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xxlost-cityxx · 3 years

Text

ABSOLUTELY NO MINORS

Ship/Characters: Kirishima Eijirou, Bakugou Katsuki

TW/CW: Rough anal sex, virgin Katsuki Bakugou, slight choking, slight piss kink/bladder control, brief spanking, rimming, bottom Katsuki, dom Kirishima, begging, crying, anal fingering, degredation and praise

I posted this on Ao3 literally last night, so enjoy.

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Stupid fucking Kirishima with his stupid fucking face and stupid fucking body-

Again. Once-a-fucking-gain. Katsuki was hard at work. Kirishima had simply aided Katsuki in a surprisingly powerful villain attack- even though everyone knew Dynamight had it under control. But Eijirou's help...made it easier to take down the villain- NOT that Katsuki needed his help in the first place.

The villain landed a hit on Katsuki and he flew into a pile of concrete and wooden rubble, and the next thing he saw was Red Riot, unhardened, nearly body slamming the guy into a wall, digging his forearm and elbow into his neck and his knee between his legs. It looked painful for the villain and it looked like Ejirou was definitely holding back from completely crushing the dude's balls...But. The way Kirishima was looking at the guy, a stone cold face, a deadly glare he hasn't seen since the last time Eijirou had heard Monama talk back in U.A. He was mad. And Gods if that sight didn't make him pop a boner-

So now here he was. Virgin Katsuki pretending he was too good to be around all his druken friends who were surely getting laid tonight, meanwhile, all Katuski would do tonight is ride his dildo until the sun came up.

Bakugou couldn't jack off. It wasn't really a fact, but he's pretty sure that any man would avoid jacking off with even a small risk that you might blow your own dick off, especially if you were gay. Gods bless the prostate. And really, it takes forever to cum riding 6 inches of colored silicone without touching your dick, but the point was, it got the job done and no one knew his secret to having 'thunder thighs' or some shit. He still remembers the first interveiwer who asked about his leg day routine, stating that he had entranced everyone with his thighs or some shit. He never thought he'd be referred to as 'thick' or whatever it was.

He took another shot of vodka, ignoring the pestering jealousy as he watched Kirishima dance with Denki. It was obviously platonic, not only did they repeatedly state in multible interviews that they were 'strictly bromance' and that they liked fucking with their fans's minds, Denki was dating Dead Eyes and Earphones.

Bakugou wasn't even a little tipsy really, it took a lot to get him drunk. It took a lot to get any of them drunk, but that didn't stop anyone from trying. But Bakugou wasn't going to go home drunk and have drunken masturbation for 5 hours, never was his thing. So he'd stick to being sober for tonight.

He growled as Kirishima's hand was on Denki's hip, Kaminari's back against Eijirou's chest. The much smaller blonde wiggled his hips against Kirishima's surely soft dick. Sero and Mina were laughing their asses off from their seats, Denki smirking and trying to be as dramatic and intimate as he could, a few phones recording them.

Katsuki growled to himself, slamming the shot glass on the bar top so hard it slightly cracked. He stood up and grabbed his coat, oblivious to how red eyes quickly switched from watching the smiling and laughing faces of his friends to laser focused on the ash blonde in a split second.

As Katsuki left the bar, he grumbled to himself until he was outside his place.

An hour later, he was panting. It felt like his entire body was covered in lube by the time he was bouncing on the silicone properly. He frowned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt the head bump into his prostate with practiced movements, usually a feeling that would have him gasping and shuttering, but he wanted this cock to be Kirishima's. He was sick and tired of riding an inanimate object that didn't praise him, didn't make noise, didn't cum. He wanted to be pinned and fucked so hard he would have to call off work the next day.

He whimpered as his toned thighs easily let him travel up and down the silicone. Silicone. He couldn't even get himself hard, he was soft, even with his ass stuffed and his prostate stimulated, he was soft. There wasn't a twitch, and even his prostate felt dull.

He groaned to himself, sliding off the dildo and reaching for his phone. He quickly unlocked it and pulled up his gallery with his singular 'clean' finger, quickly going to his hidden folder and clicking on the picture that always got him hard. Kirishima did a photoshoot nearly 6 months ago, he was in a kimono that was completely opened with white pants that banded to his stomach. He stared at Katsuki through the picture, a belt in his big, tanned hand. He already felt his cock harden slightly, a small frown painting his face as that was like a weak attempt at mimicking his usual reaction to the picture.

He slid back on the dildo propping his phone against his wall and started bouncing. He imagined those toned hands sliding against his back, barely touching him, and it was almost like he could feel it, his body twitching with slight interest. He imagined his voice, telling him to ride the dildo, training his hole for what was surely a monster cock, Eijirou too nice to let Katsuki destroy himself on his cock right off the bat...unless… What if he would just fuck him? And that got his reaction. His dick was fully hard now, but it wasn't aching with need like usual.

What if Eijirou would slam into him as soon as the dildo was out? Would he let Katsuki adjust, or would he pound him into oblivion with the raw power his body held?

He let out a moan, but the pleasure didn't last long as his phone started ringing. He nearly flinched, scowling at his phone for ruining what he worked hard for, but his face sofened as it was Kirishima calling him.

His mouth went dry, his eyes slightly wide. He doesn't know what really compelled him to answer the phone, but as Kirishima's voice rang through the other end, he couldn't help but bite his lip and shift on the dildo. "W-What do you need, Dumbass?" He asked, cursing himself for starting his sentence off weak. "Haha- Hey, Kat! I just wanted to made sure you were okay. You hit that rubble pretty hard today, and you left earlier than usual." His cheery, sober, voice said. Katsuki closed his eyes, slowly rolling his hips up the dildo, the familiar arousal burning in his stomach, finally.

He stifled a whimper, "M' fine, Shitty Hair…." He pretended to grumble out, desperate to think of something to keep him on the line as long as possible. "That's great! I was a little worried, y'know. Didn't want to lose the manliest man I've even known since highschool!" He said, and Bakugou's heart did a mixture of dropping and fluttering. He felt guilty for trying to get off to his voice, clearly ignorant and innocent, but he couldn't help but acknowledge that he didn't refer to him as his best friend which would usually put him down. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his hips, gasping as he accidentally his his prostate. He dropping the phone, slapping a hand over his face. "Katsuki!? What was that?" Kirishima urgently called. Bakugou's dick was on fire, his body was alight with arousal, if only Kirishima knew.

He hesitantly picked up the phone. "I'm f-fine~ Shitty Hair!" He replied, cursing himself for not stopping himself from slowly bouncing on the dildo again.

Silence.

He slightly wondered if he accidentally hung up, but there was still static. "I'm not stupid, Katsuki." Kirishima suddenly said. Bakugou froze. His voice was lower but soft, almost like he was hesitant to say it in the first place. "W-..What the hell are you talking about?" He asked, not daring to move on the dildo, even though he wanted to take advantage of Kirishima's tone so fucking bad.

"Are you getting off right now?" Kirishima asked, Bakugou suddenly became aware of how slick and schelchy the lube was. Bakugou's throat closed up, his mouth too dry to produce words. "Fuck…" Kirishima whispered, the sound making Bakugou's eyes widen. "Are you trying to fuck with me…?" He asked, but Bakugou wasn't deaf to the distant sound of Kirishima nearly break checking himself.

Bakugou whimpered quietly, but a part of him prayed that Kirishima heard him, and as his breath hitched over the phone, he knew he did.

"Fuck-" Kirishima groaned. Bakugou gasped at the sound, bouncing on the plastic lightly once again, the lewd noises surely reaching the phone. "C-Come over." Bakugou's stern voice said, once again sounding weak in the beginning. "Already on my way." Kirishima nearly whispered back.

Bakugou's body was on fire, every part of him was twitching. The call ended only a minute ago, and suddenly Bakugou's night was going to change who he was. He was hard, nervous, excited but horny above all else. As soon as he heard his front door open and nearly slam shut, Bakugou gasped, trying to let out his nerves. Heavy, fast footsteps made their way down his halls, and suddenly Bakugou was conscious about how he should present himself.

He didn't have time, and so he let himself be cocky, leaning forward on his hands, arching his back and rolling his hips on the silicone gracefully, and it probably looked a little too good based on how smooth the action felt. But he didn't have room for his usual pride, Kirishima was stuck in the doorway with his mouth slightly open and wide eyes. Bakugou looked at him in the mirror to his side, and his eyes were staring at him.

"Holy fuck.." He groaned, his hand slowly moving to his crotch, but he gripped the inside of his thigh. Mid. Thigh.

Bakugou's eyes widened as he finally had the rough sketch of Eijirou's cock in his mind, and fuck he wanted to go stupid with cock.

"C'mon…" Bakugou nearly whimpered, rolling his hips a little more dramatically. Kirishima groaned in the doorway, slowly walking into the room, Bakugou's position giving him the perfect view of his pink, glistening and stretched hole swallowing the silicone easily, the dildo's girth seemed pathetic to what Eijirou knew he had.

Eijirou knelt down behind him, and as Katsuki smiled, expecting him to caress his body, that didn't happen.

Kirishima quickly wrapped his hand around the smaller man's throat, yanking him back to meet his still clothed chest. Bakugou wheezed at the unexpected and sudden movement, but fuck if his own cock didn't love it already.

"Riding this pathetic dildo while I was out there concerned about you, hm?" He darkly whispered, his finger tips lightly digging into his neck. Bakugou whimpered, wiggling his hips back, trying to get a feel for the man's clothed cock for himself. Kirishima sighed, almost in disappointment. "Tell me.. What were you thinking about? Riding this pathetic excuse of a dildo." He asked, talking right into Bakugou's ear. Bakugou let out a stuttering breath, squirming in Kirishima's sturdy grip.

"Tell me."

Bakugou gasped at his dark tone paired with his hand gripping his entire neck roughly. He wasn't used to feeling so small compared to someone else, but fuck he was loving it.

"Y-You…" Bakugou gasped out as Kirishima loosened his grip just enough. "What about me..?" He asked, only slightly softer.

Katsuki's cock was aching, begging for the same attention Eijirou was giving his throat. "H-How hard you would fuck me- How big your cock is…" Bakugou finally admitted, squeezing his eyes shut.

Kirishima hummed in his ear, his hand moving to the back of Bakugou's neck instead and pulling him up to his feet. Bakugou let out a guttural moan as he was ripped off the dildo still suctioned to the floor.

Kirishima hummed, noting how the dildo really did look like a pathetic version of himself.

Kirishima dragged Bakugou to his bed, glaring at the blonde when he tried to move. He pulled off his own shirt and pants quickly before joining him on the bed. Bakugou's eyes quickly widened at the sight, his mouth slightly open and his face slightly filled with fear and shock, but quickly replaced with determination. "Better fucking prep me, asshole." Bakugou spit out, laying on his back.

He didn't expect Kirishima's rough nature to continue though. Eijirou glared at Bakugou before swiftly gripping his neck and pinning him further into the mattress. "Excuse you? Who the fuck do you think you're talking to right now? Order me around again, I fucking dare you." Kirishima spit out a look of fake disgust on his face. Bakugou was shocked by the moan that left him, more than happy with his decisions from tonight, at least so far.

He yelped as Kirishima's hand left his neck and grabbed his hips instead. Kirishima pulled his ass into the air, Bakugou's legs spreading automatically, falling to almost meet his chest. "W-What are you gonna do?" Bakugou asked, eyes wide with arousal. "None of your fucking buisness." Kirishima spit out, digging his thumbs into the stretched pink muscle. Bakugou gasped as Eijirou pulled his rim apart, testing just how stretched he was.

Bakugou saw his cock when he took off his pants, the way it weighed itself down, how his fingertips would definetly have trouble touching each other, and the fucking length- he wondered if Kirishima would actually show through his stomach…

As Kirishima added a finger to stretch and play with his rim, he decided to take down the roughness, only for a couple seconds though. "Use the traffic light system, okay?" He almost ordered, wanting to keep the same sexual energy but also let Bakugou know there was a safe way out. Bakugou's breath stuttered and he quickly nodded, having read enough fanfiction about being fucked by Kirishima and having done enough research to know something as simple as the traffic light system, and he's so fucking green.

Bakugou didn't expect a tongue to enter him though.

Bakugou nearly shouted, gripping at the sheets before pathetically trying to reach for the other man's head. "N-No!" Bakugou shouted, but it was moan filled and an empty request. Kirishima's eyes shifted to Bakugou, lapping his tongue over the blonde's rim before softly shoving it inside as far as he could.

Bakugou was squirming around at the foregin feeling, gasping every time he moved his tongue, it felt so warm, soft and perfectly wet.

Kirishima took his mouth away, licking his lips as he roughly slammed 3 fingers into the unsuspecting hole. He quickly spread them as far as he could, Bakugou's gasp turning into a pained moan. As Kirishima softly stroked his slightly pulsing insides, Bakugou was panting with wide eyes. "Beg." Kirishima ordered darkly, jamming his fingers into Bakugou as far as he could, hitting his prostate hard.

Bakugou moaned out, caving in on himself because of how Kirishima held his ass up. But he wouldn't beg.

After a few seconds of soft finger thrusting and no begging, Kirishima picked up the pace, slipping one of his fingers out, knowing Katsuki won't like the lack of fullness anymore. He jams his fingers into his prostate every time, Bakugou's eyes nearly crossing as he tries to arch his back but just keeps caving in on himself.

"Fucking. Beg." "F-Fuck you.." Bakugou responds, his voice shakey, the defiance fake and fragile. Kirishima's eyes narrow, a frown forming on his lips. "Fine." He replies, shifting one hand to Bakugou's abdomen and pressing, pleased with the slight fullness under a specific layer of muscle. He continued to slam into his g-spot, Bakugou's eyes widening and getting slightly watery. "W-Wait-!" Bakugou moaned out loud, slight panic coating his oh so beautiful face. The tip of his penis kept rubbing against Kirishima's arm, and he knew so much stimulation was working against him. He was either going to beg or piss himself.

"S-Stop! Too much- T-Too fucking much! I have to go you f-fuckkk-ing lunatic!" He moaned out, grabbing at Kirishima's arms. "Beg. Beg for me to fuck you, or you're going to piss yourself, get your clean sheets dirty, all unsatisfied and embarrassed. Poor little Katsuki couldn't hold his little blatter while I fucked you with my fingers." Eijirou cooed, tiliting his head a little before bending down and licking along the back of his thigh to the crease of his ass. He travels up to his sack and licks him firmly with the flat of his tongue.

Katsuki screams.

His clawing becomes frantic, and he's sure he's sobbing, but he's no match for even Kirishima's strength. "N-No! Ei- Stop! I-I'm gonna pee!" Katsuki cries, thrashing around as much as he can. But as Eijirou gently sucks in one of his balls, his resolve snaps. "Please! Please, please, please!" Katsuki finally cries, Eijirou's fingers slowing down and his hand letting up on his blatter. He moves away from Katsuki's cock and smirks down at the red and teary face below him.

"Please what?" He asks, Bakugou's eyes widening. "P...Please… Please fuck me… I want you to fuck me with your fat cock!" He cries, tears falling from his eyes.

Eijirou sighs, content with his work. "Good boy~" He coos, swiftly plunging 2 more fingers inside and spreading them. Katsuki gasps, looking up at Kirishima who refuses to look away from his face.

As Kirishima slowly pulls out, he bends over and grabs the lube from the floor, popping open the cap and pouring it into Katsuki. He flinches and wines at how cold it is, and Eijirou just travels the bottle to his cock, rubbing his hand over it and coating everything with lube.

As he sloppily closes the bottle, he moves Katsuki onto his stomach, Bakugou groaning as he was finally out of that horrid position.

Kirishima places the tip at his entrance, kissing Bakugou's nape, and right as Bakugou prepares for a dreadfully slow slide. Kirishima slams into the hilt. Bakugou's eyes shoot wide and his thrusted up further into the bed with the force, his mouth dropping open as a horrid moan filled scream leaves him.

This is it….he's not a virgin anymore…

He feels nothing but cock, painfully perfect cock that makes it hard to breathe.

Kirishima groans at the tight feeling, his body shaking as he convinces himself not to fuck Katsuki into oblivion.

Eijirou starts off slow, dragging his cock out halfway before pressing in again, the pace making them both groan. God, Katsuki's back tooks so fucking pretty all arched like that, delicate but strong all in one. He always knew Bakugou would look so pretty with his face burried in sheets, his ass high in the air and filled with his cock.

He feels himself slipping, his thrusts slipping into violent, angry lust every so often before he catches himself quickly.

But as Katsuki's sweet moans keep reaching his ears, he finally gives in, grabbing Katsuki's wrists and pulling them back, lifting Katsuki off the bed and using his wrists as leverage, pulling his weak body back onto his cock as he slams his hips into the man's ass.

"Holy fucking shit~" Bakugou's voice calls out as Kirishima's thrusts get rougher, violent. His voice bounced with the thrusts, his moans cutting each other off as Kirishima no longer cares about hitting the man's prostate, pounding into him purely for selfish pleasure Bakugou didn't know he was capable of.

"Fucking pathetic cocksleeve- Such a fucking whore for dick, huh? You fucking-love! -taking my fat cock like this!" Kirishima spits out, pulling on Katsuki's wrists harder. Bakugou's eyes are crossing, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

'Ruining me-'

"Not a single thought going through that head of yours, huh? Just taking my cock so good like this, loving how I ruin every other cock out there for you! Only my cock can make you cum, can make you feel so fucking good!" "Y-Yes~" Bakugou's broken voice cries out, tears sliding down his cheeks.

The bed is slamming into the wall so hard the pictures are rattling, and Bakugou can't register anything but cock, pleasure, Kirishima and cumming.

"So fucking good, so~ fUCKing go-od~" Bakugou sobs, not caring of the searing pain in his arms and shoulder blades. But as Kirishima angles his hips, he starts slamming into Bakugou's prostate, and as Bakugou tries to arch in Kirishima's hold, he cums. He clamps around his cock so hard Kirishima moans, letting go of Katsuki's arms and letting him fall face first into the bed as his entire body rocks with unbroken thrusts, shaking with the ongoing orgasm that never seems to end. Eijirou hears the sobbing and groans with pleasure, swinging his hand down to Bakugou's ass, growling as he watches the muscle and fat ripple with the perfect impact.

Kirishima puts his hands in the curve of Katsuki's spine, pressing him down and shifting forward, slightly sitting back on his calves as he jackhammers into Bakugou's swollen, red and oh so fucking soft boy cunt.

Katsuki is screaming but it's so distant to Eijirou, all he can hear is the squelching of his ass and all he can think of is cumming.

"FUCK- EIJIROU~" Katsuki screams, sobbing and begging for him to slow down, not to thrust so hard, not to be so brutal. He can't feel his limbs, all he can feel is the overstimulation as his body is pounded so hard he inches forward on his bed, only to be pulled back just as quickly. He feels like a cocksleeve because he is one.

Kirishima groans, finally slamming into Katsuki with all he has, his cock pulsing inside Bakugou almost like a slow vibrator. As Kirishima completely fills Katsuki's intestines with cum, his own cock spurts out a pathetic amount of it's own cum, his balls drawing up tight and his cock twitching with painful interest.

Kirishima and Bakugou are panting, and as Eijirou gives another overstimulated thrust for good measure, the both moan out.

"F-Fuck…." Kirishima groans, Katsuki panting into the sheets with wide, tired eyes.

He really did ruin Katsuki's chances at fucking anyone else. There's no way he can go back to toys, and there's no way he can fuck anyone else.

#bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bnha imagines #kirishima #kirishima eijiro #kiribaku #kiribaku thirst #kiribaku smut #mha smut #mha thirst #bnha smut #bnha thirsts #kirishima thirst #bakugou smut #bakugou thirst #mha oneshot #smut #aged up

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muffinshark · 2 years

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Hello, I’ve just started oil and digital painting but having issues figuring out the process and as you are my main inspiration, just thought I’d ask if you feel up to doing a detailed breakdown of your paintings/process. Thank you for your time :>>>

sure! I can't really give a detailed breakdown of the actual painting/rendering part because that's mostly experience gained from trial and error and also way more information than I can really put down here re: values, color, general technique, etc. (there are tons of speed paint videos on youtube that I would really recommend watching if you want to get an idea of how other people paint) but I can sort of... go through all of the steps of a painting from beginning to finish under this cut:

1.) thumbnails: after I know what I want to paint, I'll start with rough sketches on scrap paper to figure out composition, image dimensions, etc. I'll then do a small sketch in photoshop, and block in general colors and an idea of the lighting setup.

I tend to throw away the scrap paper after I finish a piece, so I only have the thumbnail sketches for the piece I'm working on atm:

2.) research and reference gathering: this step happens pretty much side-by-side with step 1. I collect as many references I can to help me with likeness, lighting, clothing, etc. etc. etc. If my piece is set in a specific time period (lately it’s been the 20s-40s nyc lmao), I'll research period-accurate clothes, interiors, props. Sometimes if I cannot get the right reference for the pose or lighting, I'll take a picture of myself. I know a lot of artists use PureRef, but I just dump all of the references I collect onto a huge photoshop file for easy access while I paint.

If you’re painting realistically, this is an important step! It is extremely difficult to paint realistically from your head. All of the old portrait paintings hanging in museums were painted with live models as reference. Professional artists use photo references all the time (you can actually find some of the reference photos that illustrators like Norman Rockwell and Alphonse Mucha took and compare them to the final illustrations). It will make things MUCH easier for you, and you will improve much more quickly as well.

3.) full-size sketch, color block-in : I'm more of a painter than a lineartist/draftsman, so my sketches tend to be pretty shitty, but all they really need to be is a guide for where to put the colors as they will eventually be painted over anyway. (The only exception to this is portraits; for those I will often do a detailed sketch with accurate proportions so I don’t have to worry about whether an eye is too high or if the nose is too long while I’m actually painting) I draw my sketch on a separate layer, set it on multiply, lock it. Then on a layer underneath, I paint in rough colors. Sometimes I'm lazy and will just enlarge my color thumbnail and use that instead of painting it over again.

sketch:

color block-in:

4.) merge sketch and color layers and start to paint: once I'm satisfied with the sketch and colors, I duplicate the sketch layer, lock it, and set it to invisible just in case I ever need it later as a guide. Then I merge the remaining sketch layer with the color layer, and lock the resulting layer. That's my base. I create a new layer over it and start painting. From here, it's just a lot of noodling around, rendering, and refining to get to the final painting! I know a lot of painters tend to keep all their elements on separate layers, but I like to work with as few layers as possible as it more closely resembles how I would paint in oils.

here's a wip of my current piece as well as a progression wip for an older one:

my actual painting process is just: slap down the colors i want, and slowly add more detail and shading until it’s rendered to to something that isn’t awful and messy haha

5.) textures, color adjustments: I generally don’t like the smooth, polished look digital art can lean towards, so I also add on textures and noise to make it look rough and imperfect and more like traditional media. Also minor things like fabric/wood textures that would take me a long time to paint freehand and just isn’t worth the time to do so. Then I play with color adjustments. Sometimes at this point in the painting process I’ll have changed my mind and want a slightly different color scheme/mood than what I started out with, or sometimes I’ll have migrated a little too far from the initial colors and want to go back --color adjustments are perfect for this.

initial thumbnail colors:

final colors:

aaand that’s basically it!

#anonymous #asks #hope this helps!#also for some reason my theme no longer displays read mores and instead just directs you to a blank page #so if the 'read more' directs you to a blank page on my tumblr please click the 'view on dash' eye icon on the top right corner :#all these new updates have made my ancient theme basically unusable 😔

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hoe-doroki · 3 years

Text

steel and lace

minors do not interact

warnings: 18+, anal play, sex toys, voyeuristic fantasy, scratching, creampie

pairing: bakugou x fem!reader

wc: 3.8k

summary: The only one who manages to get Bakugou’s birthday right is you.

a/n: This is my addition to the Bakugou Birthday Bash collab (masterlist). Many thanks to @lady-bakuhoe for helping me flesh out the ideas with this story!! You were integral to this idea, love! And additional thanks to @whats-her-quirk and @therealvalkyrie for beta reading <333

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

Bakugou never took work off on his birthday.

Never. Why would he? Villains didn’t give a shit that this was the day the old hag had unceremoniously had him evacuated into a hospital room however many years ago. They didn’t give a shit that his friends—who were also heroes who should be fucking working, by the way—wanna come over to his house and surprise him. As though his reconnaissance-trained ears weren’t as fucking fine tuned at hearing idiots on the other side of the door as theirs.

What villains should care about was that he was a year older, wiser, and fucking stronger, and he was going to kick all their asses. That was what he told all his idiot friends every year when they asked him if he was going to take off work.

Every year he regretted it.

The idiots he works with really must not care about hero work, because every year they want to send him out on a field post sugar crash from some store-bought cake with his name on it. Or buy him gifts that he’ll probably toss in the trash on the way home. He’s not being rude; he just doesn’t need junk that he never would have bought himself in the first place.

Everyone is always grinning at him, wishing him a happy birthday—as though he’s any goddamn happier to see their ugly mugs flapping their lips at him—and trying to start stupid-ass conversations. If he doesn’t like small talk normally, why would he want it on his birthday?

And the singing.

If people really wanted to wish him a happy birthday, they’d find a way to do it silently while doing some respectable fucking hero work. Make his day easier.

But no, none of that was what happened. So he should have just stayed home. Let the villains have a fucking field day on April 20th, and he could have his real gift killing them all tomorrow on the 21st.

But, unfortunately, he was a dumbass and had gone to work anyway, like he’d learned nothing from the last many years of antics. And the continued antics had got him a little pissy. And when he was pissed off, his heart rate increased, his breathing grew heavier, and, of course, he sweat.

Well. Guess what happened?

“Bakugou, I am currently paying to treat burns and fractures on three villains. Care to explain?”

Best Jeanist was sitting in his office chair, blinding sunlight streaming in behind him. Late afternoon sun—darker in color but way more resentful towards human eyes, apparently. It was reflecting off of all of the neighboring glass corporate buildings, making Bakugou squint behind his mask.

Bakugou shrugged, petulant as he stood behind his chair instead of sitting in it. “Overkill.”

Best Jeanist nodded. “Did you…lose control?”

“Tch,” Bakugou scoffed. As if he ever lost control. “Villains were weaker than I thought.”

Bakugou felt the stare of that one fucking eye and stood firm. He knew he was looking at a suspension, hopefully just for a day or two. It wasn’t like he’d done anything terrible. Villains got hurt sometimes, just like pros did, and they got their care and then they got their justice. It’s not like Bakugou was violent on purpose. Anymore. And Jeanist sure as hell knew that, so it wouldn’t take Bakugou off the field for more than a slap on the wrist. He probably wouldn’t even be technically suspended. Just chained by the fucking dick to his desk with some paperwork.

“Just…” Bakugou braced for it, narrowing his eyes but keeping his snarl to a minimum. “Just be more careful next time. Shower and go home—see you tomorrow.”

Bakugou’s jaw dropped. He closed it quickly, trying not to look like Dunce Face in front of his boss, but in all that was real and true what? He was just about to say something—he didn’t know what, probably something insubordinate—when Best Jeanist took out his own paperwork and waved him away.

“Happy birthday, Bakugou.”

Oh. So that was it.

Bakugou grit his teeth. Happy fucking birthday indeed.

It was nothing. His brain told him over and over again that it was fucking nothing. He hadn’t been punished, he hadn’t even really done anything wrong; he just hadn’t been squeaky clean up to fucking code. He could still show up for work tomorrow, business as usual. He should be tickled fucking pink.

But he wasn’t. Special treatment for being the birthday boy? What was he? Five years old and given a pass after stealing the chicken nuggets off Deku’s plate? Jesus Christ.

And if he was honest, he was mostly pissed at himself. Sure, he could blame how the weather always seemed to sprint from spring to summer around his birthday every year, strengthening his quirk. He could blame the villains for being weak enough that they had no business even stepping foot in his neighborhood. But losing control of his quirk even a little—and it had been a little—was fucking amateur and he’d have to pencil in some extra time at the gym. Maybe snatch Shitty Hair for some sparring, and, unfortunately, probably nab an extra therapy session and talk about this anger thing again.

At least walking instead of sitting on that stifling, crowded train car was doing him some good. Let him cool off a bit before he got home and you saw that something was wrong. He was nearly entirely relaxed by the time he got to his building’s lobby, even having the grace to nod at the concierge—who didn’t know it was his birthday, thank God—before heading up the elevator.

When he got off on his floor, it suddenly occurred to him that you might have done something truly repulsive, like inviting his friends over. He could imagine Shitty Hair’s shitty fucking hair sticking up from behind your sofa as he tried to hide before leaping up and yelling surprise.

Well, if that was the case, then the surprise was going to be him kicking all his dumb friends out of the apartment with one foot. Ain’t no way he was going to host a party on his birthday.

It turned out his worry was for nothing, though, because when he turned the knob—fully braced to punch out some teeth with his other hand—he was greeted with a totally bare apartment.

Like barren.

For starters, it was perfectly clean. Bakugou kept a tidy house normally, but this was certainly cleaner than he’d left it this morning. But more than that, there was nothing extra lying around. No stupid friends. No presents. No cake or even the smell of one. It was almost disconcerting.

No, it was a relief. A relief because he didn’t want any of that stuff. He’d had the slice of cake at work—and was slightly hangry now to show for it—and wasn’t interested in having another. And even though you’d choose better gifts than the extras at work would, it was nothing he couldn’t buy himself. So no, this was perfect. He was absolutely not disappointed. Maybe a bit confused. But not disappointed.

He took his shoes off and set his things on the small table by the door. Then he wandered into the kitchen, downed some water, and thought about what he might make for dinner. He might have expected that you and he would make dinner together or maybe even that you would have surprised him with something, but he didn’t mind doing it alone. It wasn’t like he’d learned to cook just to find a housewife someday to con into doing it all for him.

He decided to go to the bedroom first to plug in his phone. He was just sliding it out of his pocket when he opened the door, saw you, and stopped short.

You were on the bed—not in bed, but on it—wearing a black zip up with his signature orange x over the chest. You were on your knees with your legs spread wide, looking him dead in the eye with a deadly smirk on your face, painted in bright lipstick.

“New prototype. You like?”

The two of you had met when you were scouted from his parents’ business to design the clothing for his first merchandise line. He’d sworn off dating you from the beginning, because the last thing he wanted was to give the old hag anything to say about, firstly, her being at all responsible for finding him a girlfriend or secondly, the fact that dating a fashion designer would mean he was dating his parents. He’d said fuck that to anyone who would listen.

But you’d gotten his brain from the beginning. Your designs were all sick from the sketch to mock up to the prototypes you always wore for him. Maybe he was a simple man for falling for a girl dressed in his colors, aiming to please him, but fuck it. You were talented, too smart for your own good, and pretty as hell.

So what? Now he had a dream girlfriend and one more reason to fight with his mom. Net positive for sure.

Still, that jacket wasn’t a prototype. That was from his first official line, no doubt, and he’d seen you wear it hundreds of times. He knew from here how much it would smell like detergent and how much like you.

You caught his eyes, raised your brows once, and then pulled the zip on the sweatshirt.

Underneath was nothing but lace and ribbon, contrasting the black and orange of the sweatshirt with moss green outlining your silhouette. The moss green from his gauntlets and his belt was caged around you in the thinnest strips of fabric, scraps of floral barely covering your breasts and pussy. The lingerie was an all-in-one, with the tiny bra connected to the panties by a few ribbons crossing over your belly. Not hiding a damn thing, but showing it off for all its worth.

“Fuck,” Bakugou groaned when the sweatshirt hit the bed, your arms still in the sleeves, but the look underneath now fully revealed to him. He could feel the blood going to his dick, just seeing you on display like that getting him up to half mast in seconds.

“Not a lot of coverage on this version,” you mused, sticking your thumb under a bra strap. “Maybe an edit for the second try?”

Bakugou growled, taking a step forward, but you weren’t done just yet.

“I was also thinking maybe full panties next time,” you said, turning around, sitting on your heels. The sweatshirt hung just below your ass, framing round cheeks that were caged by thin elastic crosses, and that was it. Not so much as a triangle of fabric to speak of. “Maybe write: Property of Dynamight on them? Or is that too much text?”

That was all it took for Bakugou to pounce. One arc of his fist had his shirt thrown with a smack to the floor and then his hands were on your shoulders, spinning you face up as he pushed you flat on the bed.

“You know I don’t like unnecessary words,” he growled.

And then he was kissing you, a hand running up the falke stockings pinned on your thighs as you pulled your arms out of the sweatshirt. One leg came up automatically to wrap around his hip, and Bakugou began rutting against your center, fully hard already. On his second grinding thrust, his pants snagged on the scrap of lace you were wearing. Wetness was already glistening on his trousers and he moved his thumb down to your core, groaning at what he felt.

“Crotchless panties?” he mumbled against your mouth. “You’re making this too easy, sweetheart.”

“Shouldn’t have to work so hard on your birthday,” you mewled.

There was a rumble in Bakugou’s throat, half scoff, half chuckle. “Yeah, remind me of that next year, will you?”

You were soaked already—the swipe of his thumb told you that much. Either you’d gotten really excited when he’d texted you that he was coming home early, or you’d…gotten yourself excited at some point after. Either way, it meant that foreplay could wait for round two.

He pulled his thumb away from your core and pressed it against your lip, smudging what lipstick had survived the kisses down your chin. You were half ruined already. You stuck your tongue out and licked at essence on his thumb before sucking it into your mouth, eyes wide as you looked up at him. Fuck, he could feel himself straining against his pants, grinding circles against your half-bare cunt for a spot of relief.

After you licked him clean, he took his hand back, leaving your mouth open and wanting as he began to fuss with the front of his pants. He caught your smudged lips again, holding your jaw with one hand as he pushed his pants down with the other. He pulled his lower half away from you, kicking off the pants—hadn’t bothered with boxers for the commute home—and let them slide off the edge of the bed.

“Ready?” he asked.

Your smile was big and you bit the tip of your tongue, nodding your head twice. That was all he needed. He grabbed his cock in his fist and slid it through your wetness just once, and then he pushed himself in.

Immediately, he felt the drag of something hard and angled against your lower wall right along his cock, pressing from tip to base as he slid home inside of you.

“Woah,” he groaned. “What the fuck?”

You giggled, the action making your walls flutter against him.

“Got myself a new toy,” you said coyly, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Promise you can get yourself something pretty on my birthday too.”

Bakugou reach a hand around your thigh, feeling the elastic garter pulled taut against the stockings that were rubbing so deliciously against his back and his hips. He grabbed a handful of your ass, and the tips of his fingers felt a rounded edge of warm metal slid just between your ass cheeks.

“You fucking naughty minx.” Bakugou grinned, showing all his teeth, rearing back out of you before thrusting back in, feeling the novel pressure of the toy on the way out and back.

No wonder you had been so wet to begin with. You must have lubed yourself up before putting in that butt plug—which wasn’t small, from what he could feel of it. He could imagine you, one leg up on the sink, ass sticking out as you fingered yourself, mouth dropping open when you inserted the toy. How cold it would have been when it first touched your pert little hole and how you’d gotten it all warm for him as you waited with your little secret for him to get home.

“It’s curved to hit prostates,” you gasped as Bakugou rocked hard, steady thrusts into you. “In case you’re interested.”

The thought, much to Bakugou’s surprise, sent a thrill right through his belly down to his dick. He couldn’t help but slam rapidly into you, making your eyes roll back. Fuck, was that something he wanted? It wasn’t something he’d ever thought about, and he didn’t have the mind right now to ponder it.

“God you feel so big.”

“You feel so tight, sweetheart,” Bakugou grunted, refusing to acknowledge the fresh heat that was on his cheeks after your previous comment. “Squeezing me from all sides.”

The butt plug left it so there was barely enough room in your pussy for his cock to pump in and out. The pressure was hard on one side, making him fucking twitch every time the head of his cock caught against it, leading him to opt for long, deep thrusts in and out of you. It was so good that he didn’t even care if the only present he got for his birthday was a little hunk of stainless steel halfway up your ass. He’d gotten home five minutes ago and already he could feel his balls tightening, threatening to bust a nut.

“Just think of it, Katsuki,” you said, your voice dreamy as he fucked you raw. “All the women wearing this set, thinking of you when they show it off for their partners. All wishing that you were the one fucking them. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby? But they’ll never have anything but their husband’s sad cock that they pretend is yours.”

“Fuck,” Bakugou growled, putting a hand on the headboard and nearly splintering it in his grip. You were riling him up and it made him want to press his palm flat against the burnished oak and let off his quirk, send shards flying. His hand was already drenched with more sweat than it should have been, just like with those villains earlier. Goddamn this time of year. He couldn’t help it; his quirk begged for it. He was in dire need of release of some kind, and it wasn’t like he could cum yet. He had to know how your pussy felt when it convulsed around him, ass cheeks tensing and squeezing that toy hard against his cock until he was spurting into you.

Bakugou let off a few crackling pops from his palm, moaning as relief filled him, the tension lessened for a moment. A faint smell of wood smoke spread through the room, slightly embittered by the resin blackening around his hand. One more scorch mark on the bed frame. You groaned underneath him, taken by the sight of Bakugou’s ever-tight control slipping for you. You knew he’d fuck you through the bed until the rest of the frame gave way if he wanted. You’d both be flat on a busted mattress and he’d keep going until he felt you clench around him.

“How’s that sound, Katsu?” you continued, your voice growing higher as Bakugou took his hand off the headboard and pressed four fingers, still sweaty and heated from his quirk, against the lace covering your clit. It was soaked through. “A-Ah, you’d like the idea of a woman home alone, dressed up just for you, fucking herself on the dildo she hides in the back of your closet, screaming out your name and hoping to God that her neighbors don’t hear?”

Bakugou couldn’t do the long, slow thrusts anymore. Your legs had grown tighter around his waist, your calves soft and silken against his ass as he kept his thrusts deep. The butt plug was rubbing against the base of his cock as he pounded into you, his fingers swiping over your clit with little finesse, but speed and steady pressure making up for it.

“But no matter…” you continued, the words coming out in little huffs as you panted with your head thrown back. Bakugou couldn’t resist leaning down and licking a line up the length of your neck, biting your earlobe when he got to the top, “no dildo, no matter how expensive, no matter how long and fat, will be good enough. The whole time…they’ll know they’re missing out. Oh, fuck.”

All of a sudden, your thighs were squeezing tight against his hip bones, arms thrown over his back and finger scratching hot lines that would mark him even more as yours tomorrow. Then you were gasping, walls squeezing and Bakugou fought against your grip to pull out just enough so that the metal toy was rubbing just over the cleft of his head with every convulsion.

He didn’t stand a chance. There was hardly any warning before he was cumming into you, streaks of his seed dribbling out of you. He couldn’t even pump himself through it; you were gripping him so tightly and, more than that, he didn’t want to move. Everything was white hot, so he just waited it out, barely moving save for where his hand was still rubbing over your clit.

Eventually you stopped him, grabbing his wrist just as the grip of your cunt loosened around him. Then you brought his hand, glistening with moisture, up to your mouth, and broadly laved your tongue from the base of his fingers to the tips, looking him dead in the eye. You then brought his hand down to your neck, and allowed him to streak the combined fluids across and down your décolletage.

Fuck—there was no way he was going to work on his birthday next year. He’d let villains overtake the city first.

“They’ll know they’re missing out,” you breathed, and it took Bakugou a second to figure out that you were continuing your voyeuristic fantasy from before, playing it out to the end, “They might even think they understand. But the only one who will truly know, is me.”

You smiled, your eyes and grin both heavy, sleepy, sated.

“Got that fucking right,” Bakugou said, pulling out of you, his cum already dripping down your ass. He eyed it, only catching a glimpse of the glinting metal plug before your legs fell to the bed, spread and limp. He smacked your hip lightly with one hand. “Roll over.”

In no mood to argue, you flipped willingly, ass up, plug still hidden from view. The lingerie was damp in some spots from where your wetness had spilled from your pussy. He leaned his mouth towards one of the strips of elastic stretching against the swell of your ass and bit. You gasped, back arching, and Katsuki smirked as he pulled away.

“A fucking lingerie line?”

A chuckle escaped your throat. “It was supposed to be a joke, but now…”

Katsuki pinched the elastic with his fingers and snapped it, watching the slight jiggle of your cheeks as you jolted. “No.”

“But Katsuki,” you whined.

“Mm,” he amended, as close to ‘maybe’ as you were going to get. You both could always talk about the idea—truly ridiculous idea—later. Katsuki put a hand on one cheek under the strips of lingerie and spread it.

There was the plug, a stainless steel handle. It was thin and shaped like an oblong donut, not like one of those cheap bejeweled things. This one, even just what he could see of it, screamed quality, and, for a moment, Bakugou wondered again what it would be like to wear. If you’d gotten it in, he sure as fuck could. And he did hold a certain anatomical advantage in using it.

He put his thumb and forefinger to the phalange and gave the toy a twist, pressing it just slightly deeper into your hole. You groaned, your voice low and deep in the pillow like when he gave you a back massage. He smirked and kept at it. Seemed this was a birthday gift for him after all.

“Katsu, don’t tease,” you moaned. “Sensitive.”

Bakugou, however, had no mercy. He flipped you over again, pulling a little yelp from you, and then picked you up bridal style, carrying you off the bed.

“Where are we going?” you asked, your voice suddenly much more awake.

“Shower,” he answered simply. He squeezed the meat of your upper thigh. Not quite your ass but close enough for the point to be made. “I’m not done with my present yet.”

#bakugou smut #bakugo smut #bnha smut #mha smut #tw: voyeurism #not/sfw #bakugou birthday bash

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years

Text

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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miasmatik · 7 years

Photo

murder hubbies plz you know will likes to boss hanni around okay

(more art here and more gay shit on my ao3)

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal fan art #hannigram art #mine #will graham #hannibal lecter #this has the line quality of a shitty sketch #but i slapped some color on it so it looks ~fancy~#i just wanted to draw something gay okay

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artzychic27 · 4 years

Text

Painbow

The artwork was made by @lizzey-13, who asked if I could write this. Thanks again for asking me to write this! :)

—

“And so, the British...”

Nathaniel was trying not to fall asleep from the boring lecture. He usually stays up by sketching, but he’s already gone through three sketchbooks in just one month, now there was nothing keeping him from dozing off in the middle of class. He did have another sketchbook with him, but that was for the Ladybug comic.

He looked up at the clock sitting above the door... Just seven minutes left, he could do this. Why couldn’t his bangs have been even? Then he could fall asleep without anyone noticing

“And the war brought...”

Gotta stay up... Five more minutes... Nathaniel turned his head slightly and looked out the window. It had just stopped raining, little droplets were running down the glass window pane, and the sky looked a little grey. The only thing that stood out from the dreariness was the bright rainbow in the sky... It reminded him of Marc. The boy’s name was literally ‘Rainbow’! If you took out the M.

Now that was keeping him awake. How could he sleep when Marc was on his mind? His smile, his gentle voice, the graceful way his pencil moves whenever he was writing. The mere through of the boy brought a faint smile to Nathaniel’s usually stoic face.

RIIIIING!

At the sound of the bell, Nathaniel snapped out of his thoughts. Class was over

“Class dismissed. Have a good day, everyone.”

Nathaniel gathered his belongings and made his way down the stairs where Alix was waiting for him, “You goin’ to art club?” She asked, but the smirk on her face meant she already knew the answer

“Yeah I’m going.”

Once they left the classroom, Alix, with a smirk still on her face, turned around and mimicked kissing someone. Her hands went up and down her back, “Oh, Marc. I love you so much.” She said in a low voice, mimicking Nathaniel “I love you so much, babe.”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes at his shorter friend’s antics and playfully slapped her arms, making her stop

“Okay! Okay! I’ll stop!” She said through her giggles, then she turned around and saw the familiar bright red hoodie coming down the hallway. “Go get him, Romeo.” She sends the redhead a wink before running off to the art classroom

Nathaniel fixed up his hair, straightened his blazer, and approached the writer. The closer he got, the more he noticed something off about Marc. His hair was a little more messier than usual, and he had a tired look in his eyes

“Marc?” The taller boy flinched, Nathaniel became worried, “Rainbow, are you okay?” Marc seemed less tense after hearing his nickname

“Y-yeah. I’m fine.” His eyes shifted as if he were looking for someone, “Let’s just go-”

“Marc, please tell me what’s wrong.” He took Marc’s hand in his, “You flinched when I said your name. What happened?”

“... Just the usual stuff.” He admitted, “They threw notes at me,” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out said notes, “telling me to die, calling me some stuff, something about conversion therapy, I look like a girl...”, He sounded so bored, like he’d done this a hundred times, “They’re not even being original anymore.” He crumpled up the notes and put them in a nearby trash can “Come on, let’s get to art club.”

Nathaniel’s mouth hung open slightly. He stayed like that for a moment until he finally found his words “Rainbow, how can you just let this go?”, he asked, “This isn’t right.”

“Nath, I’m used to it.” He admitted, “I-It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“But-”

“Please? For me?”

Nathaniel wanted to argue, but that smile made him give in, “Fine.” He grumbled, “But if this gets physical, I am getting involved.” Marc nodded sadly. Nathaniel leaned in and kissed Marc on the cheek, making his lips curl into a smile, “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

—

The next week at school went pretty smoothly. The new Ladybug comic was published, paperback and online, and everyone really seemed to enjoy it. Nathaniel wanted to be happy right now, but he just couldn’t stop thinking about what happened to Marc. No one should have to endure that kind of treatment, and just be used to it... But, he promised that he wouldn’t do anything unless Marc showed up covered in bruises.

So far it’s been nothing but cruel notes in his locker and unoriginal insults. Marc just let it go and threw the notes away, but Nathaniel was pissed and close to being akumatized many times. Fortunately, Marc always managed to calm him down before any akumas could appear

“Nath!” Alix called out as she ran over to him with the latest issue of the comic in her hand, “I am loving this comic, man!” She wraps an arm around him and winks, “And don’t think I didn’t see those background gay couples.”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, “Of course you would notice them.”

“Cuz I got gay-dar!” She exclaimed with a laugh, but that look soon faded when she saw the aggravated look in Nathaniel’s eye, “Are you okay? You’re looking a little ticked off.”

Nathaniel let out a sigh, “It’s Marc. Some guys have been messing with him, and he won’t let me do anything.”

Alix frowned, “What have they been doing?”

“What do you think?”

Alix kicked a wall in frustration, “God, that’s still happening?” Nathaniel nodded, “Well, we have to teach those asses a lesson! Make sure it doesn’t happen again!”

He shook his head, “No, I promised Marc that I wouldn’t do anything unless it got physical. So far it’s just been shitty notes and name-calling.”

He started walking to the classroom, Alix followed

“I-I don’t get it.” Nathaniel said, “He doesn’t even care. Or he does, but he doesn’t wanna admit it!”

“Well, why don’t you take it to Damocles?”

“I tried, but he won’t do anything unless I bring him evidence, and Marc keeps throwing the notes away!”, he exasperated, “And, I’m trying, I really am. But I can’t just sit back and watch-” Alix put a finger to his lips, “Alix?”

“Thought I heard something.”

‘Where’s your boyfriend, Anciel?’

‘Looks like he didn’t even want you.’

Nathaniel ran to the source of the cruel voices and found himself standing outside the locker room. He put his ear to the door and listened.

‘Stop it!’

That sounded like Marc

‘What are you gonna do, ya queer?’

Having heard enough, Nathaniel barged into the room and saw the scene before him. Marc was being pinned to the wall by Louis, the school bully. Nothing like Chloe though. She had the common decency to insult people out in the open while he cornered people and threatened them in private. Victor and Clement, his lackeys watched with amused looks as they vandalized Marc’s journal

“HEY!” The bullies were startled by the loud voice, but calmed down when they realized it was only Nathaniel

Louis sneered, “Look, guys. The queer’s boy toy came to save him.” he taunted

Ignoring him, Nathaniel stormed over to Louis and pushed him off of Marc, making him land on the floor. Nathaniel stormed over to Victor and Clement, and snatched Marc’s journal out of their hands. He took Marc’s hand and started pulling him out of the locker room, but he stopped on his tracks when he heard Louis mutter...

“Damn f*gs.”

“... Nath?”

Nathaniel scowled, but did nothing and proceeded to walk Marc out of the locker room while not saying a word. It was quiet up until Alix and Marinette approached them, both looking concerned

“Guys, what happened?!” Marinette asked

Neither of them said a word until...

“Nothing. I-it’s fine.” Marc said

Nathaniel sighed, handed Marc his defaced journal and walked away, leaving Marinette and Alix confused

—

“A boy who only wants to protect the one he loves, yet his lover chooses to suffer in silence.”

Hawkmoth held out his hand and beckoned for a butterfly to land in his palm. Once it perched itself, Hawkmoth covered it with his other hand and the power of the Miraculous filled the butterfly with dark magic, turning it into an Akuma

The Akuma flew out through the window

“Fly away my little Akuma! And evilize him!”

—

Nathaniel stormed down the hallway. He didn’t know where he was going, he just needed to think. He didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t Marc let him help? Why didn’t he care?... Why didn’t he knock out Louis? He knew Marc endured this kind of treatment constantly, but he wanted to help him... Protect him...

He was too wrapped up in his thoughts to hear the flapping of an Akuma’s wings. And he definitely didn’t notice the Akuma flying into his bisexual flag bracelet. The purple Akuma symbol appeared over his face. Hawkmoth spoke,

“Painbow, I am Hawkmoth. I understand the feeling of wanting to protect the one you love. Let me give you some assistant. All I ask in return is that you bring me Ladybug and Chat Noir’s Miraculous.”

“I’ll protect you, Marc.” His whispered as dark purple magic bubbled up from the bracelet and surrounded him. Students standing in the hallway fled, not wanting to face the wrath of the newest Akuma. Some stayed, too paralyzed to move, which was a horrible mistake. Shooting from the Akuma’s hand was a multicolored energy ball. When hit, they felt something seize them, and they were suddenly puppeted by a strange force. Their irises took of the appearance of the color wheel, and they had wide smiles plastered on their faces

“Find my Rainbow, and Louis. NOW!”

—

Alix looked around the classroom, but Nathaniel was nowhere in sight. ‘He must’ve been really upset.’ She thought, and then turned her attention to Mme. Bustier

“Now, please open your books to-”

A flash of multicolored light beamed through the window, making the students shield their eyes

‘What is that?’

‘What’s going on?’

‘They got me!’

‘Sound the Akuma Alarm!’

‘Where are you my sweet Rainbow?!’

The class looked out the window but kept low so the Akuma wouldn’t see them. They watched in horror as the red-haired villain shot rainbow energy balls at random students. Each time he missed, the energy balls would cause a massive explosion. When he did hit a student, their eyes would become multicolored and they’d have alarmingly wide smiles.

“Rainbow, sweetie?!” He called out, “Come on out! We’re going to find you!”

“Rainbow?” Alix whispered to herself. Only Marc was called ‘Rainbow’. She then came to the conclusion, “That’s Nath!”

Nathaniel, now Painbow’s bangs were swooped to the side and dyed the colors of the rainbow, his eyes were blue with no iris or pupil, and they looked like crystals. He has on a white floor-length sleeveless trench coat with a rainbow sash going across the waist, a magenta tank top with blue pants, a purple belt, and black boots. He also has on white gloves, and a rainbow cuff bracelet on his left wrist

“Marc!~” He sang, “I can’t keep you safe if you’re not by my side!” With no response, he shrugged, “I’ll just destroy the whole school until I find you, or Louis!” With that, he fired another rainbow energy ball that created a hole in the wall

Mme. Bustier turned to the class, “While Nathaniel is distracted, you all need to run out of here.” Her students nodded, “And if you find Marc or Louis, make sure they get out.” She looked out the window and sees Painbow hurling lockers at panicked students who weren’t under his control

“NO ONE LEAVES UNTIL I HAVE MY RAINBOW!”

“Run!” Bustier ordered, and the class did not hesitate to run for the door, but when opened, they backed away when they saw the Akuma. The inhumanly wide smile plastered on his face was not easing their nerves

“I clearly said, no one leaves until I have my Rainbow.”

Alix cautiously approached her Akumatized friend, “Nath, whatever’s wrong, just-”

Before she could say another word, Painbow summoned several rainbow energy balls that he shot at the class. Marinette, Adrien, Alya, Nino, Mylene, and Alix managed to avoid them and run out the room, but the rest were now under his control

“Fine me Marc Anciel and Louis Kress! And if you see Ladybug and Chat Noir, take their Miraculous!”, he ordered, and the smiling multicolored eyed students ran out in search for the two

—

Looking through the window in Mme. Mendeleiev’s classroom, Marc watched in fear as the controlled students caused havoc in the school looking for him, while his akumatized boyfriend shouted his nickname and blasted rainbow energy balls from his hands

He sighed, “This is my fault.” He hid his face in his gloved hands

Aurore frowned and placed a hand on his shoulder, “Marc, don’t say that! You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“B-but he’s mad because I was getting bullied by Louis,” He explained “and I told him not to do anything.”

“It’s Louis’ fault, not yours.” Aurore said, then smirked, “And Nath’s probably only after you so he can kiss that cute face of yours.”, she joked, causing Marc’s lips to curl into a smile “Ladybug and Chat Noir will handle this. Nathaniel will be fine, and you two can talk it out, okay?” At Marc’s nod, she gives him a side hug

“Rainbow...” Painbow’s eerie voice called out

Mme. Mendeleiev signals for the students to get down so Painbow won’t see them. They crouch under the window as Painbow walks by the classroom

Marc let out a small whimper, making Mireille cover his mouth. They hear the Akuma’s footsteps fade away and let out sighs of relief

Mme. Mendeleiev stood, “Okay, he’s gone.”

Right as she said this, the door to the classroom exploded outwards in a cloud of splinters and rainbow dust, causing everyone to duck and cover. Looking up, Marc saw his villain boyfriend. His smile somehow became even more unnerving when his eyes landed on Marc

“Hello, My Rainbow.” He cooed as he approached him. Before he could get any closer, Mme. Mendeleiev stood in front of him, putting on a brave face in front of the Akuma

“You will not lay a finger on one of my students!” She said in a commanding tone

Painbow didn’t look threatened, and instead let out a laugh. Then with a flick of his wrist, an energy balls shot from his hand, hitting Mendeleiev, and putting her under his control. She stepped to the side, no longer blocking him. He looked around the classroom before honing in on Marc, who was backing into a corner with Aurore and Mireille

He gave a chilling smile, “Rainbow, please come here.” Seeing that Aurore and Mireille had no intentions of letting his love go, Painbow summoned two more energy balls that when thrown at the two weather girls, their eyes become multicolored. “Bring me my Rainbow.”, he commanded.

Aurore and Mireille complied as they dragged a struggling Marc over to the Akuma, and into his waiting arms, “I missed you!”

Marc tried to pry the Akuma’s arms off of him, but to no avail, “Nath! Stop this!” Painbow’s smile strained, “I told you, I don’t care about Louis, just-” Painbow put a finger to his lip, silencing him

“Sweetie, I don’t like your tone very much.” Instead of summoning an energy ball, Painbow kissed Marc’s forehead and the green of the writer’s irises faded and became multicolored. And instead of the creepily wide smiles the other students had, he had a look of bliss. He threw his arms around Painbow and kissed his cheeks affectionately

Seeing a crowd forming around them, Painbow summoned multiple energy balls that flew around the room, hitting each student and putting them under his control

—

Once Ladybug and Chat Noir ran out of their hiding spots after transforming, they found themselves in the courtyard being assaulted by their mind controlled school mates. The ones who weren’t under the Akuma’s control managed to evacuate with the heroes’ help. They spared a glance at Painbow, who had Marc settled in his arms before leaping out of the open roof of the school

“That’s gotta be Nathaniel!” Ladybug rounded up ten students with her yoyo before hurling, then locking them in a storage closet

“Can’t we deal with these guys later?!” Chat asked as he whacked two students away, “There’s too many of them!”

“Alright, let’s go!” Ladybug flung another student away before using her yoyo to zip out of the school, Chat followed, vaulting after her using his staff

As they leapt from roof to roof, Ladybug and Chat came across Alix, Nino, Mylene, Alya, and a few other students who have taken cover above ground. “Are you all okay?” Ladybug asked and received nods along with scattered ‘yes’ and ‘we’re okay’.

“Ladybug,” Alix said as she approached the two heroes, “Chat Noir! Nathaniel is looking for Louis Kress. I saw him running from our classmates! They’re probably still looking for him!”

Ladybug nodded before she opened up the phone setting on her yoyo and pulled up a live-stream, showing Nadja, also under Painbow’s control

“Don’t bemused! It’s just the news!” Nadja said in a cheery tone, “Louis Kress, our second in command’s offender, was recently spotted in the Louvre! Painbow’s loyal followers are doing everything in their power to find him keep him from escaping.”

Ladybug smiled then turned to the students, “Stay safe. We’ll handle this.”

“I’LL FIND YOU, KRESS! EVEN IF I HAVE TO TEAR DOWN THIS ENTIRE PLACE TO DO IT!”, Painbow yelled as he lifted a sarcophagus before throwing it away

Wake up!

He’s controlling you!

Your eyes are supposed to be green, stupid!

“Is something wrong, my Rainbow?”

Marc blinked his multicolored eyes as he looked at the Akuma punching a column. He smiled and shook his head, “I’m fine.”

Painbow gave a warm smile as he cupped Marc’s face in his hands, “Are you sure?” Marc nodded, “That’s good. You should be thrilled. Louis and everyone just like him will be out of our lives forever.”

What did he mean by the last part?!

Wake up, Anciel!

Your boyfriend is an Akuma!

He’s gonna kill Louis!

“I can’t wait.”

Painbow leaned in to give him a kiss, but then the glowing purple Akuma symbol appeared over his eyes and he clutched his head in pain.

“What is it?! What’s wrong?!”, Marc asked frantically

Hawkmoth spoke, “Don’t get distracted, Painbow! You had your chance to take the Miraculous, but didn’t seize your moment! Mess this up, or I’ll take away your powers!”

“Alright, just stop it!”, Painbow begged. The searing pain stopped, and he saw Marc looking at him with concern, “I’m fine. Someone is just a little impatient.”

Aurore ran up to the couple, “Painbow, we found him!”, she cheered

Painbow beamed at the news before gathering Marc in his arms, “Finally!”, Aurore lead them into the paintings gallery where they found Louis surrounded by a mob of controlled citizens and being restrained by Kim and Juleka, “Louis, what a pleasure.” He set Marc down and moved toward his victim, looking at him like a jungle cat that had caught its prey

“L-look man! I’ll leave Anciel alone! I swear!”, he pleaded, “I won’t bother you, o-or mess with that goth chick and her girlfriend!”

Painbow’s blue eyes widened at that last sentence, “Excuse me?”, he looked up at Juleka, “Jules, is this true?”

The goth girl nodded, the unnatural smile never leaving her face. Painbow grinded his teeth as he summoned another energy ball, only the colors were darker shades, “I’ve been DYING to use this one!” Louis closed his eye and turned away, knowing very well that this was the end for him. Suddenly, a familiar whizzing sound hit everyone’s ears as Ladybug’s yoyo wrapped around Painbow’s wrist. He lost his focus, and the energy ball bounced around the room before hitting a portrait, burning a hole in the center

Chat winced, “That would’ve been bad.”

“Nathaniel! Do you really want to do this?”, Ladybug asked, trying to reason with him, “What would Marc say?!”

Painbow folded his arms across his chest, “He doesn’t mind.”, he turns to Marc, “Do you, Rainbow?”

Yes! You just tried to murder him!

“Do whatever you think is best.”

“See? He’s fine with it.”

“LUCKY CHARM!”

What dropped in her hands was...

“A roll of tape?”

Using Marc, lead Painbow out of the museum, the others will follow

Have Chat Noir Cataclysm the security system, the bars will drop, trapping Painbow’s followers. He’ll be alone and defenseless

Deflect any of his blasts, then cause a distraction so he’s vulnerable. While vulnerable, wrap the tape around Painbow’s hands, he won’t be able to use his powers

Break his bracelet and free the Akuma

“Chat, go to the security system, and wait for my signal!” With a salute, Chat Noir made his way over to the security system. Using her yoyo, Ladybug wrapped it around Marc’s waist. With a yelp, he was pulled into her arms. “Come and get him, Painbow!”

Terror shone through his voice as he screamed, “SAVE HIM! SAVE MY RAINBOW! We’ll deal with Kress later!”

Ladybug hoisted Marc over her shoulder and ran as Painbow and his followers chased her. She was a few feet away from the gallery entrance when she yelled, “CHAT, NOW!”

“CATACLYSM!”

Chat touched the security system, making it short circuit before turning black and disintegrating into dust. Ladybug and Painbow managed to slide under the metal bars before they hit the floor. The rest were stuck in the gallery with no way out

“GIVE HIM BACK!”, Painbow yelled as he tried to blast the heroes, only to fail as they deflected each attack

“Chat! Cover me!”

“On it, M’Lady!” Chat got in front of Ladybug and blocked Painbow’s attacks by spinning his staff. While Painbow is focused on the leather-clad hero, Ladybug used the opportunity to wrap her yoyo around Painbow’s ankle, and yanked it so he’d trip

Painbow quickly got back up, but before he could attack again, he found his hands bound together by red duct-tape with black spots. He looked up and saw Ladybug reaching for his bracelet. “NO!”, she smashed the bracelet, releasing the Akuma

Catching it with her yoyo, Ladybug said, “No more evildoing for you, little Akuma. Time to de-evilize! Gotcha!” From the yoyo emerged a newly purified white butterfly, “Bye bye little butterfly.” She then tossed the tape roll into the air, “MIRACULOUS LADYBUG!”

Thousands of ladybugs burst from the tape and spread out all over the town, repairing all of the damages. The afflicted citizens returned to their normal selves, confused as to what they’re doing. The magic swept over the students who took shelter on the rooftop, and they were back at Dupont. The Akuma’s dark magic bubbled away, leaving Nathaniel Kurtzberg, confused as to what’s happening

The two heroes fist-bumped, “Pound it!”, while Nathaniel held his head, still very confused

“Nath?”

The redhead looked up as Marc ran over and threw his arms around him, whispering about how he was glad that he was okay, “... Marc, I-I’m so sorry!”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Marc murmured, “it’s okay.”

“No! I should’ve listened to you, but when I saw what Louis did, I-I just-”

Marc cupped Nathaniel’s face in his hands, then kissed his forehead, “You only wanted to protect me, Nath.”

Ladybug smiled, “Marc’s right, Nathaniel. This was Hawkmoth’s doing, not yours.” She wanted to say more, but hers’ and Chat’s Miraculous beeped. They only had three minutes left, “We gotta go now. Bug out!” She and Chat Noir ran out of the museum to find a place to detransform

—

“Well, if it isn’t Painbow.”

Don’t do anything. Don’t pay any attention to him. Nathaniel thought to himself, trying to stay calm, not wanting to become Akumatized again, “Is that supposed to upset me or something? Not the first time I’ve been Akumatized.”

“Well, look at you.” Louis said mockingly, “I guess without your precious Rainbow, you finally grew a spine.”

Don’t do anything. Don’t do anything.

“Screw off, Kress!” A familiar voice shouted. Nathaniel looked at saw Marc, standing behind Louis with his arms crossed, “Need I remind you that you’re part of the reason he got Akumatized?” He walked passed Louis, making sure to bump him with his shoulder, then he took Nathaniel’s hand in his and the two walked to art club

“Yeah, that’s right! Run away, ya pussies!”

“What do you think we’re doing?!”, Marc yelled back

“I’ll be waiting for you outside, Anciel! Your boy toy can’t protect you forever!”, he raised an eyebrow as someone tapped him on the shoulder

Ahem

He turned around, and was met with Alix’s fist nailing him in the face. He fell to the floor with a thud and held his hands over his face in pain as Alix and Marinette stood over him

Marinette glared down at him, “Next time you think about insulting someone for their preferences, remember this.”

“Totally worth the detention I’m getting.” Alix said with a smirk

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #Painbow #akuma nathaniel #Akuma #marcthaniel #marc x nathaniel #rainbow tomato #miraculous sugar #alix sugar #Alix ships it #Nathaniel calls Marc Rainbow #fanfic request #Akuma class

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adultswim2021 · 3 years

Text

Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law #15: “Blackwatch Plaid” | January 1, 2003 - 12:08 AM | S02E01

Mere minutes into 2003 Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law debuted it’s first episode in a little while: “Blackwatch Plaid”. The new year is traditionally a time when we reflect on our previous year and re-evaluate old habits. At the time of this airing, I was fastidiously recording Adult Swim every week and saving anything new that aired to my own carefully labeled home video archives. Historically I’d been recording to VHS, but I had received a DVD recorder for Christmas and immediately began transferring certain Adult Swim shows from VHS to DVD. The DVD format was still rather young, and the idea of Adult Swim shows actually making it to retail DVD didn’t seem like such a sure thing (even though at this time, two such volumes had been produced; more about those during EPHEMERA WEEK)

This was the tenth episode aired, and 10 episodes was what could fit on a DVD-R recorded in SP mode. So, I completed my first and only custom DVD of Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law. When faced with the prospect of beginning a second volume of Harvey Birdman on DVD I was at a bit of a crossroads. Keep watching this show I hate in the name of completionism? Or, do what any sane person would do and stop watching? I gave it away a few sentences back, but at the time I picked the later. This was a pretty big deal for me! Sure, I thought less of shows like Brak and Sealab from their strong starts, but I still stuck with them. My rejection of Birdman was a radical act. I was now no longer enjoying Adult Swim as a whole. I was now picking and choosing what I wanted from it.

“Blackwatch Plaid” isn’t so bad, truthfully. It’s a parody of the then-current Homeland Security Terror Alert Level Color Chart, which had debuted earlier in 2002. the eponymous blackwatch plaid is one of the colors on Phil Ken Sebben’s chart, which is created in this episode in response to an imagined office theft. The fact that this imaginary office theft is treated with the same high-level importance as a terrorist attack on our country is the whole joke of the episode. It’s a worthy target for satire, for sure.

Okay, so it’s 2021, and I’m watching these with a more open mind. I can admit the anger I felt at Birdman was “a little much”, this episode is more cohesive than most and the jokes aren’t bad. I didn’t laugh at them then, and I didn’t laugh at them now, so really not much has changed. But I recall one sticking point I had: the live-action montage. There’s multiple bits of live-action in this episode, and they are fun. But jealousy that these guys had a comedy show and I didn’t really worked wonders on me, because I remember really detesting the main montage in the episode. It was as if I thought “how dare you guys have fun, this show sucks.”

In the montage, Sebben presents Birdman with footage from the newly-installed security cameras that proves Birdman doesn’t get much work done in the course of his work day. A now live-action Birdman is seen milling around the office doing nothing much, then suddenly we are treated to a bright and colorful montage of Birdman playing hooky. He’s riding a ferris wheel, getting his nails done, showering at home with Boo Boo who playfully slaps his ass, cavorting around a fountain, popping out of a ball pit, and then running/tip-toeing around a field in different directions, for no reason. It’s wacky. It looks like it was a lot of fun to shoot. And I was pissed.

Okay, I’m primarily using this blog entry to try and get to the bottom of why I hated the montage so much. If a show I loved did something similar, I’d probably applaud it. It’s a fun idea, fairly low-effort (not that doing a live-action shoot doesn’t require real effort, it does!), and it just reads as “comedy is happening” for the entirety of the sequence. From a production stand point there’s little reason to not include a sequence like this.

I feel like this was a form of humor you’d see a lot of amateur comedy makers doing: the bright and cheery montage. It’s ironic, because I’m acting cheesy! I couldn't name names if I tried, but I just had about three or four different amateur sketch group videos pop into my head with the same comedy stylings. I can’t imagine what the point of view is here, or if anyone participating in this particular joke actually thinks they’re being original. At this point I’d say that the number of ironic/spoof montages in this vein outnumber the ones that are actually doing them in earnest. So, the idea can’t be “I’m doing a very original joke here.” The humor in those videos seem to be rooted in the more narcissistic ethos of “this is funny because *I’M* doing it!”

Have you ever seen Stella Shorts? I feel like a lot of aspiring comedy creators saw Stella Shorts and tried to produce similar sketches. That is: hammy, broad, intentionally sorta cheesy but ironic capitol-c comedy. And most of them would fall flat. It’s because the Stella guys were geniuses and the amateur comedians trying to do dime-store imitations of Stella Shorts were mostly not. So, it was the climate that really shaded my disdain for the montage. I wish I had my own TV show, still. I’ve occasionally written comedy pieces with the intent of putting together a low-budget sketch comedy show, and I’m certain that if I were to actually produce said comedy it wouldn’t be so easy, and I’d be very much guilty of putting unoriginal ideas on screen. But, the jealousy remains. So, sorry, Birdman. You’re still forbidden from entering my heart. Fuck you.

MAIL BAG

This is the part of the blog where we all get our eyes ready for some good messages and some good times. Here we go:

Just tried the Popeyes Nuggets, I've enjoy popeyes bone in chicken in the past so I thought I would give their boneless option a shot.

Please stop sending me nugget stuff. This is an anti-corporate, anti-capitalist blog. No one should eat any nugget unless they make it at home themselves. That’s just the facts

I can't believe I felt a little melancholy about the abrupt end of Brak. The first full fledge Adult Swim program to bite the dust. It was mostly terrible and you were better off airing an Aqua Teen episode in it's place but...wow, we'll never have that again. Goodbye Andy! See you in the shitty webtoon.

Andy is in hell now and “that’s gotta suck”. RIP.

Took the kids to Great Falls the other day, last treat before they head off to school and on our way back we stopped at Popeyes. The kids got the nuggets I went with the classic chicken. Cost me about 18 bucks with drinks and all that but it was pretty good chicken. The kids loved the nuggets. My son was like, "it's crunchy". Pretty cool place. Thanks for hipping me and my family to it. If you have any other kid-friendly places let me know because fall soccer season is coming up.

!!! SHUSH! stop that!

You arent gonna write about it since its not an original but Family Guy just left Adult Swim. Why don't you speak your mind about the show in general and what it meant for the programming block. Yeah, that sounds like a good waste of your time.

Little do you realize!

Popeyes chicken

Suck my dick

#adult swim #harvey birdman attorney at law #adultswim2021

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caligobeltrao · 4 years

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I for one would love 2 hear ur thoughts on the hannibal novel 👀👀 - bloodybrahms ☺

ahhh thank you BB!! <3 I’m gonna throw it under a cut bc I know people aren’t gonna want my ramblings clogging up their dash lol.

Edit after I’ve written it: Holy shit this turned into a monster but tbf I did say I was going to rant. I think I miss writing college essays...

Also, I would like to note bc I’m about to bitch, I do still love Hannibal and Clarice and all of the franchise. Hell, I even love book Hannibal because I’m garbage and want to be special. So yeah. It’s a fond bitching.

Okay where to fuckin begin man... This novel was a fucking Shit Show, my dudes. It was like baby’s first fanfiction.

Let’s just jump in, shall we?

So by now, having read both Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, I know Harris injects of lot of sexual shit into his novels, fine whatever, but the amount of pedophilia is insane. Like, Red Dragon with the grandmother threatening to cut his dick off by holding it in between scissors????? And then we have Mason Verger, worst human on the planet. Like jfc I’ll go into him specifically more later but just. Men. Why does it always have to be sexual.

Like that time Clarice wasn’t wearing a bra and she wanted to prove to Paul Krendler she wasn’t wearing a wire so she flashed him her tits?? Unnecessary, Harris. Bullshit on all counts.

Next, poor Ardelia Mapp. So he clearly wrote out her accent in Silence, which frankly reads racist since to me it seemed like he did it every time a character of color was met but he didn’t for Clarice’s Southern accent except for this book when she was talking to Ardelia. Now, that’d be a cool way to show how close they are, sure, but it just... She didn’t show up enough to warrant that reaction from me, plus all the other casually racist shit he throws in.

Ardelia’s literally there as the wise Black best friend to help Clarice along. She doesn’t feel like her own character, she’s only there in conjunction with her, or doing something for her. She was the fucking valedictorian for Christ fucking sake, she also works at the Bureau but if her department was mentioned it was only once in passing. She was not a full character which fucking blows because she could’ve been so cool.

And real quick before I forget, I hate how she’s treated in the end. I do like she gets a reference and that brainwashed Clarice sent her an emerald ring and a note saying she was okay, but Ardelia was abandoned by her best friend (that she had lived with) with not even a phone call and they will never see each other again and I think Ardelia knows it. It sucks and I’m heartbroken for this woman.

I’m gonna touch a little bit on the racism too. Now I’m white and not the most qualified to talk about this shit, but I do wanna mention it because it makes me mad. There’s just so many unnecessary slurs, any POC is more of a background helper character to Clarice than anything or a foil.

For example, Evelda Drumgo. She starts us off. Badass Black woman who runs a drug cartel. She chooses to shoot at Clarice and risk her baby’s life, and we have Clarice wash the baby off and save his life. Then Evelda’s mother is written as irrational when she slaps Clarice for visiting the baby in the hospital; I get Clarice’s impulse, but that woman just lost her daughter because Clarice killed her. I would’ve slapped Clarice too, even if it was a totally justifiable shot.

The baby himself is used as a foil throughout other parts, most notably to me when Clarice goes to visit Mason the first time. There are two Black boys from a foster home playing in a room with a camera so Mason can watch them, and it shakes Clarice up a lil bit because of the baby, but it says she’s getting more used to it.

Now this is half and half well written and shoddy to me. It’d be a cool moment, if the whole incident wasn’t nearly completely forgotten for the rest of the book shortly afterword. It could show growth, if Clarice had any growth to show.

And then the Romani people who are literally just used and thrown away. Sickening. Also very broadly used the stereotypes we hear which Sucks; the three we meet in any sort of depth are pickpockets, one was already in jail and Pazzi used his leverage as a police officer to get her to do what he wanted and threatened to have her baby taken away from her permanently, like it was just bad. And then the man got killed. Pazzi let him bleed out. Asshole.

The slurs. I could take out all of them and pretty much have the same damn thing. Like I get showing negative aspects of characters and just because a character’s racist doesn’t mean the author is, but with the characters already being as shitty as they are, fully didn’t need it to make them worse. Entirely unnecessary. Racism or the character being racist has no impact on the plot is the major thing, I think. And you can replace that with anything along those lines, like sexist, homophobic, transphobic. It didn’t impact the plot, they can still be shitty, you just don’t need to use them.

This also goes in reference to Margot being a lesbian. And the transphobia holy shit, it was disgusting. Harris had Clarice think something so cruel and unnecessary it’s like my guy why was that even remotely something we needed to hear. We didn’t. I wanted to stop reading because that’s not my Clarice, first and foremost, and second, this is supposed to be the character we LIKE. And now I don’t like ANYBODY in this damn book.

And he treats Margot like shit too, and Barney.

Their friendship was beautiful and great and finally for once something nice was happening in Margot’s life and I was happy reading it, and then FOR SOME REASON Margot goes to shower in the same room as Barney after a workout, which makes no sense, and then Barney tries to force a kiss on her (and he was hard, Harris made that very clear) and she had been sexually assaulted by Mason her brother and ruin the whole damn thing and none of it would have changed any other piece of the novel if you removed it!!!!!!!!! Entirely unnecessary!!!!!! And Barney had the gall to say well I couldn’t help myself like none of that was realistic in the slightest, she never would have went in the same room to shower with him.

Something you need to do is basically get some suspension of disbelief from your reader and maintain and stretch that as you go, right? Well mine was gone at that moment.

Also side note Margot is basically just there to show how shitty Mason is for the umpteenth time. Her whole thing is lesbian sexual assault victim.

Also heavily implied she was a lesbian because of the sexual assault. And we rarely see Judy, her girlfriend, so. Bad. Bad all around.

Circling back around to Clarice and how disappointing she is in the books as compared to the movies. Well, Clarice is also a poorly written character. She’s 1000x better in the movie. Hell, she’s even better in this book than she was in Silence, but that’s not fucking hard.

Pretty much all the characters are so flat they don’t even classify as two dimensional.

Like sure, maybe we wanna say Clarice didn’t really solve much in the first book and was just handed everything because she was a trainee and that’s what Hannibal wanted.

Like if you remember the John Mulaney sketch of Delta Airlines where he’s just going “Okay!” and running to the next place he’s told, that’s Clarice.

Okay so why does she get goaded into all this shit now? She should know better. She should know how to handle herself better. Like she messes up basic fucking shit like clearing a room before untying Hannibal, which was stupid, she seems oblivious to some of the politics at work even though she’s been in the FBI for like 7 years now, she would at least have more fucking contacts than Brigham who died in the beginning and Jack Crawford who died at the end by rolling over in his bed to his dead wife’s side and Ardelia who would be near the same level as Clarice I guess but I still don’t know her damn department???? Like you fucking network.

Plus after her final fall from grace with the FBI, we meet or are told of random side characters that go no where and do nothing just to say “hey look at my special little girl, everyone likes her and looks up to her!!” Why? Because she caught Buffalo Bill 7 years ago and then never got a promotion or even worked with the BAU? Again, it does not make sense. People may pity her? But a random girl in the lab wouldn’t be fangirling. Starling herself said her career had gone nowhere because of the politics and not sleeping with Paul. You need to show me why she’s likable in her actions not others words.

We spend more time away from her than with her anyways but Jesus.

AND HER IN THE ENDING. She was fucking BRAINWASHED????? Bull FUCKING SHIT. He completely ruined anything he even remotely might’ve had in this cluster fuck of a novel.

Case in point, difference from the movie, Hannibal spends weeks (possibly? it’s left purposefully vague and I’m guessing that’s because Harris didn’t know the ins and outs and wanted his novel done) meticulously brainwashing Clarice, he had stolen her father’s bones and she’s so far gone at that point she doesn’t care, and the whole scene where Paul is getting his brain eaten? Yeah, she happily indulges and when he insults her, she asks Hannibal for more. Fuck you, Thomas Harris.

And Hannibal’s a Gary Stu, fucking fight me.

In the movie he either is or he’s tap dancing on that line, don’t get me wrong, but in the novels it’s insufferable because it doesn’t seem earned. The pigs didn’t attack him because they didn’t smell fear on him. No. He’s easily able to drug and brainwash Clarice and take her as his lover. No. Go away. He’s so smart and one step ahead and can manipulate anyone and everyone into doing what he wants and blah blah blah shut up! A character being perfect isn’t interesting even if he’s evil!! We all know he’s never truly in danger because of how Harris writes him and that’s boring!!

And I personally have a pet peeve where the villain is described as a monster or unstoppable. That’s boring and I no longer care about your story. I know 9 times out of 10 your main character is going to find a bullshit way around the impossible and kill it. Or it’s just like a default personality and nothing else is added to it. And that’s Hannibal.

I’m on Hannibal Rising now and, spoiler alert, he’s very bland as a character. (Also Harris switched some details in the novel which kinda annoys me like get your own canon right my man but whatever.) The plot itself is pretty fun? I guess? Like there’s action and stuff and I’m enjoying that. But it’s the same set up where Harris’s Gary Stu always wins, like he was 13 in the book when he killed the butcher. Let. Your. Characters. Lose.

Also even more racist shit but what did I expect really.

Anyways, I have no idea who I’m supposed to root for in the novel because all the characters are just kinda shitty. It really just boils down to Harris not showing any redeeming qualities or actions from any of his characters. I liked Margot for a while out of spite but she never really went anywhere and the way she killed Mason (btw she sodomized him with a cattle prod to get his semen bc side plot and then stuffed his Moray eel down his throat and somehow I still don’t think that’s the worst part of the novel) just. No thanks really.

All the random little side plots were also pretty not great. How many time does Harris have to say Pazzi of the Pazzis? Like I fucking get what you’re going for, even if I hadn’t watched the movie I’d be like, “Oh this dude’s gonna get hung outta that window, dope,” the literal first time. Stop treating your readers like idiots.

And then Margot’s side plot was that the will their father left said she needed a biological heir to inherit because he was pissed she’s gay and we needed the homophobia I guess, so Mason got everything, and she was helping him with the Hannibal shit because he’s pretty incapacitated duh, and in return he would give her his jizz so Judy could be artificially inseminated and they could have a child and get some of her inheritance. I don’t care. It was all very gross, and Mason kept saying shit like suck me off you’ve done it before, I won’t be able to feel it anyway, maybe Judy’ll suck me off you think she’d like that. It’s all gross.

And I guess this is a good a time as any to finally start on Mason. So a great rule of writing to make everything work better and give your story more depth is to give everyone both positive and negative traits right, even and especially the bad guys? Like, rules can always be broken if you’re a good enough writer, but I believe I have established that Harris isn’t quite there yet, to put it nicer than I have.

Mason is one bad trait after another. It’s like when Harris was bored of constantly writing about plain ole pedophilia, he threw a dart at a board of horrible things and landed on topics such as: pedophilia but make it incest, extreme sadism, sadism but against children now, and good old fashioned racism! Fucking Cordell was supposed to collect the children’s tears after Mason would make them cry and put them in martinis for him. Realism went out the goddamn door real fast with this novel y’all. Like a fucking Scooby Doo villain over here.

And he loves talking about being a sadistic pedophile, he will literally not shut up about it to Clarice when she first gets there telling her about his trip to Africa and this portable guillotine he has and just. I get it was probably like trying to make her uncomfortable on purpose because he’s a Freak, but it went way too far if only because it was annoying, not even uncomfortable for me as a reader. I was bored real quick. Get to the shit I actually wanna know.

And it sucks because of the weird, over-the-top way of how he died, I got zero satisfaction from his death. I couldn’t even be like, “Well at least Margot got her revenge,” because that’s not how she originally wanted to kill him!!! She wanted someone else to extract his semen for the insemination but couldn’t find anybody to do it for her, and then Hannibal, whilst tied up, said use a cattle prod and you won’t have to touch him and when you kill him you can blame it on me, and I’m pretty sure even if she hit his prostate right every time and he COULD cum from that alone in addition to how his body is Fucked Up now, it would’ve been a lengthy, gross, and re-traumatizing experience for her because all she wanted to do was avoid seeing and touching her brother’s private parts again, which I think is a totally fair and rational desire.

So I have to live with the fact that she was desperate enough to not lose the house and business because of her homophobic father to go through her childhood trauma again. There’s no place in this book that has a somewhat positive conclusion.

Even the very last bit where Barney has a girlfriend and a ton of cash from Margot, all he wants to do is see every Vermeer in the world right? Well, because Hannibal and Clarice are in Buenos Aires where one of them is on display, Barney gets spooked and has him and his girlfriend leave before he can see it and it ends that bit with he never got to see it ever so he didn’t even complete his dream!!!

Also for good measure, Harris throws in that Hannibal and Clarice enjoy having sex regularly. For no reason. Just letting us know.

I know this seemed like just a bitch fest, because it was, but I kinda sorta enjoyed it? It kept my attention at the very least. It’s really disappointing because like I said, I love the movies, all of them, and have since I was little. To see the original not stand up to that image in my mind is a little heartbreaking. Especially Clarice. She was a strong female role model to me, but turns out she’s... just kinda there. And her ending is that of her no longer being herself and getting that agency taken away from her.

There is a reference to her waking up from a sleep, if she is asleep (that’s kind of how he worded it), that kinda let us draw our conclusions on whether she was just brainwashed into being good for him or if she was willingly going along with this and was in love with him I guess and it felt like a slap in the face. She turned from a hardworking, modest country girl working her way up to the FBI into a female Hannibal. Which on the surface sounds kinda cool because we love luxe serial killers, but that’s not what she wanted or who she was set up to be. And to insinuate that she would even remotely consider choosing that path for herself is at its best an insult to her and at its worst a complete erasure of her background, what little character Harris did set up. It also completely erases my own connections to her, as a girl from a small town myself who has bigger dreams than this and also... a good, strong set of morals. He just tossed that out the window.

Obviously if you’re on this blog, you like slasher x reader shit, and this is a novel with a slasher x a person, right? So why am I so mad about it? Because the whole point of this blog and reader insert fanfiction in general is that you are taken as you are and loved wholly as yourself and that you are worthy of that love (in a fictional setting, not really loving people who are like this, which I think we understand but I want to clarify). She was not taken as she was. He is not in love with her, she is not in love with him. She was transformed into what he wanted out of her. He couldn’t get her to be Mischa, his first plan, so he made her like himself. And the fact that he was so easily able to do it makes me upset, and even more so is that it’s not written like it’s weird or wrong. It’s written like they’re in love and this is a good thing.

He may have been going for the classic “everyone is capable of doing bad things” stuff we see a lot, but we got that from Margot already. And Barney, for stealing Lecter’s stuff and selling it. And Paul, and the entire FBI for turning on Clarice, and the kidnappers, and Pazzi, and random shitty side characters. And none of it was particularly well written or made some sort of strong statement. It just was. And that’s not a good enough basis for a novel.

Anyways, if you made it this far holy shit you’re a saint and I love you, let’s be friends?? <3 Have a good day y’all, thank you BB for giving me permission to ramble.

#bloodybrahms #ask #no joke i spent like 5-6 hours total writing this i had a Lot to say

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havenester · 4 years

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with the resurgence of scenecore and the rawring 20s i was reminded of one of my favorite things to do on ye ole day of deviantArt: using anime bases made in ms paint, that were traced from a screenshot.

there was something freeing about just slapping some color on a premade base, like your own coloring page, or a paper doll, that made creating somewhat cringey OCs really easy and just plain fun.

of course, tracing other people’s art is problematic, especially without their permission, but if you’re like me you still enjoy loading up a shoddy pixel doll and making it your own in one of the most primitive imaging editing softwares out there.

So! i just kinda. made one myself. the basic process is down below and i’ll explain it a little more in detail. I used, you guessed it, MS Paint.

shitty resolution aside, i start by sketching the figure in a light color, blue in most cases, basic stuff.

i go over it in a darker color, red, and use a couple of shortcuts to phase most of the previous color out. you can fill the canvas with the lighter color, and then fill THAT in with white again to get a large chunk out, and scraggling pixels can be removed like this:

make sure the foreground color is your lighter sketching color.

double check your background color, default is white.

using the eraser tool, hold down the RIGHT CLICK to remove just the foreground color!

once i’ve cleaned up the sketch, i use a combination of the line and curve tools in black to ‘ink’ it. make sure to go back and clean up any stray pixels so the outline is smooth.

i remove the red in the same way i remove the blue, and then you’re left with your lineart! spruce it up with some classic base colors and a palette for easy recoloring, optionally you can change your background color, and bam!

your own circa 2010 dA anime base.

feel free to use my finished version down below!

#scenecore #deviantart #base #tutorial #havenester #art #hav does art #digital art #ms paint

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chromecutie · 5 years

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Not A Ghost - part 15

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst @ra-ra-rasputiin @holamor @empressme-bitch @marvel-is-perfection @hazilyimagine @marvel-forever-17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash @whitewitchdown @master-sass-blast @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

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The first practice session with the lightbulb wasn’t a total bust, Rhonda swore to herself. She blew through a good chunk of the playlist, enjoyed a lot of the music, and had been able to make the bulb flicker with more regularity. Some of the flickers were even reasonably bright, but she couldn’t keep it steadily lit. If nothing else, the music kept her from getting too frustrated and smashing the bulb on the floor. Slipping it back in its box, Rhonda decided to call it a night before her husband came looking for her, hoping she could keep him from asking to see her progress.

Retracing their steps back toward the kitchen, Rhonda took in details about the house as if they were new--and some details were new. Old wallpaper had been replaced in some spots, mismatched but with the closest replica prints anyone could find. In some hall that had classrooms, Rhonda walked by a big glass case and had to stop.

It was her.

There was a large framed photo of her from her earliest days as official X-Men. It had been taken eleven or twelve years ago. Younger Rhonda was beaming proudly in her yellow uniform, striking a pose that was as noble and heroic as it was plain goofy. One hand was on her hip and the other straight over her head, blasting an arc of blue-green lightning, and one leg stretched in a high kick with pointed toes. Her hair was pulled back in a dyed blue-green ponytail--with bangs.

“They had to pick a picture with bangs, huh?” Rhonda muttered.

Neatly folded on a shelf under the photo was her spare uniform. The case was a memorial. The photo was flanked by plaques that told how Rhonda Reese Rasputin was “lost in the line of duty” and some poetic phrasing about knowing the cost of mutant safety and how important it is to be part of X-Men. Rhonda rolled her eyes. “Who wrote this? Fucking Scott?”

A few of her personal items were in the glass case--some black leather dance shoes, sketches Piotr had drawn of her, and a lot of photos of her with friends and students she tutored. Lots of smiles, lots of shenanigans. There was one from Halloween one year where Piotr had worn a long blonde wig, a pink dress, and carried Rhonda in a bag with a puppy ear headband and a black nose painted on her face. She remembered how hard she’d had to convince him to be Paris Hilton, and when he finally agreed, she used it as proof that he liked her and asked him on their first date. There was also one of her favorite photos from their wedding. They had their pieces of cake and Rhonda stretched on tiptoe to shove a piece in Piotr’s mouth. There was buttercream frosting smeared on half her face; Piotr had tried to give her too big a piece, and half of it had fallen right back onto the plate.

Rhonda chewed her lip, emotions surging, but hard to identify. Was she touched? Angry? Sick? Betrayed? She couldn’t even decide if she felt one emotion or everything at once. She blew a big huff and kept walking for the kitchen.

The next few days followed a pattern. Rhonda tried to be social, but sometimes someone would say or do something or move or stand in a certain way that made her lungs freeze, ready to fight. Then, humiliated, she would hide in her room, the gardens, or her practice room for a few hours. Every day, she spent time with that damn lightbulb, and every day didn’t quite get it to stay lit. At night, she would have some quiet time with Piotr in their bedroom before taking a sedative and fall into (hopefully) dreamless sleep. The times she skipped or forgot the sedative, she would wake up in a cold sweat, trying to fight Piotr until she remembered where she was. The bruises, scabs, and calluses faded, the dark circles under her eyes lifted, her coloring started coming back. She looked more like a person and less like some creature that hadn’t seen the sun in half a decade. But the general hardness in her expression remained.

Piotr did his best. He spoke with their closest friends and X-Men teammates and gave them a brief rundown of what she had been through, so she wouldn’t have to answer the same questions over and over. He laid down a few new rules:

If you’re a telepath, keep your mind a mile away from Rhonda’s. For the love of everything good, if you do read something in her mind, don’t comment on it.

Don’t startle her. She will fight.

Don’t ask about the tattoos or scars.

Don’t comment on how strong and gifted she used to be, or how she’s lost her gifts now.

These things seemed like common sense, but after the incident with Cable, and how Scott tried to push for a full debrief directly from Rhonda, Logan tried to crack a joke about her tattoos, and Kurt tried to prank her out of old habit, and nearly got a shiv in his gut for it, Piotr felt a need to establish some rules to make things easier on everyone. Also, no one knew when she made or started carrying a shiv around the house, or where she kept it on her person.

A mission or two came up for the X-Men, but Colossus didn’t go. He felt it was still too soon to leave his wife for an indefinite length of time. So, they managed without him.

Of the veteran X-Men, Ororo was the most helpful. She and Rhonda were close friends, and used to train together all the time. With some persuading, Rhonda agreed to let Ororo work with her in the makeshift practice room, but she still wouldn’t set foot in the Danger Room.

“What is it, Rhon?” Ororo asked during a practice session. “Yesterday you were so close to having a steady light, and today it seems like you’re not focusing.” She kept a respectful distance, hands on her hips in a relaxed posture.

Rhonda puffed out her cheeks in a sigh and turned the lightbulb over in her fingertips. She struggled to find words, “It’s just...I didn’t think about how hard it would be. Coming home.”

Ororo said nothing, patiently waiting for her friend to continue.

“I didn’t even know how long I had been gone, and I come home and Piotr’s got a girlfriend and he seemed happy with her. And Ellie’s an adult now, and I just...is there even room for me in these people’s lives anymore?” She paced the room. “It’s just so messy and fucked up, should I not have come home?”

Frowning with concern, Ororo tilted her head and reached to touch Rhonda’s shoulder, “Oh, honey, you can’t think like that. Listen, nobody is happier to have you home than Piotr and Ellie. And me. You have to know that.”

Rhonda stared past the bulb in her hand at the floor. When she met Ororo’s eyes again, she said, “Come see.” With a beckoning twist of her hand, she led Ororo to the glass case that had the memorial.

They looked at it together, Rhonda taking in new details she had missed before. Near her dance shoes was her favorite hoodie she used to wear to warm up for dance. There were a handful of mix CDs--from back when people did that. One of the photos was of her and Ellie as a kid, when they had painted their nails black together. Rhonda clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth before saying quietly, “The other day, Piotr told me he will always regret that he gave up looking for me.” She tapped a fingernail on the glass at the photos of her early X-Men days. “But it wasn’t just Piotr. Everyone gave up on me. You all were picking out flowers and an empty casket to bury and what crappy pictures to put in this thing and I was--I fucking--” she huffed, then sniffed. “I fell for some shitty deals, is what I did. This inmate or that guard promised to get a message outside for me, and they didn’t, they were never going to.” Rhonda shook her head, voice dripping with venom. “I still fell for it every. Single. Time. Like a fucking idiot.”

Ororo noticed the lightbulb in Rhonda’s hand as it hung at her side. It was glowing, and only getting brighter.

Rhonda read from one of the plaques, “The worst day on the job is when not everyone makes it home.” She rolled her eyes, “Please. Did Scott write this?”

“I did,” Ororo replied, hurt.

Rhonda slapped her free hand flat on the glass, mouth twitching. “I’m still living the worst day on the job! The one time I really needed the giant X on my chest to protect me--” she rapped her knuckles on the glass in front of her old uniform, her volume climbing “It didn’t. In fact, it made things worse.”

She raised her right hand, only now noticing the bulb was glowing bright enough to make Ororo squint. Pushing up her sleeve with her left hand, to show the Xs on her forearm, she shouted, “Do you see these fucking--”

The lightbulb shattered, sparks flying.

Ororo was quick to shield her face, but a few shards of the glass nicked Rhonda’s cheek, only narrowly missing her eyes. Blood beaded and trickled in thin rivulets from the nicks. They both froze, looking from the metal fitting in Rhonda’s hand to the tiny shards on the floor to the big framed photo with the lightning spiking from her extended hand.

“You lit it,” Ororo said.

Rhonda tossed the fitting into the trash can across the hall, scowling when she returned to the case. “I want my stuff out of here.”

Brushing back her white hair, Ororo nodded, “I think I have keys.” On her big key ring of work keys, she found the one that opened this case and slid the front panel open.

While Rhonda snatched her dance shoes, hoodie, Piotr’s sketches, CDs, and most of the photos, Ororo made a small whirlwind just powerful enough to pick up the shards of the lightbulb to bring them to the trash as well. Rhonda was right behind her with the plaques and framed photo.

It hurt to see her friend so angry, even though she knew it wasn’t just about the plaques Ororo had written. She stopped her before she could shove them into the trash with a vengeance, “Wait.” She held out her hands for the plaques, and Rhonda begrudgingly handed them over. When she raised the photo to dump it, Ororo said, “Piotr picked that picture. He said it was his favorite.” Her eyes welled up with tears. Cradling the plaques in one arm, she swiped away tears with her free hand. “He told me that was the day he knew he was in love with you.”

Rhonda lowered the photo and looked at it again. Those bangs were terrible, the hair dye wasn’t fresh, but the young woman in the photo was so excited to work on a team and make the world safer for mutants, and to do it alongside her best friend and the man she loved. That young woman was so sure of her purpose, and nobody could shake her from it. Rhonda’s throat closed up as she fought to not let any tears slip. She didn’t mean to rage at her best friend like this, or trash her friends’ well-meaning sentiment. She was just tired of feeling broken and weak. After a few long breaths, she handed the photo over to Ororo.

“No one would fault you for being angry,” Ororo watched Rhonda gather her things, and her moment of hesitation before grabbing the uniform. “We were wrong. We messed up. That hurts. But we’re doing our best now.” She sniffed and wiped away another streak of tears.

Rhonda nodded slowly. She took the rest of the photos from parties and tucked all the flat things between her hoodie and the dance shoes. The glass case was empty except for a little dust and a few dead spiders. “I’m done with memorials.”

That much was loud and clear. “I’ll put these somewhere else,” Ororo nodded. “What about your face?”

It took Rhonda a minute to realize her face was bleeding from when the glass hit her. She rolled her eyes and shrugged, “What’s another scar?”

“Clean it at least, please, Miss Rub-Some-Dirt-In-It.” They both chuckled, then an encouraging smile spread over her face. “Hey Rhonda? You lit the bulb.”

Rhonda beamed, glancing away and back to Ororo before whispering, “Yeah,” as if saying it aloud would jinx it. She hugged her things to her chest, and headed back to her room.

#colossus x oc #piotr rasputin x oc #colossus #piotr rasputin #longfic #ororo #storm #x men #deadpool

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