#Small Tattoo Time Lapse

[besttattoomasters]

Small Tattoos, Small Tattoo TimeLapse, Small Tattoos For Men, Small Tatt...

[halfmoth-halfman]

a designer dress from heaven and your dirty wedding ring - prologue

Pairing: Mob Boss!Price x F!Reader Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: none Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: it's finally here, the mob boss!price series! before we start, i want to give a special thanks to the fabulous @mvtthewmurdvck for letting me rant and rave about peaky blinders while i work on this series, to the amazing @valkyriesregalia and @bubble-dream-inc for reading and giving me feedback, and of course to @uselsshuman's discord girlies for hyping me up and giving me inspiration, i love you guys 💜!! || next

You’ve never been inside the famous club, The 141.

Your father had mentioned it to you a few times when you were a child; you remember the admiration— and jealousy— that laced his voice as he weaved tales of smoky backroom poker games and men who’d skin you alive for looking at them wrong.

You hadn’t believed him then, assuming it to be like all the other fairytales and war stories he told from that worn leather armchair— exaggerated tales meant to teach you lessons he himself never followed.

Now that you’re here, though…

You’d expected better security.

It’s almost laughable how easy it is to get inside. With no one at the front and the doors left unlocked, you waltz into a vision straight from your father’s imagination— all deep red velvet and hazy air carrying the scent of cigar smoke and danger.

It’s surprisingly modern with a vintage feel to it. You should’ve expected as much, but you still find yourself impressed. You weave through the round tables and plush chairs— elegantly decorated with brilliant red flower centerpieces sitting atop white silk tablecloths— making your way to the center of the spacious room.

You have the perfect view of the stage from here— directly in the center. It’s gorgeous: hardwood polished to perfection and bordered by thick, velvet curtains— even in the bright white of the blaring house lights, it’s a sight to behold.

“Um, you can’t be in here— we’re closed!”

The voice startles you, but you maintain your composure, turning slowly—non-threateningly— on your heels with a wide, unassuming smile. A long, half-circle bar stretches across the wall opposite the stage, just up a small set of stairs and past the various game tables, lined with golden railings. The wall behind it is completely covered in shelves of alcohol— some you’re well-acquainted with, some you recognize from your father’s private collection.

And there, gathered at the far right end of the black-quartz bar, are three men dressed in black, staring back at you.

“No one told me,” you smile, gesturing towards the front of the club, “and the doors were open.” The men groan to themselves, then mumble to each other. They glance back at you occasionally; you keep your polite smile taking in the rest of the club as they speak.

“Well,” one of the men— the American one behind the bar with a colorful sleeve tattoo and impressive facial hair— clears his throat. “We’re still closed regardless. One of the boys can see you out.”

The other two stand, the handsome one with light eyes and a brown mohawk making his way toward you.

“I have an interview-” all three pause, shooting glances at one another in silent conversation. You dig through the pockets of your denim jacket, pulling out the folded paper and holding it out to Mohawk. The room lapses into silence, so you add, “S’posed to meet with the owner about a singing gig?”

That takes the man behind the bar by surprise.

Mohawk takes the paper from you, unfolding it to read it over. His brows shoot up, eyes scanning the worn words. He turns, holding the page to the third man—the one with short, curly black hair and a scar on his left cheek— who takes it and skims over it. He glances between the paper and you, between you and the paper.

“I’ve got this,” he addresses the other two.

British, huh?

Not what you’d expected.

“This way,” he smiles at you, all charm and politeness as he folds the paper back up and leads you toward a section of booths tucked against the wall off the right side of the bar. You follow, smiling at Mohawk and Bartender as you go.

You slide in across from your interviewer, taking him in as he settles with his hands folded atop the table. He seems young, maybe a few years younger than yourself, with dark skin and kind, brown eyes.

But you can see the sharpness behind those kind eyes.

You know better than to trust a friendly gaze— your left shoulder aching at the reminder.

“Not gonna lie…I thought you’d be older,” you joke. He arches a brow, curiously narrowing his eyes. “You just seem a little young to own a club.”

“Ah, you caught me,” he laughs. “The owner’s my father, but I handle most of the staffing.”

“Oh! Well—” you extend your hand out to him, “—pleasure to meet you, Mr…?”

“Garrick, but you can just call me Kyle.” He shakes your hand, firm but not too strong—clearly practiced. You retract your hand, letting it fall into your lap. Kyle stares at you expectantly, and you give him your best smile.

It’s only a few seconds, but the silence is almost unbearably awkward.

“And you are?”

“Oh, shit. Right.” Heat floods your cheeks; you hope you haven’t fucked this up already.

“Canary.”

“Canary?” He sounds like he doesn’t believe you; you don’t blame him— you wouldn’t either.

“Yeah, like the bird.”

“I’m familiar.”

“It’s…it was an inside joke between my parents that they ended up liking a little too much,” you explain.

“That’s…sweet,” he smiles, a little less taunting now. “Is there a…last name too, Ms. Canary?”

“No,” you reply immediately, “just Canary.”

“Okay then, Ms. Canary-like-the-bird, do you…have a resumé?”

“Yes, I do.” You dig through your bag, pulling out your resumé and handing it to him. Kyle gives a hum of thanks, reading through it with those sharp eyes.

You hope it’ll do; it took you three whole hours to get it done last night.

“No references?” he asks, briefly glancing up at you.

Shit. You knew you forgot something.

“I…mostly worked solo,” you lie, “but I have a couple cards for people I’ve collaborated with.” You reach for your bag like you’re ready to dig through its contents. There are some cards in there; you’re prepared to give him those, but you’re not prepared to explain why a singer would’ve previously collaborated with a real estate agent and a tattoo parlor that’s been closed for years.

“That’s alright,” Kyle says.

Thank god.

“Have you worked in other clubs before?”

“Just one.”

He looks up, waiting for you to elaborate, but you stay silent, smiling back and adding a few bats of your lashes for good measure. He laughs, quiet and to himself, looking back at your resumé.

“I’ll have to run this by my dad—” He sets the paper down, eyes skimming over it once more, “—is there a number we can reach you at?”

“I don’t have a phone…not yet, anyway.”

Kyle looks up at you, surprise evident, but he masks it with impressive speed.

“Alright, Ms. Canary, one more question for you.” He leans back in the booth, arms crossed over his chest as he looks you over— taking in your appearance bit by bit and committing it to memory.

“What are you running from?”

“I— what?” The smile falters slightly, but you see his eyes dip down to your lips, and you know you’ve been caught.

“No last name, no references, no phone…”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“And we haven’t used these—” he holds up the flyer you’d brought with you, “—since I was a child.”

You drop the smile, hands slowly clenching into fists in your lap— your nails drag across the ripped denim of your jeans to dig into the meat of your palms.

“I’m not running, just…” you pause, searching your mind for the right words. ”Starting over.”

Kyle keeps his eyes trained on you, not moving a muscle. You can tell he wants more information.

If you weren’t so desperate…

“My ex was super shitty, and the divorce got real ugly—real fast,” you sigh. “In the end, I let him have whatever he wanted just for the chance to get out, and, as it turns out, he wanted everything. So…here I am.”

There’s a beat of silence before Kyle lets out a low whistle. “My condolences.”

You can’t help but laugh, a small weight easing off your shoulders.

“Well, the bad news is this flyer’s ancient, and we aren’t looking to hire entertainment at the moment. But the good news: we are in need of a cleaner.”

“You pay in cash?” you ask, noticing the twitch of the corner of his mouth as he bites back a smirk.

“We can keep it off the books, no problem. When can you start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Perfect.”

[profoundbondfanfic]

Hi! I was wondering if you could recommend some post-canon fics where Dean and Cas fix up a house together and basically live happily ever after? Thank you!

Hello! Yes, here are a few we've enjoyed!

A Second Grace by sometimeswelose [Mature, 26k words] (Cas is in the Empty for most of the fic, so they don't necessarily fix the house "together" but Cas eventually joins Dean and they get their happily ever after)

Cas dies and Dean starts referring to himself as a widower. This is somewhat confusing for everyone involved.

Best To See These True Colours (Than To Follow One Of Your False Virtues) by ImYourHoneyBee [Explicit, 34k words]

Two months after Team Free Will beats Chuck, Jack brings Cas back and Dean wants so badly to respond to Cas's confession in the dungeon, but to do that he needs to shed a lifetime of trauma, self hatred, and internalized homophobia. After moving in to a farmhouse with Cas, Dean secretly starts going to therapy every Thursday afternoon. He also starts working on getting the tattoos he always wanted in an effort to reclaim a body that he's only ever seen as a tool. or Cas stole Dean's favorite Zeppelin shirt, Dean steals it back, Cas steals it again. A shirt-theft war like nothing you've ever seen ensues. The entire family takes sides. Is it foreplay? Yes. Is it good clean family fun? Sometimes. Are Jack's god powers used unwisely in the name of the Zepp shirt battle? Yeah, probably. Is Dean messier than a sloppy joe? Nooooo, not at all.

Fenario by ftmsteverogers [Explicit, 47k words]

“We did good, Dean,” Sam says. “We got him back.” Dean huffs a hollow laugh, because yeah, that’s always what it’s about, isn’t it? Cas or Sam or Dean getting themselves lost or dead, and then taking turns dragging each other back from the brink. He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “We got him back, yeah,” he says. Sam nods, watching him. “So now what?”

Kriah by ioascc [Explicit, 54k words]

Dean can do this. He can. He can raise Jack Kline, Lucifer’s baby. No, not Lucifer’s… Cas’ kid. Their kid. With his mother gone, and Castiel dead, Dean finds himself hanging on by a thread. Castiel has died so many times on him, Dean is half-convinced himself that Cas will return to him. Dean evades the pain of the truth, carrying on in false hope until his soul renders into a million pieces. He learns quickly that taking care of a newborn is not for the faint of heart, sleep-deprivation, grief, and feedings rule most of the early days. During this time, Dean is forced to build a new life for himself. With a new name and identity change, Dean becomes a Dad. Something Castiel would be proud of. Dean cooks, he cleans, he reads, he sings his ABCs and 123s, and ultimately Dean does his best for Jack. It’s not until Jack grows into a small child that Dean feels like he can breathe again. The grief no longer suffocates him. His new life has meaning. He sees family and he allows himself to miss Castiel. To mourn him, to love him in death. And when Jack goes to school, Dean is once again reunited with friends and enemies from his past.

Talk Some Sense To Me (Kenopsia) by ImYourHoneyBee [Explicit, 244k words]

Scrambling to his knees Castiel hugs back, burying his face in Dean’s neck, breath coming in fast little pants against his skin. Dean closes his eyes and just breathes him in, barely able to believe that this is real. At any other time in his life, closing his eyes against a threat like Death would be an inexcusable lapse in his hunter’s judgement. Right now, he doesn’t give a single fuck. Death can reap him for all he cares, he’ll die knowing Cas is going to be ok. Alive. “I will see you soon, Dean,” Death tells him, that deliberate voice of his soft enough not to intrude on the intimacy of the moment, “Raincheck on that grilled cheese.” “Thank you,” Dean croaks, propping his chin up on Cas’s shoulder, unmindful of the tears trickling down his cheeks, “Thank you.”

take the bones, begin anew by JustStandingHere [Mature, 103k words]

“What else was I supposed to say, Sam?” Dean asks him. “I’m not...look, Cas is my best friend, and I care about him. That’s it.” “And you renovated a house for him,” Sam continues. “And live with him.” or: a year in the life, in which it takes some time, but they figure it out

take the long way home by dothraki_shieldmaiden [Explicit, 95k words] (it was written before s15, so it's not canonical, but it does feature post-canon and dean and cas fixing up a house!)

Three months ago, when Dean decided to retire, he thought his life was going to end up differently. He'd thought that he might get to have it all, Sam, Cas, Jack, and nice little place to live. Instead he gets Sam and Jack off on their Summer of Love Tour, radio silence from Cas, and a never-ending road trip consisting of himself. Still reeling from the loss of his grace, Castiel travels the country in search of hunts. Driven by a need to prove his usefulness, he pushes himself beyond all limits of endurance. Together, with the help of a few friends, a crumbling Victorian house, and a stray cat, Dean and Castiel patch themselves back together and create a home together.

There's Only One Sure Thing That I Know by blinkiesays [Explicit, 20k words ] (it's not post-canon but they get a house together)

Dean doesn't even get halfway through explaining before Bobby starts laughing. When he lets himself think about it for more than five seconds, Dean can almost see Bobby's point: he's faced down demons, witches, vampires, werewolves, ghosts, angels, and Satan himself and now he's been defeated by the God damn Midwest.

[zeenmrala]

━  A SLICE OF THE NIGHT ♡

pairing: oc x oc / mimi mirage x indika promia  rating: mature, 18+ only  word count: 2.6k song: cologne, beabadoobee summary: popstar mimi mirage and bounty hunter indika promia take their friendship to the next level when they share their first kiss a/n: space lesbians have been all i can think about this pride month. i’ve been collaborating with my dear friend @pumpkinmischief who created indika and the art for this. we’ve crafted a tragically beautiful queer love story between our two star wars original characters. you can view the artwork that accompanies this little fic here, it’s a stunning piece inspired by the classic lesbian make up meme lol. ily piper, you are an incredible artist and i’m so grateful to know you.

“i’m not done yet, please kiss my neck”

Everybody in the core worlds knows that Coruscant never sleeps. However, there are a few short hours deep into the night when the metropolis-planet is lulled, and it seems to briefly doze in a disturbed half-slumber. It is during these hours when the sounds of traffic lapse for long enough that it can justifiably be described as quiet, when the bustling crowds disperse into such sparsity that the streets can be considered deserted. The world itself slows down, and for two young women this slice of the night is theirs, and theirs alone. They sit at the window of an apartment in the high mid-levels, looking up and across a vast dreaming city as they drink, smoke and reflect. Their girlish laughter echoes between the towering buildings. 

It’s an infinitely better view at the window, because Mimi Mirage’s new apartment is a total mess. There are boxes everywhere, half of the walls glow a soft glitter pink, and the rest remain a bland grey, the painting and decorating left unfinished. Empty bottles litter all available surfaces of the kitchen-lounge, and there are clothes and beauty products strewn about the floor. There are trunks overflowing with pink garments, headpieces, heels and jewellery. Half built furniture is dotted around the rooms, the effort to construct them left abandoned.

Mimi hasn’t had a chance to unpack or finish decorating, because she is hardly ever here, and because she is exhausted. Her rise in popularity correlates with a rise in bookings, appearances and performances, and she has danced, sung and charmed her way through five sets in two days. She has finally come home to her apartment, bringing her best friend Indika Promia with her. The two of them are lounging in the small window, smoking tabac cigarettes, drinking and winding down from a few very intense nights on the Coruscant scene. The pair always look forward to debriefing in these dreamscape hours of the night alone together, and it isn’t the first time Indika has stayed the night. But something feels different tonight, as though the spark between them is flaring, burning brighter than ever before.

“I seriously don’t know how I stopped myself from killing that handsy Iktotchi guy,” Indika scoffs as she shakes her head. She pours herself a small glass of Spotchka from a bottle at her side, then takes a drag from her cigarette, the amber glow of it illuminating her pale, tattooed face. 

“Oh my Stars,” Mimi giggles as she recalls the man in question, swatting Indika playfully. “You didn’t need to! There is no way he is ever coming to one of my shows again. You scared him to death.”

“Good,” Indika says. “He was a total asshole.”

“He really was.” She tries to take a toke of her cigarette but notices that it’s gone out, so relights it. “His friends were all super weird too.” 

“How does someone as pretty as you attract such sleemos like him?”

“Awh, I dunno.” Mimi shrugs. “It’s not so bad though. You’re here after all.”

Indika smirks, the cig hanging lazily at the corner of her lips. “Good one, dumbass.”

Mimi cackles and sips at her drink that definitely isn’t Spotchka, but her own personal take on a Coruscant Cooler - the classic cocktail made a little sweeter, and a lot pinker. 

“Indi you glared at him like a feral Rancor and I totally thought he was gonna kark his ugly-ass pants. I just know he saw his life flash before his eyes when you grabbed him.” She finishes and stubs out her cig, shakes out her lekku behind her and giggles.

“If I ever see him again it’s on sight,” Indika grumbles before draining her glass and flicking the stub of her cig out of the window. “These bastards need to learn to keep their hands to themselves. I don’t care how many bones I have to break to get the message across.”

Mimi snickers and drops to her feet, offering her hand to help the shorter woman down from the window. Indika accepts as Mimi says, “So true. Are we in the double digits yet?”

“Easily. My last bone-break count was 32. Mainly fingers though.” 

They both laugh playfully, but then there is a slight pause as they notice that their hands are still clasped. 

“Thank you for protecting me.” Mimi smiles softly. “Like, seriously. I love having you around, Indi.”

“You got it sweetheart.” Indika has a curt smirk on her face again. She nods, and then squeezes Mimi’s fingers. “I love being around you too.”

Indika then releases her to grab her bottle of Spotchka and pours what remains of the glowing blue liquid into her glass. She looks up at Mimi, who is sneering at the drink in Indika’s pale hands.

“I can’t believe you brought that foul shit into my apartment.” She stretches her arms above her head dramatically as she groans. “It’s so gross.”

“Alright booze police,” Indika says dryly, then drains her glass in one go, and slams it upside down on a box to her left. “There, it’s all gone.”

“Smartass.” Mimi folds her arms. “You’re such a stereotype, my little bounty hunter.”

Indika wipes her mouth with her wrist and winks. “Shut up. You love it."

She flashes Mimi a grin and then slips past her to the refresher and Mimi follows her. She leans in the doorway and as she watches Indika wash her face, she rants about how early she has to get up in the morning to attend a meeting with a potential sponsor. Then as Indika begins to dry herself with a towel, Mimi pauses.

“Wait, how have I never seen you without make-up before?” she asks, her heart skipping at the realisation, taking in the raw beauty of Indika’s bare skin as she appears from beneath the towel. She hides her awe by scrunching up her face and jokingly says, “Oh Gods, I hate it.”

“You little bitch,” Indika chuckles and throws the towel at her. 

Mimi dodges it and screeches. “Eek! I’m kidding, I promise!”

Indika rolls her eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with that mean Pantoran friend of yours."

Mimi nods and scoffs. "You're probably right. She's busting my ass."

"...Is she a problem?" asks Indika rather seriously. 

"Champagne?" Mimi shakes her head, checking herself out in the mirror. "Nah, she just works too hard and worries too much."

Indika rolls her eyes as if to say yeah right, and Mimi playfully pushes her shoulder. "Don't be so protective. She's fine. You don't have to worry your pretty little horns over Montana." 

Indika's lips curve into a smile, and Mimi pecks her cheek with an exaggerated Mwah! then grabs her toothbrush. Indika picks up her own, then raises her finger at Mimi, indicating for her to wait, and as the Twi’lek raises a brow in confusion, Indika pulls out and taps on her datapad, blasting one of Mimi’s party tracks. The two snort and laugh, and begin to dance around each other, impish and drunk as they brush their teeth, giggling and bumping into one another to the music. At one point, Indika trips over and lands clumsily on her ass, and Mimi almost wets herself from laughing when she helps her back to her feet. After they have brushed their teeth, Mimi watches as Indika undoes and then replaits her braids, telling Mimi about where her next job is likely going to be.

In a moment of silence, Mimi compliments her. “You are so stunning, Indi.” 

Indika looks at her curiously, and then softly smirks at Mimi’s sincerity. 

“You do know that I think you are the most beautiful person in the galaxy, right?” the Twi’lek continues with a sultry air, leaning closer into her. She runs her pink hand down Indika’s braid, then trails it up to her jawline, and ghosts her index finger across the length of her facial tattoo. She then tucks a piece of hair that hangs across her eyes behind her long, elegant ear. Mimi tilts her head slightly, observing her hands on Indika’s face. “I like how my skin looks on yours.”

Indika’s mouth falls slightly open in disbelief, and she looks up at Mimi with a mix of adoration and anticipation. “You really think pink’s my colour?”

“Yeah, actually. I really like pink on you,” she rests her hand on Indika’s shoulder, then drags her fingers across the exposed skin of her chest, debating whether or not to give into her desires and dip into the softness of her cleavage. “Well, my pink anyway.” 

Indika’s hands have come to rest on Mimi’s waist during this interaction, and her purple nails tease at her soft skin. She notices Mimi’s soft gasp at the contact, and begins to lower her fingers. 

She wants to feel those hips: the hips she has watched Mimi sway night after night beneath bright pink lights. She wants to caress the dips at the top of her legs that flash from beneath her skirts when she dances. The warmth of those thighs…

Indika’s thoughts are interrupted when she notices Mimi’s face lighting up, and she knows at once that the pop-star has had one of her ideas.

“What are you thinking, Mimi?” 

She looks like she is about to burst with excitement. "I want to do your make-up."

“My make-up?”

“Yes!” She claps her hands. “Let me do a pink look on you."

“But I just took mine off.”

“So?”

She smiles. Though she wasn't expecting this tonight, Indika is rather intrigued at seeing one of Mimi’s iconic looks on herself. It could be fun. But what really sells her is being up close and personal with Mimi, her fingers on her skin, her breath on her face.

“Of course, Mi. Do my make-up.”

“Let’s get more comfortable,” Mimi exclaims in victory, as she takes Indika’s hand and pulls her into her bedroom, the contents of which is a just mattress on the ground surrounded by more beauty products, clothes and jewellery. She encourages Indika to lie down on her back, as Mimi scurries around the room grabbing the tools to work her magic.

Mimi climbs on top of Indika, her legs either side of the smaller hybrid’s hips. The skin of their legs touch, the two wearing a mix of their undergarments, clothes and sleepwear. Indika feels Mimi squeeze her between her thighs, and a rush of heat caresses her spine.

“Close your eyes,” Mimi instructs with a whisper, and Indika does, her heart beginning to race as she senses Mimi close to her face. She is attentive to the gentle movements of Mimi’s fingers and the make up brush she uses, appreciating how soothing it feels as she begins to softly work the pink makeup across the pale skin of her eyelid. 

Mimi then notices the tender caress of Indika’s palm on her leg, and gasps as subtly as she can, the softness of Indika’s fingers triggering a swarm of warmth beneath her pierced belly button. Mimi tries to ignore her sudden and vibrant desires, and begins applying the make-up to Indika’s other eye. But the heat remains, and she is distracted enough that she accidentally flicks some neon pink make-up on Indika’s forehead. 

“Oops,” Mimi says with a giggle, wiping away the excess eyeshadow she spilled across Indika’s eyebrow with her thumb. She moves a piece of Indika’s hair aside, slightly brushing against the base of her right horn. Indika takes a sharp breath in, the softness of Mimi’s fingers there causing her to thrum with equal parts heat and weightlessness.

Indika’s eyes flutter open, her violet eyes irises now gazing up at the Twi’lek mounting her. Mimi looks back down at her in awe, her lekku resting in front of her shoulders. She is relishing in the touch of the hybrid’s hands on her skin, the warmth of her palm, the dexterity of her fingers. She wants to tell her to keep going, lower, lower, lower…

“You’re so pretty, Mimi,” Indika whispers, the sweet words are heartfelt, sincere. Her hand begins to slowly trace upwards, lingering at Mimi’s hip, tracing the waistband of her shorts. Mimi holds her breath and blinks softly, the tension between them charged and thick, brimming with intimacy. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, her insides fluttering with lightness. She smirks through her nervous anticipation, a sultry smile painting her pink lips as her desire for the woman beneath her soars. She tosses aside the make-up brush and leans further forward, her arms resting either side of Indika's face.

“Do you really think so?” she asks coyly, hopefully.

“Yes,” Indika says. Her lavender gaze washes across the Twi’leks face as her fingers trail back down to squeeze the softness of Mimi’s upper thigh. A charged pause, and then:

“Kiss me, Mimi.”

Mimi whimpers softly as her suspicions are confirmed, and is enthralled to be able to finally kiss her best friend. She shuts her vibrant eyes and leans closer, ghosting her lips on Indika’s. She kisses her softly at first, and Indika inhales, her hands gripping Mimi tighter, sliding up from her legs to her hips and waist. She shifts upwards, taking control of the kiss and deepening it, slipping her tongue into Mimi’s mouth. They both moan, the kiss a sweet relief from the beautifully taught tension that has been brewing for too long between them.

Indika suddenly breaks the kiss, and Mimi whimpers at the loss. Then she swiftly flips the two of them around, so that Indika is on top of her. Mimi gasps as she slides her leg between her thighs, and Indi groans as she feels the warmth of her lover through her shorts. Mimi sighs at the flare of lust unfurling in her lower back, and her legs open further of their own accord, inviting Indika into her, desperate for her touch.

“Indika…” she mutters between kisses and moans, her hybrid lover grinding her upper leg into Mimi’s heat. “You want me?”

“I want you,” Indika confirms, pulling back to look at her. She’s so glorious beneath her, with her light blue eyes sparkling in lust, the remnants of silver make-up glittering on her skin, her lips plump and glistening from Indika’s kisses. Indi glides her palms down Mimi’s lekku, which make her shiver and writhe in heated despair beneath her. “Let me show you just how much I want you, pretty girl.” She teases a finger at Mimi’s mouth, lightly pulling at her bottom lip. 

“Please,” Mimi begs. Indika indulges her, pouncing on her and planting hot, wet kisses on her neck, trailing her hungry lips down her lean body. When she reaches her chest, she helps Mimi sit up so she can peel off her shirt, freeing her perk, pink breasts. She circles her small nipples with her tongue, flicking her piercing against the sensitive flesh. Mimi groans, arching her back and pushing her breast further into her lover's mouth. Indika begins to suck on her nipple, which leads into licking and lapping at both of her breasts. She trails her tongue and teeth up to Mimi's neck, nipping and marking her skin with the depth of her desire.

Indika is enlightened at the taste of her skin, sweetened by the remnant scent of her floral perfume. She nudges her thin nose against the base of Mimi's sensitive lekku, and purrs when she feels Mimi become undone beneath her.

"More," Mimi whimpers, needy, desperate. "I need so much more of you, Indi."

"I'll give you whatever you want," Indika promises. "I'm going to make those pretty lips sing for me, Mimi."

Mimi hums in satisfaction, and the two of them indulge in one another, exploring the blossoming sweetness of their bodies for the first time, truly making the night their own with decadent kisses, wild hands and dripping lust.

-

tagging some friends in case u r interested: @stardustbee @kimageddon @sinisterexaggerator​ @frogunderarock​ @grinningnexu​

[dolydoe]

ive seen so many ianthony fanfics talk about the ‘ the hot one and the funny one ‘ joke and its impacts, so i wanted to test write something using it !

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ◌ ｡ ˚ ♡

ianthony fluff — can be implied romantically or platonically ! ( test writing )

The star-lit sky softly illuminated the pair. Their bright eyes lost in its beautiful trance , watching at how gradually began to grow darker , almost as if it was a time lapse . But beauty came with its cons. one being that they had to use eachother as heat sources to fight the cold air . ( not that either of them minded )

Several minutes had passed by until Anthony finally tore his eyes away , instead looking at the boy rested against him – Ian hecox , who was a much prettier view anyway ...

Blue eyes met brown . Anthony smiled instinctively , watching as Ian nervously flickered his gaze to his own hand.

" is that a new tattoo ? " Ian asked, filling the silence , his voice laced with curiosity . Tracing said tattoo lightly .

" sure is . why , you like ? " Anthony spoke confidently ( maybe too confidently ) causing the other to chuckle quietly .

" yeah yeahh whateverrr .. its cool . And dont let that feed into your already too big ego " Ian responded playfully, poking his finger into Anthonys chest , making him gasp nd nudge the smaller .

" well my ego has a reason to be big !! whats ur excuse ? " Now it was Ian's turn to dramitically gasp .

" wowww ! calling me ugly now ? who knew the 'nice' nd 'sweet' Anthony padilla was actually the 'mean' nd 'moody' one all along .! " the two broke out into laughter, yet Anthony had a sense of guilt pang him , Even if it was all in a joking spirit

" nono!! im just saying you dont see how much ur worth " the curly haired added, tone softening .

Ian's smile faltered as he shifted slightly, tilting his head , confusion clearly getting to him . " how much i'm worth ?? i dont get it . "

“ um- well ,, i just don’t think you know your worth as much as you should . i mean, you know that joke is nothing more then a joke right ?“ Anthony spoke gently, and he knew he didnt have to elaborate on what 'that' was. Seeing as the other nodded along , averting his gaze .

“ yeahh . . yeah, i know . i still get like- impacted by it i guess..? but , im growing , im learning .. and i hope you know that you are funny ant . " Ian finally looked at Anthony, showing his seriousness .

" i know that , and your gorgeous ! " The two shared smiles , soon after turning to that same sky freckled with stars . Subtly reminding them of the time .

" late night takeaway ? " Ian suggested with a small smirk , Anthony couldn't help but chuckle at that .

" late night takeaway . "

[wesperbrekkered]

Tagged by @crowpricorn

Rules: Pick any ten of your fics, scroll roughly to the midpoint, pick a line (or three) and share it. Then tag ten people.

Flair for the Dramatics-

He could feel Jesper fidgeting beside him, could just about see Jesper’s tail flicking in the water beneath him. The flickering orange light cast a hazy glow over the green tail, making the gold flash even brighter. His eyes tracked over it greedily, tracing each golden vein individually until –

He frowned.

“Jesper, what is that?”

Lost on the Shape of You-

A blur of Wylan’s mouth pressing to every scar and tattoo that marked his torso. A blur of Wylan’s hands dipping lower, lower and then gone way too soon. A blur of Jesper’s own breathless complaints, of that aching pool of desire left unsatisfied and burning.

Never Let Me Go-

“You know an awful lot about Peter Parker’s life story,” Jesper said slowly, with the hint of a smile. He barely even knew that much about his own life. Wylan grinned mischievously, “I have a stupidly innocent face so everyone loves to tell me their secrets.”

And Jesper, so caught up the past, said without thinking, “yeah, but I kinda like your stupid face.”

Little Stolen Moments-

Wylan made an understanding noise, and then lapsed into silence again. The easy orange light from the streets below them caught in the curls of his hair, making them look like they were dipped in molten gold. The stark shadows from the darkened room highlighted his high cheekbones and sharp jawline. He looked effortlessly breathtaking, even in a faded spiderman shirt and plaid shorts, sitting tiredly on an old countertop.

Of Lies and Rash Decisions-

“I thought you said you don’t know how to dance,” Wylan complained, but he tightened his grip on Jesper’s shoulder and followed his next step without prompting.

Jesper grinned, “oh I really don’t!” He turned them both, so that Wylan now faced the pianist instead, “but it doesn’t matter! Just dance, no one is going to judge you in the damned Barrel little prince.” Little merch.

Wylan huffed out a laugh, relaxing into Jesper’s arms, “we’re going to look like idiots,” he warned, moving with him smoothly. Jesper snorted, stepping back, “we always look like idiots, might as well have fun at the same time.”

Out of the Blue-

Jesper had never wanted love, marriage, after his mother's death. He’d come to ketterdam and found that even though he thrived on the thrill of being wanted, the pure, glorious feeling that came from being desired, anything more than a night of fun was too scary.

Too big, too complicated, too much of a risk for things to crash and burn and leave him broken.

Wylan was different.

You got me wrapped around your finger (not that I'm complaining)-

Wylan sighed but he obliged, turning on his heel so that was facing the target. He lifted the gun, using both hands, and braced himself the best he could. Jesper watched the movement of his hands, tightening and loosening its grip on the revolver, thin, musicians fingers curled around the handle in a way that made Jesper’s cheeks burn. He swallowed, cleared his throat and looked away.

Cool it Fahey.

You drew Stars around my Scars (And now I'm Bleeding)-

Wylan made a sympathetic noise and then crawled back up his torso so he could press their foreheads together, his hands on either side of his face, thumbs tracing small circles on his cheek. Wylan may have gotten his mother back, but he still remembered how it felt to lose her. Still experienced the pain that comes after. “I’m sorry,” he whispered and Jesper snorted without meaning to, “don’t be apologising, you didn’t do anything.”

“I know,” he said softly, “but I get it.”

Jesper knew he did, and that alone made things a whole lot easier for him.

Just You and me Merchling-

Wylan nodded, gripping onto Jesper’s thigh with a tightness that almost hurt. Jesper took a deep breath, repositioned his stance over him, and gently, as gently as he could, he pushed the bullet into the open wound.

Wylan screamed, throwing his head back against the floor, flailing his arm that wasn’t gripping onto to Jesper. “Fuck,” he cried, squeezing his eyes shut as a sob forced his way out of his throat, “shit, Jesper what-“

Of Merchlings and Letters Home-

Wylan’s hand was soft and warm when Jesper took it in his own and it took everything he had not to get lost in the feeling of it. He raised it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the freckled knuckles, “the deal is the deal,” he murmured against his skin, not breaking eye contact. The clearwater blue of his eyes were utterly addictive to fall into and even more intoxicating with the way Wylan’s intense gaze pinned him into place. Wylan didn’t look away, even as a ruby red blush inched over his beautiful cheeks. Even as he didn’t notice the burning on Jesper’s own.

The game had only just started and Wylan had already won.

Well hell.

Tagging: @mezlymilsposts @sophieslifeboat uh, anyone else who feels like doing this hehe

[vacantgodling]

comfortable

wip: uh doesn’t really have a name atm. supernatural dads lol

character(s): hue rvynwell & jihan. mentions of esther when she was a babie :’)

just a lil piece talking about how jihan really got COMFY around hue and how endearing he finds it. it’s p early in their relationship then like a year or so after they got married so like. nowhere near present divorce time lol. just sweet and sappy and 1am thoughts :)

It was around their third date when Hue started to notice.

Instead of a loose button up with rolled up sleeves, and hair dark and slicked with gel, Jihan entered the small diner in a sweater with what could only be described as fuzz clinging to it, with his roots beginning to show. A peachy brown. His hair wasn’t slicked back, just fluffy and mussed, and Hue felt his heart seize more violently than the first time they met.

He looked so comfortable.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jihan slid into the booth and their knees knocked together. Hue tucked a stray lock of his hair behind his ear and shook his head with a chuckle. “Too lazy to get dressed up for me?”

“Figured I’d start showing you my true colors.” Jihan’s fanged grin made his heart flip flop. “See if I scare you off.”

“You won’t.” Hue snorted. “You gonna get more than just a blood shake this time?”

“You payin’?” Hue gave him a pointed look and he couldn’t stop his smile when Jihan laughed. “Teasing babe, I already promised I’d treat you.”

“You better. I didn’t bring my wallet.”

“Oh~?” Jihan cooed. “What if they card you for your baby face? Tell me you at least have your ID.” Hue kicked him under the table, eliciting another laugh. “Fuck you, geezer.” Still, he let the vampire snag a menu from him and they lapsed into easy conversation, to the soothing pitter patter of rain against the diner window.

#

Nowadays, Hue was so unused to seeing his vampire dressed up.

He took in the sight of his little family. Jihan, with his hair fully fluffy and brown and falling into his eyes, dozing with their tiny daughter curled like a little burrito on the center of his chest. The sweater he wore was especially soft fleece, the kind Esther like to nuzzle into. His sweatpants rode low on his hips, revealing a sliver of one of his many tattoos. The only noise in the room was dull TV static of some children’s movie he knew Jihan threw on to help their daughter sleep. Hue’s heart swelled. Their daughter. Theirs. His vampire. His.

Loosening his tie, he crossed the room towards where they were laid out, shrugging out of his suit jacket. Hearing his movements caused Jihan to stir, and he peeked open one eye to find him. The bright sliver of crimson was comforting in the dark room.

“Hue?” He whispered, and Hue was at his side, kissing the sleep off his lips and humming at the flavor.

“Missed you.” Jihan murmured against his lips. “Come cuddle.” Hue laughed softly, so as not to wake up Esther. “Let me change first.”

He felt Jihan pout against his lips, but he kissed it away until it smoothed out into a blissful smile. The sun was beginning to crest on the horizon, and before heading to their room, Hue drew the curtains tighter to make sure no light would bother his sleeping doves.

He quickly threw he suit across an armchair, deciding he’d deal with it later. Forgoing a shirt, he pulled on a pair of Jihan’s sweats, scratching his thick happy trail as he reentered the living room.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, letting it wash over him. Just how comfortable they were. How domestic. How much he loved—

“Get over here!” Jihan whined and Hue couldn’t help but laugh. He crossed the room and sidled up against his husband, tugging at a discarded blanket until it covered both of them.

He slung an arm over Jihan’s waist. He leaned down to peck Esther against her tiny forehead.

“Better?” He murmured. Jihan sagged into him. “Better.” He hummed.

“Comfortable.”

[sliptohk]

Prompt #19: Weal

Absent-minded. Persistent. Self-destructive. All were excellent descriptors for Qata, at least so far as those who knew her passingly well would attest. All true, of course, but far too often strangers fell into the trap of granting her another undeserved label.

Harmless.

A strange leap of logic, undoubtedly charmed by the eccentric behavior of the Keeper, without fully grasping just what they were in truth. Like some cherished professor, they were lulled by the obsession they had with one all-consuming passion. While that interest was something holy dreadful, some still failed to place a far more appropriate label upon such single-minded individuals.

Terrifying.

While there was no masking the tattoos that crawled across the Ooja's face, it was not until she shed that robe that one could fully appreciate just how many of them covered the rest of her. Like some overgrown garden, the dark-grey of her skin bloomed with all manner of toxic plantlife, marked indelibly with dark-green ink. Among their roots squirmed a veritable swarm of venomous vilekin, captured so perfectly as to seem alive when slim muscle moved. A superstitious mind would presume the very essence of them had been subsumed. Somewhat accurate, as those markings were well-mixed with a taste of them.

Trophies.

The need of her kin to limit themselves to those physical manifestations of divine toxin grated on Qata. Her displays of mastery just further proof that they knew so little about that which they mixed. Had such a small hand in bringing forth ever more wondrous creations into the wider world. Such fleeting things could exert their influence on the world about them with naught but that which was native to their natural selves. It seemed a logical conclusion that one well acquainted with the very essence of poison could similarly enforce their will. But it would require far more than a desire and passing talent. Luckily, Qata possessed such traits.

Prodigy.

It was an understandable desire to inflict ill upon those around you, avoiding the bite of discomfort yourself. But to abstain was to limit oneself. Only when veins swelled with vile cocktails could one intimately understand the experience. Lost in the ebb and flow of one's own aether as it twisted and contorted before the influence of that foreign affliction. Those sensations so clearly tied to the abnormal deviations from the normal flow of life. Though kin would chastise the young miqo'te for all the time lost in the grip of those doses, it was simply because they failed to understand the importance of the process. Once must always trust the process.

Communion.

Afflicting another was a balancing act. Too little, and one gained nothing. Too much, and it became nothing but a tool for murder. An arrow could kill even more effectively, but there was no art to slaughter. Death was a clear failure, proof that the experiment exceeded the ability one had to control it. True mastery was only on display when the one could nudge their subject to the physical and mental limits, before drawing them back to a state so hale and hearty that one would have never guessed they had so recently courted oblivion. A common assassin only saw a tool. The healer, an obstacle to the patient. To an Ooja, the beautiful complexity of life itself.

Infatuation.

As ever, Qata learned most when practicing upon herself. To emulate the twist of vital energies in mimicry of the many concoctions that had ravaged her throughout the years. Forcing her own heart to race, then slow. Blood to thin, then thicken. Even flesh to begin that horrifying slide into the necrotic, before returning to its normal, healthy grey. Rigid attention required to so mangle the aether of a subject, the slightest lapse causing them to snap back into a mundane alignment once again. To come so close was frustrating. Others would find that final mountain too daunting, resigning themselves to alchemical pursuits instead. But the Keeper only felt the intoxicating thrill of brilliance just past the next moonrise.

Progression.

Like many noteworthy things, it was a fateful alignment of factors that finally brought the final piece into the poisoner's eager hands. The sight of a bow wrapped hastily about a gift sitting untouched beneath the Starlight tree, its crimson pattern drawing violet eyes. Something about it spoke. Screamed. Fingers twisting in emulation of its swooping turns, before neatly knotting the threads of aether. Already they began to unravel, but it was simply because they had yet to get their own lovely adornment. A gift from Qata to the nearest unfortunate, a taste of her own aether slithering through to neatly secure the new flows in place. It was a contagious energy as she celebrated the breakthrough, or at least a convulsive one for the gifted. There was even greater exhilaration at the ease with which the Keeper unlaced her aether to restore them once more.

Discovery.

Many would never see past the unintentional charms of Qata, the founder of the Ooja legacy of Poison Mages. Never take her for more than a curiousity within Ul'dah, or a backwoods rarity among the swamps of her homeland. Never realizing that a simple lack of animosity and bloodlust was no guarantee of benevolence. A pure product of her tribe's teachings, even when wholly unafflicted by the cruelty and callousness of her kin. Despite only a child-like adoration for the poisonous arts, her creations would earn a scornful label among future generations.

Monstrosity.

[stringphone]

Seen On-Screen

Alvin 5: An Unexpected Apotheosis

By Dave Germaine -- 1/10/24

------------------------------------------

Walking out of the theater last Thursday, I stepped on an empty McDonald’s fry bag, small size, that had been soaking up rain water in a neglected pothole for some time.

The sound of its muffled, sewage-laden crunch contained within it all the mourning of the city’s night, all the texture of her streets.

And in the shimmering, grease-infused wetness of its plasticine surface, I saw my own reflected visage, silhouetted by the banner-like marquee that still boasted the name of the fine film I had just seen: Alvin & The Chipmunks 5: Chipmunks Furever.

Even in the obvious sadness—the melancholia—embodied by the crumpled bag beneath my feet, something about the sight of that title behind me—a reminder of what I’d just witnessed—filled me with such reverence and delight that I could only smile. In fact, so full was I of rich optimism for the future of cinema and our world, I had no recourse but to shed a single tear, to watch it fall from the tip of my nose and onto the bag beneath my wingtip shoe, my lip quivering as I followed its journey down the surface of the bag and into the puddled wastewater smearing and soaking its papery skin.

I could only cry. For the film was divine.

To place this sequel, the latest in a long line of superb entries (barring the brazen misstep that was 2011’s Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked, Mike Mitchell’s insulting and completely misguided entry into the much-beloved series) along such titles as Paddington, Paddington 2, Skinamarink and Kung Fu Pandas 1 and 3 as some of the best children and family films available today may seem like a step too far—but I dare say that the latest furry romp is more than deserving of such praise, if it does not, indeed, exceed it.

The film begins with an admittedly lackluster opening featuring the dulcet tones of Post Malone, who I am not quite a fan of given his propensity toward face tattoos, bright cars, and that abomination known to the American culinary zeitgeist as the ‘chicken wing’. But soon after, we are thrust into the fury (furry!) of a rampaging houseparty at the house of Dave Seville, played in perfect tune, as always, by the indomitable Jason Lee. 

It is at this party, however, that we become aware of the movie’s departure from some of the timeless (if not somewhat derivative) themes of the series’ previous entries: friendship, found family, converging and conflicting identity, coming of age, etc.. For in this film, the chipmunks have come of age—many years have passed since their latest misadventures on the road in Road Chip, and their interests and intrigues lie well beyond the world of the puerile. These chipmunks have become, to put it succinctly, chipmen.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things…

So it is that, at this houseparty, Alvin is in the bedroom with two of Simon’s lovers—one former, one present—doubtlessly providing them with the sort of satisfaction only a chipmunk of his stature could provide, when suddenly he and his nymphai are rudely interrupted by the presence, not of Simon, but of Theodore. 

After a heated and earnest confrontation between the two (voiced impeccably by Janice Karman as Theodore and, somewhat unusually, archival audio of R. Lee Ermy as Alvin, who replaced the much-beloved Justin Long for this production due to the latter’s latest motorcycle injury), Alvin and Theodore enter a heated, bare-knuckle brawl on the floor of the bedroom, which is soon scandalously voyeured by the many bums, pop-intelligentsia, and LA-party dilettantes one could only expect to find at a bona fide Alvin and the Chipmunks house party.

After the brawl is done with, Alvin successfully coerces Theodore (with the intimidating tenor R. Lee Ermy is so well known for) to keep his momentary lapse in judgment a secret from their younger brother, Simon—who is currently away at culinary school—under threat of death.

What happens next, you may wonder? Does Alvin engage in further debauchery, forced only by the revelation of his original sin to reckon with the error of his ways? Far from it.

As the film’s second act begins, we enter not the tried-and-true territory of a reconciliation film, but instead, the wanderings of a dejected Theodore, who is so racked with grief for his brother’s loss of innocence—if not his own—that he must venture back to the wilds of the pacific forest whence he came, searching for meaning, searching for peace…

The second act of the movie is entirely silent—a directorial choice justified to its fullest extent by the tempered, steady cuts of editor Jennifer Lame (of Oppenheimer fame)—containing within it prismatic and ethereal imagery that calls to mind the inspired terroir of Kurosawa, the enrapturing dreamscape of Jodorowsky, and most profoundly, the tender, existential purgatory of Tarkovsky.

In this stretch, the film reaches not only the pantheon of family films occupied by other heartfelt stalwarts (such as Paddington and its sequel) but also finds itself nose-to-nose with greats of auteur cinema. Much of this could be credited to writer/director Derek Cianfrance, of course, but, as is the critical fulcrum of all discussions regarding the question of the ‘auteur’, it is a dishonor to refer to this work as the product of a single, inspired man.

It is, in fact, a work of collective inspiration. And it is truly inspired.

If you are unconvinced that this film achieves such kismet, though, I can only direct you to the film’s last act for recourse, in which Theodore returns from his wandering to the city (a shell of his former self) to seek out his brothers and make actualized the dream-poems which he reveled in through the months of his pine-strewn pilgrimage.

What follows is a harrowing sequence of events that put even the heartstopping climaxes of Taxi Driver and Come and See—dare I say—to shame. But, as we must acknowledge, such violence is necessitated. Inevitable. Demanded by the desolate reality in which these chipmunks—in which all of us chipmen—furever find ourselves.

[widowshill]

MAGDALENA "LENA" TEMOR.

studies in: the violence of the studio system, bargains for immortality & the zombification of film and photography, the topiary of self, the femme and her double

FULL NAME: Magdalena “Lena” Temor (born Joan Morris)  AGE: 24 (at death – 104 years total) BIRTH DATE: December 16, 1914 ETHNICITY: white ( French + American )  GENDER: cis female ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: homoromantic (closeted)  SEXUAL ORIENTATION: homosexual (closeted)  RELIGION: raised Catholic. lapsed.  SPOKEN LANGUAGE: English and French  CURRENT LIVING CONDITIONS: in a suite at the Hollywood Tower Hotel  OCCUPATION: actress 

RELATIONSHIPS

PARENTS: Private James “Jimmy” Morris & Gisèle Beaumont  SIBLINGS: none SIGNIFICANT OTHER: only pr relationships are made public. always temporary.  CHILDREN: none.

PHYSICAL TRAITS

EYE COLOUR: green HAIR COLOUR: brown HEIGHT: 5'6″  BODY BUILD: slender TATTOOS + PIERCINGS: no tattoos, pearl earrings (clip-ons) at all times NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: her figure and complexion are clinically perfect; her eyes are a very sharp and striking green, and she has a way of walking that makes it looks like she’s floating, especially in an evening gown 

PERSONALITY

INTELLIGENCE: decently smart, inclined towards the liberal arts –– language, poetry, and acting, though she is fascinated by contemporary advances in physics and makes a habit of trying to keep up with them (though she does not always understand). she reads frequently, usually books of poetry, though it is her obligation and dutifully-obeyed to remain up to date on pop culture and the comings and goings of her fellow studio employees. so she can easily seem vapid, shallow, vain. not always untrue.    LIKES: beauty, language, intimacy, translation, soft fabrics, flowers, pearls, water – particularly fountains, mirrors, champagne, books, smoking, silence. the feeling of an old book on your cheek when you fall asleep reading it. the sensation of opening a new bottle of perfume, or makeup, for the first time. the crackle of the gramophone. the weight of a heavy necklace. the spiky, rough hairs on a butches' neck that tell you they've just given themselves a new haircut. the pockets of air, the unexpected tightening, of male clothes worn on the female body. the dizziness nigh intoxication from dancing. the odd feeling of having dreamt and woke up anew – even from a nightmare. the privacy of a walk-in wardrobe. DISLIKES: warfare, the studio system, men, wool, beer, math, loud noises – like big crowds yelling or honks, jeers, etc, smell of cologne/pomade. the sight of endless fields. the sight of endless desert. the sight of endless water. the smell and sight of car exhaust. public transportation. the feeling of being watched, scrutinized. untrained pets. anything reptile, insect –– she prefers birds, fish, mammals. winter. summer. second billing. cab driver and elevator operator small talk. leather seats. the smell of burnt hair. the taste of bile in the back of her throat. the sense of panic that seeps in when lines go unmemorized.   DISPOSITION: in public, she is the very image of a giggling girl next door, eager to socialize and smile and dance. in private, she’s much more reserved, as if she needs a rest from talking, from being.

Bio:

JOAN MORRIS was born half-way to poverty and famine in an Iowa town, to a soldier kicked out of the first World War and his pretty French wife he'd knocked up overseas. her mother gifted her a love of the world, of the way words twined together on the tongue, on sustenance that was spiritual, not material. her father gifted her a flinch and a morbid dislike of the smell of beer. but in his moments where he wasn't halfway across the oceans in the trench, he taught her song, dancing, and an empty pocket that could always find a penny for the movie house. though her parents made something like happiness out of their circumstances, Joan had a hunger in the pit of her stomach for more. when she was a junior, she dropped out of high school, bid farewell to her parents, and took a train to Hollywood. though she sent them letters, and money once she'd had some success, she never saw them in person again.

in Tinseltown, the producers at Paramount recognized the golden ore amongst the midwestern dirt, and set about on the task of DR. FRANKENSTEIN-ING THEMSELVES A STAR. her father's arm hair was waxed away. her mother's nose was trimmed down to a suitably feminine size. her diet was orchestrated to not much more than a few sticks of celery, and pills, and brandy to wash it down with. her accent retrained to all the smoothing, soothing tones of the transatlantic and her name. Joan emerged from the studio backrooms rechristened Lena Temor, like a ship covered in tar and splashed in champagne, ready to make her maiden voyage.

mostly working in bit parts for a few years, Lena gradually made a name for herself as a star on the rise –– she was dependable, steering clear of parties (and their consequences the next day), no disastrous affairs with her co-stars. the only love affair was between herself and the camera. chemistry crackled on the set once the clapboard sounded, but off it ? she was icy. strange. aloof to the jokes and the touches of her male coworkers, crew and the cast alike. the studio began to investigate, fearing some remnant of a good-old American upbringing from Nowheresville U.S.A. you can't have a good girl in Hollywood.

she was there was one more part of herself to be pruned away. she'd gotten used to secrecy a long time ago, too good, it seemed, and in wiping clean ALL TRACES she'd only put them on the scent. the studio warned her. there were a hundred other girls in that waiting room anxious to take their place. a hundred other normal, NON-DEVIANTS that could be sent through the meat grinder and emerge as a perfect copy to Miss Lena Temor, all they'd have to do is swap a few syllables. the era of indulgence was over: now the Hays Code was king, seeking loyal vassals. all she had to sacrifice was love. and in exchange? STARDOM. immortality on the silver screen. Lena makes the child's choice: giving up humans for the chance at forever, and Paramount delivers. her face is in every magazine, her voice on every radio, script pages stuffed in her mouth. on her arm, finer than any Tiffany's bracelet, the latest leading man, with his dazzling smile, with his SHARP TEETH. the whore of Babylon never knew such success as Lena Temor in the gossip column.

she grows unrecognizable to herself. the stack of books on her beside table grows as she discards poetry for more script to memorize. her lovers wait abandoned in the lobby while she entertains her faux-boyfriend of the week. the stomach that once hungered for ambition and fame and love now receives only its dosage of uppers and downers in regular quantity. she's achieved something. but for who? not Joan. not her mother.

she dies on Halloween Night, wearing a second mask besides her usual, in cascading white chiffon as Helen of Troy. some man is on her arm. she's forgotten him now. they walk together, into the elevator, and she sees a distant young ghost of herself, a child actress, ready to sign her life away for the POISONED FRUIT. Lena does not have time to warn her away. just as they reach the thirteenth floor, before the doors can open to the warmth and the smoke of the Tip Top Club, lightning strikes. the elevator car and all its inhabitants are sent through space and time, vanished into the fifth dimension.

she is only a ghost. now, made a dead one.

[practically-an-x-man]

Hi! I thought I should return the favor with your writing ask meme. I'm not entirely sure what you have or haven't answered so far, so for one of your OCs and the fic they appear in, would you do Pen, Marker, Persistence of Memory, and Girl with a Pearl Earring? Thanks!

ahh thank you so much!! I really appreciate it! You'd be surprised at how many people reblog the ask game but don't actually send the reblog-courtesy ask, even when I send them an ask for it.

I think for this one I'm gonna go with Rae for this one, since she doesn't usually get the limelight for these ask games and things. Since you did the same for me, I'll give you a quick character bio to help you out:

Rachel ("Rae") Ayla McKinney: 25 years old, Scottish, female, largely straight but a little bi-leaning (this takes place in 1983 so there's not quite as much open self-reflection on gender and sexuality y'know? still some, but not as much). 5'8", brown hair and blue-gray eyes. Her mutation is to generate shields made of pearlescent silver energy, and she has translucent silver veins running across her skin that glow when she engages her ability. Works as a translator and knows 6 languages. Very headstrong, outgoing, strong sense of justice that usually sends her running into fights she's unprepared for. Fiercely stubborn and protective of those she loves, which is both a boon and a bane to her at times.

Pen: what's one minor moment your character regrets? A small mistake, but something they "can't erase"?

Honestly? I feel like Rae has very few regrets as a whole. She doesn't really believe in fate, but she does believe that what's done is done, and prefers to live with and adapt to her choices rather than sit and wonder what could've been. Even the moments that she might regret on their own usually lead to things she'd never take back in the future.

For example, she might regret making her presence known in the warehouse because it resulted in her having her mutation forcibly expressed (which was incredibly painful, and resulted in a complete shift in her life), but without her shields, there would be dozens of people that she wouldn't have saved (including herself and her romantic partner).

I do think she regrets not officially learning to fight earlier in her life. She ends up running into a lot of fights because she can't stand to see someone get unjustly hurt, but it doesn't always end well for her because she only learns to fight at age 24. I think she would've liked to take a few boxing or self defense classes when she was younger, and it maybe would've given her more success in those impromptu rescues.

Marker: what's one thing your character would never tattoo on their body, even if they were paid a million dollars for it?

I'm not sure how well her mutation-markings would handle a tattoo, actually. They're flush to the skin, but have a slightly different texture, and then there's the matter of them lighting up when she engages her ability. I think it would be a little like tattooing over a scar, I'm not sure it would turn out well. So any tattoo she gets would have to navigate around them, for one.

Honestly, I've been thinking hard about this, and I'm really not sure what else to say. I don't picture Rae as someone who wants tattoos at all really, and if she did, she'd certainly be the type to think long and hard about what she wants instead of rushing into it. Sorry I don't have more of an answer for this one.

Persistence of Memory: are there any moments in this work where a character's memory plays a strong role? Either an individual memory, or simply a character's ability to recall the past.

So, this is an X-Men fic, and it centers a lot around my boy Warren Worthington. Memory plays a huge role in his recovery after being made the Horseman of Death, since he ends up with some memory issues in the aftermath of it. Lost memories, lapses in memories (i.e. moments of confusion where he thinks it's pre-Apocalypse), and the telepathic use of calming memories when he has a night terror or something similar. I wouldn't say this is my fic most revolving around memory (I think Desert Song takes the cake for that one), but it certainly plays a prevalent role.

Girl With a Pearl Earring: are there any moments in this work where a character's clothing or accessories play a major role?

Oh, certainly. I don't know if there's anything plot-defining that relates to clothing or accessories, but there's definitely some notable details. Rae wears Warren's leather jacket during all the time he's captured/brainwashed by Apocalypse and they're apart (which is also when she has to learn how to adapt to her mutation), and it becomes almost like a talisman to her. She never lets it go, not until he's returned and recovered.

And then later, after things have calmed down, she receives a necklace from him as a birthday gift: a small steel feather on a leather chain. It really symbolizes what they've gone through over the course of the story, and it's also like she's holding a piece of him over her heart (it's not actually one of his feathers, just a necklace from a craft market, but the symbolism is there)

Finally, I haven't written this bit yet but I just really like this detail: Rae doesn't wear rings. Her sister is a nurse, and as a result she's heard far too many stories of people getting degloved by their rings in an accident. So when she gets married, she keeps her wedding ring on a chain around her neck instead of wearing it as a ring. Warren even has it placed on a chain for her when he proposes, since he knows she doesn't wear rings.

Thank you again!!! This was a lot of fun!! I really appreciate the ask!!

[theoracleofgiana]

Rainy Day - The Pixie and The Dryad

10. Snuggle together on a rainy day

Emi hums as he listens to the rain. He loves his job at Heart of Ink. He enjoys the people he meets and seeing the designs that people will have forever. He's just the receptionist but always feels welcomed when talking with the tattoo artists. That said, he loves not working on a rainy day. On days like this, his true passion comes out. Pages and pages of stories flow out. The rain offers comfort like a warm blanket as Emi writes. No one would ever see the stories and Emi was okay with that. He enjoys his rainy off days with his notebooks as company. Emi sighs and tries to focus on the rain. He's experiencing a small creative block and it's frustrating. 

“Pix?” Lexi's voice comes as a welcome and surprise. The dryad walks in clearly wet from the rain. “What are you doing here?” Emi asks as he gets up to provide towels. Lexi shrugs and stays in place until Emi hands them several towels. She takes it with a soft smile. ”Was bored. Needed out of the house,“ Lexi drys off as she talks. It doesn't seem to help much. “You want to shower? I'll get you some fresh clothes,” Emi offers, deciding not to push about Lexi showing up. He learned early in their friendship that Lexi sometimes needed someone with them. Lexi can't stand being alone and sometimes it gets too much. This seems like one of those moments. 

“A shower and fresh clothes sound divine,” Lexi responds to Emi. She heads into the bathroom while Emi goes to his room. He pulls out an old shirt and sweats from the second drawer. He doesn't remember when Lexi started leaving clothes at his place or when she got an official drawer. At this point, it would be weird not to have a plethora of Lexi's clothes in his house. In fact, Emi was ninety-five percent sure the shirt he has on was originally Lexi's. Deciding it doesn't matter, Emi grabs the clothes, along with undergarments, and leaves them on the toilet seat. He goes to the kitchen and decides to start making some tea. 

The dryad comes in fresh clothes and a towel around her neck. Emi smiles at them and Lexi returns it albeit strained. It makes Emi confused and he raises an eyebrow. Lexi shakes their head and Emi decides to drop it. Lexi will talk to him when she's ready. “It's the lavender one you like,” Emi tells them as he stirs the tea. Lexi hums in contentment. Lexi watches what Emi does and they fall silent until Emi finishes making the tea. 

Emi tries to hand a mug to Lexi only to find the dryad lost in thought. ”Tree?“ Emi says, in an attempt to reach the dryad. It seems to work as Lexi looks at him and then at the mug. This time she grabs the mug and follows the pixie into the living room. Emi sits on the carpeted floor and gestures to the space beside him. Lexi takes it, still deep in thought.  “Sorry,” Lexi mutters holding the mug tightly. Emi looks at them in confusion. “What for?” Emi asks moving to sit facing Lexi. “For showing up unannounced and making you frustrated,” Lexi says looking everywhere but Emi. Emi huffs at the explanation. “I'm frustrated at trying to write something not at you,” He says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You are always welcomed here, Lexi.” The dryad lets out a whimper at the sentence but gives Emi a shy smile. “Thanks,” Her voice is soft and Emi can only give a fond smile in response. They lapse into a comfortable silence. 

Once their teas are finished, Emi attempts to stand up to return the mugs to the kitchen. Lexi stops him by tugging his sleeve. Emi watches as Lexi stands up, confused about why the other stopped him. The moment she's standing up and stable, Lexi scoops Emi up bridal style. Emi lets out a noise of surprise and quickly wraps his arms around Lexi's neck. ”What are you doing?“ He asks in clear confusion and shock as Lexi starts to walk. “It's snuggle time,” Lexi says with no other explanation as she heads to the bedroom. Emi doesn't get a chance to say anything more before he's thrown on the bed. Lexi lays next to him and wraps their arms around the pixie. Emi tries to protest but his voice is muffled. His eyes droop and he lets them close. Perhaps, a little nap wouldn't hurt, he thinks as he wraps his arms around Lexi. They fall asleep tangled together with rain falling in the background. 

(A/n: I might have a list of prompts to do with these two. I had a plan then the plan got derailed. Still, this is sweet and comfortable. No long notes as I'm sleepy and probably need to go sleep. I hope you enjoyed and have a fantastical day!)

[dogsgone]

Stats

Takes place roughly 8 years after the events of Twilight Princess. Link is back home at Ordon, herdin’ his goats and mindin’ his business. It’s a simple life, but it’s a good one.

Name: Link

Age: 25

Species: Hylian human, also a wolf when he wants to be. A werewolf, probably, but not beholden to the moon or its phases.

Birthday: December 2nd

Gender: transmasc nonbiney

Pronouns: he/him

Orientation: Fuck if he knows, or cares. Whoever catches his eye, far as he’s concerned. (most likely bi)

Domestic

Link doesn’t remember his birth parents, but Uli and Rusl took him in and raised him as their own and continued to do so after their biological son Colin was born, so they’re his Ma and Pa whether they’re blood-related or not. It wasn’t hard to notice he wasn’t really from Ordon when he was the only person in the village with pointed ears, but nobody ever treated him any different because of it. It wasn’t until he returned home from his quest that he found out he had a new baby sister named Panna, and now she’s eight years old! And Colin is seventeen! Goddesses, how time flies.

Appearance

Hair: Somewhere between light brown and dirty blonde, it’s a mess that’s reached his shoulders and he’s considering letting grow further.

Eyes: Well, he ain’t called a “blue-eyed beast” because his eyes are green.

Height: 5'2"… Colin’s reached a full foot taller than him, and Panna’s catchin’ up.

Piercings: His lobes are pierced, he usually wears a pair of blue hoops, though sometimes he mixes it up with the color.

Scars: He’d had a few scars from some rough tumbles as a farmhand before his quest, but after the fact, his body’s littered with them, big and small. He’s never liked ‘em, but he’s gotten used to ‘em, after all these years.

Tattoos: Only the mark of the Triforce on the back of his left hand, more of a birthmark than a tattoo. When he was a child, his parents said it was a blessing from the goddesses. Now, he knows it’s a curse. Hylia help whoever bears the mark of the Triforce, for it is She who has cursed them.

Health

Physical: Old injuries and broken bones have made life a touch more painful for Link, but he can still do his job, and he knows when not to push himself. And if he tries to push himself when he knows damn well he can’t, he’s got hell to pay from his friends and family for doin’ that to his body, in the form of “You rest up now, and if I catch you tryin'a work while ya can’t, I’m sendin’ your Ma after you.”

Mental: Link’s always known that his mind doesn’t work quite like he thinks it should, but it seemed to get worse after he completed his quest. Nightmares, strange thoughts, lapses in memory, melancholy moods, they all seem to plague him more than they ever had but a decade ago. He’s got people to help pick him up when he falls, though, so he’s doin’ the best he can with what he’s got.

Other

Link can still transform into a wolf at will, and by this point everyone in Ordon knows it’s him, so no more runnin’ and screamin’ from them when he trots around as a wolf.

Link’s a country boy, and he talks like one too. (Finally, a reason to talk like my Texan self and not have it be out of character lol)

He’s mostly nonverbal, and for the most part will communicate in Hylian Sign Language, but on occasion he will speak aloud, usually a short sentence, or someone’s name to get their attention. He prefers to sign as a human, though he does find it much easier to “speak” in wolf form. He’ll bark and howl all day, not a care in the world.

…Sometimes, and he’s not overly proud of this, he’ll end up barkin’ and growlin’ and howlin’ in his human form. Nobody who knows him finds this all that strange, given what they know now, but his siblings’ll still make fun of him for it, though. And so will Malo.

Speakin’ of Malo, he still runs his Malo Marts out in Kakariko and Castle Town, though nowadays he mostly sticks to his Castle Town branch, leaving the Kakariko branch in the capable hands of his employees. Link visits from time to time with a shipment of Ordon milk and whatever other goods people from home might want to sell up in the big city. According to Malo, those country goods are a hit, and people’ll spend big money for 'em. Every time he sees him, Link tells Malo he hopes he won’t let all this big business go to his head and become a greedy capitalist, to which Malo replies that Link doesn’t even know what a capitalist is. Oh, and Malo? He’s about eleven now. Feel old yet? Link sure does.

[dopetattooblog]

Small Phoenix Tattoo | Girl Tattoo | Time Lapse

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[queen-rowenas]

@tootiredmotel’s 500 follower celebration day two: secret, “i need it”

It’s late. The motel room is dark, the only light coming from the sign outside. Just enough for Dean to make out the line of Cas’s jaw, the gleam of his eyes, the flash of teeth when he smiles.

The motel was low on rooms, so they could only get one with two queens. Sam is snoring in the next bed over. It’s the only real sound aside from the buzz of the neon No Vacancy sign outside. Well, that and Dean and Cas’s whispers.

They’re curled together in one bed, facing each other. The space between is quiet, warm. Their own secret place.

They’re whispering, talking about everything and nothing, feet tangled together up the covers, trying to keep quiet and not wake up Sam. Cas has a hand curled around Dean’s waist while one of Dean’s hands plays with the soft material of the angel’s shirt.

Dean’s never been happier.

It’s late, and he should be sleeping. Tonight is only a pit stop on their drive back home, and he has a few more hours of driving left.

But he can’t stop listening to Cas. He can’t stop grinning. He might have even giggled earlier, but he’ll never admit it.

After decades of denying himself, he thinks they both deserve a moment to indulge.

But he can’t really call this a simple indulgence. A moment like this, quiet and innocent, together.

Because he needs it. And he thinks maybe Cas needs it, too.

“Okay.” He manages to shuffle closer, closing the already small space between them. His cheeks hurt from smiling. “What if someone already possessed by a demon got anti-possession tattoo? Would the demon just be ejected or like somehow trapped?”

Cas frowns. “A demon would never allow that to happen, and even if there was a lapse in its control, a tattoo would take a long time.”

“Yeah, but humor me.” Dean stifles a yawn. “Hypothetically if that happened, what would it do?”

Headlights pass over the window, cutting through the curtains, lighting up the room for a moment. It glows behind Cas’s back, not quite touching Dean, protected in his shadow. It almost gives the illusion of a halo. For a second, Dean forgets about his question and stares.

Cas only smiles back, and for once Dean is grateful for the outside light giving him the chance to see everything. The curl of his lip, the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes and nose, the warm affection in his gaze.

“I would need more time to consider it. And you,” Cas says, leaning in to press a kiss to Dean’s lips, “need to rest.”

“No, I don’t,” Dean grumbles, but he doesn’t resist as Cas tugs him in closer, slipping an arm around his back.

“Yes, you do. You’re driving in the morning, and I would prefer not to get in a wreck.”

“Hey.” Dean shoves at Cas’s chest before tucking into it, pressing his nose into the hollow of his throat. “I’m a great driver.”

Cas rests a hand on the back of his head, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Of course, Dean.”

“And we’re finishing this discussion tomorrow.”

“Of course, Dean.”

The motel mattress sucks, too hard and too old with a sketchy smell, the kind that usually guarantees some impressive neck and back aches in the morning. And Dean is already prone to those now.

But he doesn’t care. He’s got an angel watching over him. The fingertips running through his hair trail down to the nape of his neck and linger, sending a pulse of grace through his tired muscles. Dean sighs, melting under the touch.

Nights at crappy motels used to be nothing new, nothing special. But here and now, he wouldn’t ask for anything else.

— writing tag list (ask to be added or removed)

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[justaswampdemon]

Etched in Skin Like Stone

This is maybe one of my favorite fics I've ever finished...blame my love of tattoos and my need for these idiots to figure their shit out.

Written for the fantastic @djdangerlove who had the galaxy brain idea of Buck getting "you're gonna be ok, kid." tattooed. It has lived in my brain rent free ever since.(This took so long to finish...my bad lol)

Also shout out to @marjansmarwani for telling me to stop staring at it, appreciate you babes!

Read it on AO3.

It starts with Christopher, as all good things should. Buck’s at the Diaz house with Christopher one night while Eddie’s out with Ana. As whatever movie played Chris had started to doze a little, snuggling into Buck. He’d draped an arm over his middle and pulled him close with a kiss to the top of his head. Nothing settled Buck like being at their house, feeling like he was finally a part of something so special. There was a nagging voice in his head though, telling him this wasn’t forever. Eddie had Ana now, and nights where the three of them would curl up on the couch with pizza and movies were most likely going to dwindle.

The doubt working through him was interrupted as Chris traced over the two black bands on his arms. “Hey Buck?”

“Yeah buddy?” Buck tilted his head, watching small hands lift his arm to look at the ink closer.

“Why do people get tattoos?”

“Well,” Buck thought about it for a second, trying to figure out the best way to explain it to a 10 year old. “Sometimes for fun, they like the design and just feel like it. Sometimes to remind them of something important.”

Poking the two bands, Christopher looked up at him. “Are these important?”

“They are, I had two good friends who passed away.”  Buck thinks of Andy and Chris, two of the best friends he’d had while he was traveling across the states.  They’d been hit by a drunk driver, looking back and knowing what he knows now, there was nothing anyone could have done to save them.  “I got these so they’d always be with me.”

“So…you get them for people who aren’t here anymore?”

“Not always, the squiggly one right here-” Buck points to his shoulder where the tattoo is hidden under his shirt, “I got for Maddie. That’s how she writes ‘and’ so I got it when I hadn’t seen her for a while. I knew we’d see each other again so I got it to remind me our story wasn’t over.”

“Cause you knew she’d come back?”

Buck didn’t actually, when he was 24 and still felt abandoned by Maddie. He’d gotten it anyway, wanting to hold on to the hope that he’d see her again. The hope had been rewarded and he smiles, thinking of his sister and soon to be born niece. “Exactly. I knew she’d come back, but I missed her.  So until she did...I would see it and know that no matter what I had her.”

They lapse into quiet and Buck keeps half his attention on Chris, can tell he’s working through something in his head.  The conversation they had when Christopher ran away comes to mind, and he remembers how distraught he’d been, standing at Buck’s door with teary eyes. Buck still hasn’t figured out how to untangle all the emotions in his chest that Christopher chose him to run to.

“Hey Buck?”  Christopher asks again, looking up to catch Buck’s eyes.  “Do you miss me when I’m not around?”

“Sure I do, but any time I get sad or I miss you I always remember what you told me on the pier and it..it makes me brave.”   It’s rare they really talk about that day, except little bits when Chris has a nightmare or when someone else brings it up.  It’s even rarer that they talk about the carnival before the wave hit.  Everything, even the good memories of rides and games is colored by the terror of the water rushing over them.  The only thing that stands out, untainted by dirt and debris and blood, is Christopher looking at him and-

“You’re gonna be ok, kid.”  He finishes Buck’s thought and Buck instantly gives him a squeeze. Suddenly Chris sits up and grabs a piece of paper and marker from where he’d been drawing earlier.   Buck watches as he puts all his concentration into whatever he’s writing.  Finally he turns and hands Buck the paper with a big grin.  “Here!  Now you can take it with you.”

“Thank you Christopher.”  Holding the words in his hands makes Buck’s chest go tight again.  It also puts an idea in his head.  “Well you gotta help me figure out where to get it.”

Behind his glasses, Christopher’s eyes go wide and his smile gets even bigger.  “Let's see…” He gets on the couch and looks at Buck thoughtfully, pressing back into the same spot against Buck’s left side before inspecting both his arms with a shake of his head.  Then he wraps his arms around Buck and squeezes for a moment against his ribs.  “Here.”  He says definitively.  “This way when I hug you I can charge it up.”

Buck immediately wraps Christopher up in a bear hug.  “Perfect,” he presses a kiss to the top of his head. They stay curled up as the movie finishes, both dozing a little as the credits roll.  “Alright kiddo, how do we feel about pjs, teeth brushing, and bed?  Pretty sure your dad will kick my butt if you’re still up when he gets home.”

“Only ‘cause it’s a school night.”  Chris reasons, and Buck laughs.  

They go through Christopher’s nightly routine, and once he’s settled in bed, Buck sits on the edge next to him.  “Is tonight a story night?”  Christopher’s eyes are already drooping but he nods all the same.  “You got it, have I told you about when I worked on a ranch in Alaska?”

“I wanna go to Alaska, I wanna see a moose.”

With a smile, Buck tells him all about moose, and the baby bears he saw, and how it seems like the wilderness goes on forever.  He sprinkles in random facts he knows until Chris’ eyes have closed.  Kissing his forehead, Buck whispers a quiet “goodnight buddy.”

“G’night Buck.  Love you.”  

“Love you too kiddo.”  Buck closes his door most of the way, heading back into the living room to clean up.  He spots the piece of paper on the coffee table and gently folds it, tucking it in his back pocket.  

By the time Eddie gets home, Buck’s got the house cleaned up and is half watching tv half scrolling through instagram.  He’d already messaged his friend Mel, setting up an appointment for his next day off and getting a very pointed ‘oh we need to Talk don’t we?’

“Hey Buck.”  Eddie drops his keys in the bowl and immediately flops on the couch next to him, “you guys have a good night?”

Buck says nothing of the tattoo conversation, though he doesn’t know why.  Maybe it’s that nagging voice in his head, telling him this is all just temporary, Eddie won’t need him much longer.  When he’s missing them both he’ll have a physical reminder that there’s a kid out there who loved him, and who would want him to keep going.

~

The tattoo stings, each pass of the gun feeling more like it’s just scraping off his outer shell.  It makes sense, peel back all the outer things that make Buck ‘Buck’ and all that’s left is Eddie and Christopher and a need so desperate it overwhelms any pain.  

“So, you gonna tell me the whole story about why this was so urgent?”  His artist, Mel, asks after she’s finished the first pass over the letters.  Carefully she inspects her work, small hand stretching and moving the skin over his ribs to check everything. 

Buck presses his lips together, half in discomfort and half because if he opens his mouth he knows it’ll all rush out.  Mel shoots him a sympathetic look, and he sighs, “Chris is Eddie’s son.”

That gets an eyebrow raise, “Eddie as in the man you’ve been pining over for two damn years?”

“I haven’t been pining that whole time…” because it’s useless to lie to Mel, not to mention a little terrifying.  She’s a barely five foot tall queer pistol wrapped in floral dresses and tattoos and it’s not even a question that she could kick his ass.  Since first meeting her when he came to LA, he’s gotten one tattoo and they’ve had a monthly platonic date night ever since, she’s been a confidant and voice of reason.  

Mel also has an impeccable bullshit meter, which means she sees right through him. “Ok so you’ve been pining for one year and what?  One year, eleven months and two weeks?”  She arches a brow as Buck sputters.

“He’s dating someone…I was watching Chris when we came up with the idea so they could go to dinner.”

“Ohhhh…” She sets the tattoo gun back down to level him with an extremely unimpressed look.  “Buck…you big, beautiful, dumb motherfucker.”

“You have a terrible bedside manner.” Buck laughs.

“We’re taking a break…I need a cigarette for this conversation.”  Wiping down the blood that’s welled up as they talked, Mel puts a piece of Saran Wrap over the ink and he follows her outside.  “Alright spill it Buck.”

“Remember when Eddie got stuck down the well?”  It’s a relief to finally spill everything, especially to someone who was so disconnected from it all.  Mel nods as she lights her cigarette, “he changed his will.  If he…” After the sniper Buck still hasn’t been able to get the whole sentence out.  “If he ever didn’t make it home…I become Christopher’s guardian.”

“As in…”

“As in my best friend…who I’ve been pining over for two years, got shot in front of me and is currently dating a very nice lady, told me he made me his son’s guardian a year ago.”  

Mel coughs out her smoke, when she finally catches her breath she looks at him in disbelief.  “You didn’t know?”

Throwing his hands up, Buck can’t help the vindication he feels as Mel’s eyebrows climb further up her head.  “No.  Fucking.  Clue.”

“And he told you…”

“In the hospital as we were waiting for his discharge papers.”

“Wow.”  She takes a drag, processes, and then another “wow…Was he dating this nice lady when the well happened?”

“No…but he is now…and he was when he got shot.”  The words come tumbling out, “and ever since?  Things have been weird between us.  I keep trying to just go back to how things were before he got shot, but it just feels strained.  Maybe I’m supposed to back off…He did kind of put it in legal writing that the only way I’d be Christopher’s dad is if Eddie…”

Stubbing out her cigarette, Mel turns to him sharply, “that’s what you got from that?”

“Uh…”  He’s not sure what else could be read from waiting to tell him.  

“Buck…he just told you that no matter who he’s dating, you’re the person he trusts with his heart.  He was a little fucked up about it,” she adds, “but that’s an expectation that you’re gonna be around for the long haul.”  

“I’m sure he’ll change it when he finds someone, I’m just the best option for now.”  Because Buck was always the consolation prize, from the moment he was planned as nothing more than a donor.  

The pain must show on his face, or maybe in his voice, because Mel wraps her arms around his waist.  Careful of her fresh work, she squeezes him tight.  “Hey, you are one of my favorite people ever.  And I don’t think I’m the only one.  Everything you’ve told me about that man says that he loves you, maybe he just needs some time and a good kick in the ass to figure it out.”  They head back inside, and as Mel gets ready for another pass over the words, she gives him the kind of look that means she’s grinning under her mask. “Maybe you should bring him in for a tattoo?”

“Mel I love you, but please don’t terrorize my best friend.”   

“Really gotta spoil my fun, dontcha?”  She gets back to work and Buck has to focus more on keeping his breath steady.  The burn of the second pass is sharp, he’s pretty sure he can feel each carefully written letter get etched into his skin.  

They finish not long after, and as he looks at the words in the mirror his throat burns.  The tattoo will probably be healed by the time he sees Christopher next, between school and Ana, most of the time Buck has to be content with facetimes and texts.  As Mel smoothes the saniderm over, he texts Eddie about a zoo trip soon, which gets a response that it’d be nice to have a day with Ana, so Buck can take Chris on one of their weekends off.  He shows it to her with a bitter “see what I mean?”

She sighs and maneuvers Buck’s arm so she can tuck herself against his not sensitive side, “yeah…I’m sorry babes.”  They walk out together, and Mel stays by his side as he pays.  Before he leaves, she hugs him again, “love you, text me if you need to talk.”

As he steps out into the sunlight, the ache in his ribs has nothing to do with the tattoo.  He misses Eddie like crazy, but maybe he’ll just have to accept his new role of babysitter and work friend.  It’s fine, that’s what Buck keeps telling himself.  Sitting in his car, Buck presses his hand against the hot skin on his ribs.  Deep breath in, “it’s gonna be ok, kid.”  Deep breath out as he turns the ignition and pretends he wants to go home.

~

“Woah! Buck, is that new ink?” Chimney asks, walking over to where Buck is working through a rep of pullups.

“Uh…Yeah.” Dropping down, Buck rubs the back of his neck. It’s not that he was hiding it…but he hadn’t shown it off like he normally did. “I got it a month or so ago.”

Eddie sets his weights down, too distracted by this new information. With how often he saw Buck, at work and countless times before or after shifts and on days off, the fact that he’d hidden the new tattoo was odd. Buck barely went a day without sharing everything from the tv show he was binging or the wikipedia hole he’d stumbled down. The man was the most closed off open book Eddie had ever met.

Joining the other two Eddie gets a glimpse of the new tattoo, inked against the curve of Buck’s ribs. “Is that Christopher’s handwriting?”

Chimney goes suspiciously quiet as Buck flushes, trying not to meet Eddie’s eyes as he nods.  “He uh...he wrote it out for me.”

Moving into Buck’s space, Eddie tugs at his shirt to get a closer look.  You’re gonna be ok, kid.  Without thinking, he reaches out and touches the ink, feeling the raised skin and the bumps of Buck’s ribs.  The muscle under his fingers twitches and absently he thinks maybe he should pull his hand away, but his son’s handwriting has been permanently etched into Buck’s skin, and the gravity of it throws him more than it probably should.  

He wants to ask about it, he wants to know everything about where the words came from, why it’s on his ribs, why Buck never mentioned it, but instead his mouth just opens and shuts a few times.  There’s a thundering in his chest, but it feels exciting, nothing like the odd hum under his skin he’s been noticing lately.  He’s not even sure how to begin to process this, and Buck’s looking at him nervously, and all he can do is gape at how completely Buck loves his son…loves the family they’ve built. The past few months he’s been trying to force a ready made family when he had everything he’d wanted curled up on the couch with his son back home.

A cough from next to them reminds him Chimney is still standing right there, watching Eddie’s mild crisis as his fingers continue to brush over the words. He swallows, and he knows his voice comes out a bit too strained when he finally finds it. “Looks good…”

The bell sounds and Eddie snatches his hand back like Buck’s skin is the fire they’re being called to. Buck turns to follow Chimney, shooting Eddie a confused, worried look that Eddie hates more than his own apparent obliviousness.

The last few hours of their shift is non stop, and Eddie barely has a spare moment to even reach out to Buck. It doesn’t help that Buck does what he can to distance himself, sticking close to Bobby in a way that has their Captain shooting both of them concerned looks. Buck’s absence has Eddie cold and untethered, and it brings the realization from before that much more glaring. In between calls he does his best to start setting things right, texting the various pieces of the puzzle until he’s in the locker room and there’s a pit in his stomach as he realizes Buck didn’t even pause to change. Every atom in his being wants to run after him, but there are steps between here and being able to pull Buck into his arms and offer to never let go.

All in all it’s a few hours until he’s taking a deep breath and knocking on Buck’s door. It’s an agonizing minute or two before Buck opens the door, staring at Eddie in confusion. “Hey, what are you—”

“You got Christopher’s handwriting tattooed on you…” Eddie interrupts, stepping into Buck’s loft and moving to sit at the counter.

Buck ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as he shuts the door and joins him.  “Yeah...I guess that is kinda weird...it’s just-”

“It’s not weird at all.”  Eddie interrupts, and Buck’s eyes shoot to his.  “I was surprised…but more because I didn’t know and it is kind of the least surprising thing in the world.”

Buck nods, looking a little shell shocked. There’s a certain kind of bitterness when Eddie thinks about all the times Buck was convinced he’d never be wanted that runs alongside the same bitterness that so many people had convinced Eddie he could never have this. “Um…Ok…” Buck busies himself making coffee, and as the pot starts to brew he glances over. “Everything ok?”

“I broke up with Ana.”

There’s a stall in Buck’s nervous energy and he turns his worried brow on Eddie.  “Because of my tattoo?”  Of course he thinks it’s his fault, as if a few curves of ink were responsible for anything besides getting Eddie to wake the hell up.

“All this time, I’ve been ignoring what I wanted, what was right in front of me, because I thought being a family meant something specific.  Since the moment Shanon left, I’ve had so many people telling me he needs his mom, and then after she died, he needs a mom.”  He takes in the expression on Buck’s face, the strange mix of devastation and what Buck thinks is understanding about what Eddie’s trying to say.  “I was so focused on what everyone else was telling me, you know?  ‘Find someone Christopher loves,’ turned into ‘that boy deserves a mom, you should find a nice girl to settle down with’.  All the bullshit I told myself I’d stop listening to.

“And I realized...he has someone he loves.  Someone who loves him as much as I do, who makes him feel safe and cared for and protected.”  Taking a breath, he reaches out and finally lets himself feel the buzz of want when he rests his hand on Buck’s.  “Someone who will fight for him as hard as I will.”

“Eddie…”  Buck’s voice is barely about a whisper, but Eddie thinks he’d hear it as loud as the bell going off at the station.

Devastation morphs into cautious hope, and Eddie prays he’s reading things right as he squeezes Buck’s hand.  “Buck you’re not just Christopher’s guardian should the worst happen. You’re his dad now, and I couldn’t ask for a better co parent and partner.” 

The hand under his turns over, letting Eddie twine their fingers together.  “I…Are you…”  Buck stumbles over his words, seemingly unable to get a full thought out, but his eyes are full of a longing that Eddie hadn’t let himself see before.

Leaning close, Eddie pauses a second, giving Buck a chance to move away just in case.  He doesn’t, and Eddie brushes their lips together in a tentative kiss.  The buzz under his skin turns into a comforting warmth when Buck kisses back, gentle and equally soft.  They pull apart for breath, but he doesn’t let Buck go far, pressing their foreheads together.  “I love you, I think I’ve loved you for a long time.  Sorry it took so long to get it through my head.”

Buck laughs, a happy puff of air against his lips, “I love you too Eddie, always have.”  He cups Eddie’s cheek with his other hand and kisses him, a firm but brief press of lips that has Eddie’s heart soaring.  When they separate again, Buck has the happiest smile Eddie’s seen, possibly ever.  “Told you the universe was screaming at you.”  Buck teases, gently rubbing his thumb over his cheekbone.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie leans into his hand.  “The universe does not scream Buck.”  Pushing to his feet, Eddie kisses him to stop whatever ranting explanation he’s sure is coming.  He wants to hear it, loves listening to Buck’s excited ramblings…and yeah maybe he should have realized he was ass over tea kettle for the man in front of him a little earlier.  Buck grins, draping his arms over Eddie’s shoulders.  It feels like muscle memory to fit his hands around Buck’s ribs and Eddie hasn’t felt so at ease touching someone since Shannon.  Underneath Buck’s sweatshirt is their son’s handwriting and he presses his hand against it a little firmer.  “You’re gonna be ok kid?”

“Chris said it to me on the pier.  We were on a bench talking about what he wants to be when he grows up…right before…”  Buck tenses and trails off, but Eddie knows how the sentence ends.  Before the wave hit, before the sea almost ripped the two most important people away from him while he’d been none the wiser.  “One of the nights I watched him while you were out, he asked why people get tattoos.  I told him sometimes for fun, and sometimes for people you miss.  He asked me if I missed him.”  I miss you all the time, Eddie remembers Christopher saying, way back when it was just the two of them and Eddie’s desperate need to run as far from Texas as he could.  “I said of course I do, but then I remember him telling me it’s gonna be ok and it makes me brave.  So he wrote it out and helped me decide where to put it.”

“On your ribs?”  

“Uh…that way when he hugs me he can charge it up, according to him.”

The pink of Buck’s cheeks is beautiful and Eddie tugs him close, taking a moment to revel in how perfectly they fit together.  “You’re a really good dad, did you know that?”

Buck cradles his face in his hands, and Eddie quickly becomes addicted to the feel of work rough skin against his.  This time their kiss is syrup slow and sweet, but the words spoken against his lips are what gets Eddie to melt.  “I learned from you, Eds.”  Some of his doubt must show, because Buck kisses his forehead and pulls back just enough to meet his eyes.  “Hey, I’ve seen some shitty dads…hell I have a shitty dad.  Christopher is the luckiest kid in the world to have you.”

Pulling him back into a hug, Eddie wraps the words around his heart as he tucks his face against Buck’s neck.  “He’s got both of us now.”

~~~~

Later that night, after they send Carla and her knowing grin on her way with multiple thank you’s, and after multiple bedtime stories to get Chris to settle because he was “too excited for dumb things like bedtime”, Buck snaps a photo to send Mel.

He’s been meaning to show her how the tattoo healed, but now the picture has two purposes.  Just below the ink is Eddie’s hand, thumb brushing over the words as he dozes against Buck’s shoulder.  With the photo he adds the caption ‘healed up great!’ before he puts his phone on the nightstand.  He’ll wake up to no small amount of yelling in his texts, his phone has already buzzed twice, but right now he pulls Eddie that much closer and for once has no trouble falling asleep.