cried and then they invited him backstage and he cried more and it was really sweet and they stayed in touch

After that the Discoursetm is horrible around them for like, months

“reminder that Jack is dating Crutchie and shipping him with Race is not cool”

“reminder that we can ship whoever we want with whoever we want and it doesn’t cause harm”

“stop calling Jack bi when he’s gay, don’t erase his identity” (jack retweets it with the added caption “I’m bi as heck actually everyone is pretty and it’s not fair :)”

“they’re just faking it for attention!!!1!!1″

after a few years they announce it’s their last tour and people are like “oh no, what happened, did people start fighting?”

and their answer is “no but we’re like twenty eight now and honestly just want to get married and settle down”

except for Spot and Race who plan on going around the world in eighty days and then getting a dog and doing it again with the dog

or at least, that Race’s plan, Spot just honestly wants to stop moving around and settle down a bit, but maybe not get married yet

So the band breaks up and people are kinda sad but every time they’re all in one place, which is pretty often since they’re all best friends, somebody snapchat/instagram/twitter/youtube gets a new video of them messing around

Jack and Davey out out a solo album and it’s really good

Crutchie gets coerced into releasing a Christmas album and it’s funny

and Davey makes a Hanukkah album that’s him playing and singing traditional songs that he sang growing up and it’s gorgeous

Bonus: Red Carpet Tidbits

because I have a lot of feelings about Crutchie’s style

Crutchie gets known for never wearing a normal tux like it’s always custom done and never just black or navy

also his makeup is always On Point like crazy good and people are like “tell us your secrets” and he’s like “lol cvs and years of practice and makeup tutorials from YouTube”

Jack wears normal suites but there’s always a twist

the first was the time he actually just spilled paint on himself in the suit bc he’s an idiot but there wasn’t time for a new one so they ended up just going with it and it looked pretty okay

and after that he get’s suites from like Macy’s modified to look better on him and to add cool things

also his hat game is pretty terrific

he’s also a total hipster and people know it

Davey wears totally normal red carpet men’s attire but lets Crutchie do his makeup and look absolutely gorgeous

Race wears crazy stuff

like you know the Great Comet ensemble costume design? probably things like that. formal wear turned into punk style things and he pulls it off and lets Crutchie do his makeup too

the best picture of the band is from like, the Grammys or some award show like that where Crutchie is in a purple suit, Jack is wearing a beanie and a jackson pollock styled color splashed suit, dave is looking fine in a perfectly normal suit and SUPER Extra but good makeup, and Race is like barely clothed but still obviously supposed to be wearing a suit like thing and like a foot shorter than everyone

#Asper talks too much #txting #yet another au nobody asked for #boyband au #newsies au #newsies hc #newsies #i forgot to finish this pls reblog from me and not other people thats so embarrassing

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