selfish gifting

The importance of tone in GOTG Vol. 2

Tone : the general character or attitude of a place, piece of writing, situation, etc.

We’ve all seen movies or read books that get their tone wrong.  They feel subtly off or wrong somehow.  Do it wrong, and every twist or revelation in your story feel wrong too, straining the audience’s disbelief.  Done correctly, manipulations of tone are barely perceptible but absolutely necessary to support dramatic character arcs.

One of my favorite parts of the movie was its subtle manipulation in tone, particularly in the second act.

Spoilerfic meta below

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lesbianrain  asked:

Okay, but how did Shiro and Keith start dating? And how did the camp find out? (Or did everyone just know because "Come on, it's obvious" and Lance's jaw is on the floor)

Voltron PJO AU: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 (Betting Pool Gods Version)

How Shiro and Keith Started Dating.

Ever since Shiro and Keith met, Keith had always been drawn towards the son of Zeus. He couldn’t really pinpoint what exactly it was, but he just knew he was comfortable when he was by Shiro’s side, he felt safe—despite the fact they battled way too many monsters than any other demigods should’ve before they get to camp, simply because they were apparently BOTH children of The Big Three. 

Being a child of Zeus and child of Hades made them more delicious (Keith cringed at the term but there was no other way to put it) also because they were very rare. The gods made a law that The Big Three: Zeus, Hades and Poseidon, not to have anymore children with mortals because they tend to be really powerful and destructive, they have the ability to destroy the world and the gods would like to prevent that. All the World Wars were caused by children of The Big Three fighting. Keith would’ve found it amazing but he couldn’t imagine starting World War IV if he and Shiro would have an argument. 

Keith made his way to forest since Shiro told him to meet him there. He saw his best friend’s back sitting on a tree branch. Sensing his presence, Shiro turned around and waved at Keith. Keith smiled back. It must be Shiro’s friendly aura, his caring personality or the way he simply smiles softly at Keith. 

Shiro summoned the winds to lift Keith up to the tree so he could sit beside him. “Thanks,” Keith muttered as he sat properly, holding onto the branch. “So what’s up?”

“I got you a cake,” Shiro pulled out a slice of cake from his picnic basket and handed it to Keith. “Well, Hunk baked it cause you know how awful I am at things like this.”

It startled him, to be honest but he smiled and accepted it. “What’s the occasion? Not that eating cake on a normal day is bad.”

Shiro frowned. “You don’t remember.” A fact, not a question. Keith shook his head as he took a bite, seeing Shiro getting a slice of his own. “It’s your birthday, you silly goob.” 

Keith gaped. His birthday? “What? My birthday?”

“Yeah, Happy 18th Birthday, Keith!” Shiro chuckled and then softly stared at Keith who seemed to have a hard time processing it. He took the son of Hades’ hand and started caressing it softly, an obvious attempt to bring Keith back to the present. 

Keith’s heart was beating so fast and before he could stop himself, Keith grabbed Shiro’s shirt and pulled him close so he could give him a peck on the lips. It was really brief but Keith felt like he could’ve died, so when he realized what he did, he quickly detached himself and noticed that Shiro had his eyes wide open in surprise.

“What was that all about?” Shiro whispered, still not taking his eyes off Keith.

Oh gods. Keith felt terrible and absolutely awful. He let his feelings get the better of him and now… “I… I’ve always been meaning to tell you before my 18th birthday without realizing I was running out of time and oh gods. It’s fine if you don’t feel the same way, Shiro.” Keith forced a laugh. “Think of it as like, uh, my um… birthday gift? Selfish birthday wish gift.” Keith was blabbering, he knew that as he stared at his hands that were clenched on top of his thighs. His hands started to shake and then suddenly his plate started to slip and he couldn’t process what happened next but…

1. His plate fell. He went to grab it out of reflex.
2. He fell off the branch with no such grace.
3. Shiro panicked and summoned the winds.

And that was how Keith found himself holding his now empty plate, floating in front of Shiro who just gave him a very amused smile.

“It’s not funny,” Keith grumbled, fist still clenched. “Put me down.”

Shiro shook his head and cupped Keith’s face to return the favor: a soft peck on Keith’s lips. “Now we’re even.”

If his eyeballs could only pop out of his eye sockets, they probably would’ve done it now because what the hell just happened?

“Keith?” Shiro asked worriedly.

“D-do that again,” Keith squeaked.

Shiro laughed and Keith could’ve sworn he saw the clouds parting, giving ways to the rays of the sun to shine down on Shiro, providing him the golden halo that Keith knew was always there. He reached out for Shiro who gladly pulled him and Keith hugged him really tight. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he buried his face into Shiro’s neck. 

“What did you say?” Shiro asked.

“I said this is the best birthday ever,” Keith leaned away for a second to look at Shiro. “Also, you are allowed to hold my hand in public whenever we walk side by side.”

“Oh, thank the gods. Cause that’s what I’ve always been dreaming of if I ever got myself a boyfriend.” Shiro sarcastically said then he softened and kissed Keith on the cheek. “I’d love to hold your hand in public, Keith.”

That was how the camp found out because they went back to the dining pavilion, holding hands.

“Oh thank the gods it worked,” Hunk sighed in relief as he saw the new couple passing by. “I hope they enjoyed my cake.”

“WHAT?” Lance screamed. “Are you seeing this?!” he pointed at Shiro and Keith dramatically. “What the heck? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN?? I?? WHAT?”

“C’mon it’s so obvious, Lance,” Pidge rolled his eyes.

“OBVIOUS? OBVIOUS???!” Lance raised an eyebrow. “I THINK NOT! Since when did Shiro go for guys? AND KEITH OF ALL PEOPLE???”

“Lance, close your mouth. Your jaw could reach the floor,” Shiro commented as they went past his table. 

There were a lot of groans and devastated cries because not only was the son of Zeus no longer available, even the son of Hades! Even worse! They just started dating each other.

If you’re only showing kindness with the expectation of getting something in return then you aren’t showing true kindness. If your kindness, your support stops because you aren’t receiving what you wanted, what you expected, in return then it was never genuine. If you can’t be nice without it being reciprocated then you were never being truly nice in the first place. True kindness is given freely. Kindness should be a gift, not a loan.


Miraculous Moments

Plagg - Episode 2

Fall in love with yourself first.

And I don’t mean in the cheesy “take yourself out to the mall and blow your money on bath salts and body lotion and new clothes” because that can only take you a few days.

Fall in love with your curiosity, your drive to find out what’s going on in a loved one’s brain, your motivation to seek truth, the very thing that sets life changes in momentum.
Fall in love with your hands, and with them admire the things they make, the people they touch, the power they give you to take care of your body.
Fall in love with your goals—and, whether you carry them out or not, admire them for what they are—your passion in the form of tangibility, the stuff that legends are made out of.
Fall in love with your ability to love, your own unique combination of empathy, thoughtfulness, and admiration of beauty. Know that if love was visible, yours would be a giant array of stars.
Fall in love with the way in which your body works like clockwork—your sleeping habits, your eating habits, the way  your body tells you it wants to keep you safe.
Fall in love with the way you kiss, the way you sigh, the way you keep your secrets. Fall in love with the way you decorate, your taste in food, the way your subconscious works your innermost thoughts into your sleep. Fall in love with your handwriting, the way you sing, the way you doodle in notebooks. Fall in love with your preferences, your growing encyclopedia of memories, the way you catalog admirable traits in others.

And I don’t say any of this because I think you’d be undeserving of love if you didn’t see yourself in this way, or that love wouldn’t eventually find you, or that you’d never be able to be happy. Because, truthfully, I think we are all capable of finding love in ourselves in one way or another.
But, as short as life is as we know it, can you seriously look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t like this to happen at your own hand? It is not selfish to want to experience yourself alone; it is not selfish to share the gift of you with yourself.

It’s not that you’d be undeserving of someone else’s love, but rather that you are deserving of your own.

Fall in love with yourself first.

—  we were built for more than just sharing
You Attend The Late Late Show With Him (Request)- Harry Styles

“Love, get out of this bed,” Harry says from above you, pulling the covers away gently from where you held them above your head. He had been dressed and ready for a well half hour, but couldn’t bring himself to wake you up, considering the night you had before.

“H, leave me the hell alone. I’m so exhausted,” you groan, turning over and covering your face with the pillow as your fiancé laughs.

“We’re going to miss the flight, and then the Boys are really going to ream our arses’. They still haven’t given up on the last time,” he says, taking the pillow and turning you over forcibly but gently, climbing on top of you and kissing your lips as your eyes open. “Mm, you awake now?” he asks, lips still red from the night before.

“I guess so, but I might need another to truly wake up,” you smirk, looking up at him from your place on the bed, his shirt just barely covering your panties that you’d slipped on when you went to use the toilet after spending most of the night awake making love to your boyfriend. You thought he was leaving by himself to go to L.A. for The Late Late Show with James Corden, but he had already packed your suitcase and told management you would be joining him. “You know, we spent the whole night up, when we could’ve very well saved some for when we got to the hotel, but no, someone was a bit too excited, if I say so,” you laugh as he leans back down to kiss you, your arms wrapping around his neck, until he starts to tickle your sides, that when you jump out of the bed, swatting his arm and running to get in the shower. 

“We could just sleep on the plane and still have time at the hotel,” he says hurriedly, cursing at himself for not just containing himself a bit more the night before. He quickly makes up the bed, grabbing your suitcases and putting both by your bedroom door. He walks to the mirror, fixing his hair and putting on the rings by his nightstand, fixing his shirt and jeans before going to make you and himself a tiny breakfast.

You quickly get out of the shower, freshly bathed, shaven, and had used Harry’s favourite scent on your body. You pop in front of the bathroom mirror and sink, brushing your teeth and drying your hair with a towel, quickly tying it into a top knot and throwing the towels in the laundry bin. You walk into the wardrobe, putting on a matching hot pink bra and panties set, then throwing on black leggings, a black t-shirt, and a sweatshirt, one that you had stolen from Harry before he left for tour, but it was ironed and nice enough to wear out of the house. You sprayed perfume on yourself, another one of Harry’s favourites, and grab your converse before walking down the stairs to meet Harry in the kitchen. 

“Thanks, baby,” you say, placing a quick kiss to your fiancé’s lips and taking the toast and eggs from his hand. You both eat fairly quick, putting the pan in the sink and checking your carry-on to make sure that phone and computer chargers had been packed, alongside your phones and computer, itself. You hear a car beep outside the house, meaning that Niall had arrived to pick you up and drive all three of you to the aeroport together. Harry sets the house alarm, taking both suitcases behind you, whom carried the carry-on and made sure that the house was locked up afterwards.

“Look who made it on time,” Niall laughs from the driver’s spot, you sitting passenger, Harry insisting that he would sit in the back. Your left hand was laying on your lap and Harry couldn’t help but smile at the diamond sitting on your ring finger. You said yes, and you were going to marry him, and everyday Harry seems happier and happier just knowing that the three letter word was your answer. “Mate, you listening back ‘dere?” Niall asks, looking at Harry from his mirror.

“Yeah, yeah, what’s up?” Harry asks, drawing his attention back towards his best friend, who had been apparently trying to get his attention for the last few minutes.

“We ‘ave to go straight to ‘de hotel, and ‘den we only have like an hour before we ‘ave to head back to James’ studio,” Niall says, turning his attention back to the road. It was early in London, awfully early, but by the time you arrived in California, it’d be the night and time for another interview.

“Okay. Baby, do you want to just grab a bite to eat in the hotel, or meet up with the Boys at the studio and find something closer to there?” Harry asks, turning his attention towards you as you contemplate your answer. You have this little dimple, not one as deep as his own, but one that is visible and stuck out most when you were concentrating or laughing, and he could see it at this very moment and it made his heart flutter.

“Why don’ we just eat at the hotel, this way we can all leave together and we won’ have to worry about getting back to the studio,” you say, turning your body around and facing Harry. “What’re you smiling about, hmm?” you ask watching as he shrugs but the smile never fades. You grab his hand and squeeze it, before placing a small kiss to the back and letting it go.

“You two make me sick,” Niall says from next you, shaking his head and chuckling as you two both laugh at his commentary. “But if you two could hold on the loving-on-each-other, it’d be great so we can just get on this damn aeroplane.”

You laugh and get out of the car, taking your bag and the carry-on whilst the pilots load the luggage on board and you walk hand-in-hand with Harry to board. Harry sits across from you at first, but just long enough for you to take your phone out and quickly take a picture, before moving over to his side and snuggling against him. “I love you,” you say, taking your phone and editing the picture, readying it for you to post.

“I love you more. But I also love you in my clothes. And you’re wearing my favourite perfume. What’re you trying to do to me, love?” Harry says, head resting against your own, placing a few kisses there and then placing a lingering one on your lips.

“Okay, okay, you two. There are other people on this plane,” Louis jokes from the seat next to you, already putting in earphones and humming the melodies to the new songs off the album.

“What do you think James is goin’ to ask you ‘bout?” you ask, looking up at him and adjusting yourself so you could place your legs in his lap and head on the pillow.

“Probably ‘bout Zayn leaving, the new album, I think he might ask about that “No Control Project” the fans are doing, and possibly us. I know once we posted the pictures about us being engaged, people have been tweeting questions and I’m pretty sure he’ll take some of those,” he says looking down at you whilst drawing circles on the palm of your hand. “Do you wan’ me to answer the questions or just leave it private?” he asks, looking at you intently, waiting for your response. You both had been not completely private with your relationship, but did keep certain aspects away from all to see.

“I mean, we already posted the pictures online, so answering the questions can’t be too bad. Just don’t say too much about the proposal, I mean if it’s asked, you could talk about what you did, but what you said to me I want to be completely private. Your memory and my memory only. It was the best thing you have ever said to me and I want to cherish it all by myself,” you say, leaning back up to kiss him, smiling as he wraps his arms around your waist. “I love you.”

“I love you so much, babe. You don’ even understand. But c’mon, we need sleep before we get there, it’s goin’ to be a long night. And not just because of the reasons you think I’m thinking of,” he smirks, planting a kiss on your forehead before wrapping the blanket across your bodies, and laying his head on yours. You smile and quickly upload the picture to Instagram before closing your phone, cuddling into Harry, and falling asleep.

@Mrs.StylesOfficial: Look at my handsome man. Whatcha doin’ over there, H? #fiancé


“Baby, I’m sorry to do this to you, but the plane is landing. We got to get up to go to the hotel,” Harry whispers from beside you. He’d only woken up ten minutes ago when we heard the pilot’s voice on the intercom. He watched you for a few minutes, amazed that this sight was what he has to look forward to for the rest of his life, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “My love, c’mon, we can go eat and then the interview and then go back and sleep,” he says, brushing stray hairs that had gotten loose from your bun, away from your face.

“Ugh,” you groan, wiping your face and opening your eyes, adjusting to the darker surroundings that you had arrived in. “I want a pizza,” you say, wrapping your arms back around his waist, trying to wake yourself up, and his cologne was surely doing the trick. It was your absolute favourite and got it for him every year, both as a selfish gift and non-selfish because you both completely loved it.

“Okay, babe, I’m sure I can arrange that,” he chuckles, rubbing circles on your back as he pulls his phone back out of his pocket, checking his mentions on both Instagram and Twitter, smiling at the new post you had uploaded whilst he was sleeping. He quickly responds to Twitter and leans back over to you. You had managed to get up from your seat and grab your carry-on and backpack. “I love you,” he whispers against your lips, kissing you multiple times before you could respond.

“I love you, too. Where’d that come from?” you giggle.

“I can’t just tell you that I love you?” he asks, hand interlocking yours as he hears the wheels meet the road beneath the plane.

“You can. Always. I love hearing you say it,” you say, leaning in to kiss him.

“I love to say it. But I also see that you changed your name already,” he smiles. You swear that the minute you said yes to his proposal, anytime you would speak his smile would grow larger and larger.

“I did, I did. You know we are getting married in six months, I think it’s time,” you laugh, standing up from your seat and grabbing Harry’ hand to interlock your fingers and you walk off the plane and into the car that waited to bring you all to the hotel.

The ride was quick compared to the 14-hour long plane trip. Once you got checked in to the hotel, everyone dispersed to their own rooms to drop off luggage and then went to wherever they wanted for the remaining hour-and-a-half before the car came back to take the crew to the studio. You and Harry stayed in the room, ordering a pizza, ready to just relax for the time you had.

You were laying on the bed, hands on your stomach as an unknown program played on the TV. Harry climbed on the bed, leaning over to turn the box off, and then pulled you to the middle of the bed. He climbed on top of you, kissing you deeply, running his hands down your sides as you hands attached themselves in his hair. He moaned as you pulled lightly on the hair, creating a massaging sensation, and as soon as he pulled off you shirt, already leaving love bites on your neck, there was a knock on the door, signalling the arrival of your food.

“Fuck,” he whispers whilst climbing off of you, “Stay right there.” He finds his wallet on the dresser, grabbing twenty dollars out. He opens the door, says ‘thank you’ to the delivery man, pays him, and shuts the door as fast as he possibly can. He walks back over to you, climbing back on top, kissing you again. “Killed the mood, didn’t it?” he says as you giggle from underneath him.

“Yeah, little bit,” you laugh, getting up, pushing Harry onto his bum as you pull your t-shirt back on. “Later, baby. Later on, when we get back, no one will interrupt us. Okay?” you say, giving him a quick kiss before going to eat the pizza that had just arrived.

You two made your way downstairs just in time to meet with the rest of the band and avoid any embarrassment. The car pulled up a few minutes after you all had gathered together, and everyone piled in, ready to just arrive at the studio. “I’m surprised we didn’t have to come up and get you,” Liam says, laughing alongside the other two members.

“Oh shut up, Liam,” Harry chuckles, knowing that that is exactly what happened the last time. 

As soon as you and Harry had your first time together on your one-year anniversary three years ago, it has been quite hard to keep your hands off each other. Especially on one occasion where Harry was almost late for sound check because you both had stayed at the hotel for a bit too long.

“C’mon, Liam, leave us alone for one night?” you ask, pretending to pout for a minute, and then everyone is laughing. The rest of the time was spent discussing bits of your wedding that is set in stone and fully prepared, and what else needed to be done in order to be ready for the wedding in November. 

In a mere ten minutes, the whole entourage was being ushered into the studio, the Boys going to meet James backstage whilst you, Lou, and Sophia stand around by the side where you would watch the show.

“There’s the better half,” James says, walking over to give you a hug.

“How’s it going, Cordo?” you ask after giggling, feeling Harry come up and wrap his arms around your waist from behind, resting his head on your shoulder.

“I’m well, and you? The wedding’s coming up soon, yeah? November, right?” he asks, taking a sip from his mug.

“Yeah, we only have a bit left before we’re done planning, as well,” you add, pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek quickly, feeling his smile grow as he places a kiss to your shoulder.

You and James talk a bit more until he’s being called out, in order for him to start the show and introduce the Boys. You and the girls watch from the side, listening to the men talk about their fans and the new “No Control Project” and you swear you can see all of their faces light up. There are questions about Zayn and how the tension is between the five, quickly dismissing any rumours that there was fighting continuing, and other nonsense. But towards the end you hear James say your name, and you look over to see Harry’s smile grow as big as possible. 

“Harry, we’ve seen that you have a bride-to-be, if I’m correct?” James says, leaning forward to speak directly to your fiancé.

“You are, James,” he says coolly, trying not to let himself burst with every detail that he would like to share, just not particularly on camera.

“I’ve met your missus, she’s quite lovely,” James says, flipping through note cards, assumingly the ones that have his questions.

“Y/N is wonderful, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, besides One Direction,” he says, seeing a picture of you and him from Instagram appear on the screen.

“I have a few questions here from fans, and I am going to ask the more vague ones, this way you don’ have to give anything away that you don’ want to, okay?” James asks, looking intently at Harry waiting for his nod of approval. As soon as Harry nods his head, James starts to ask the questions. “When is the wedding exactly?”

“The wedding is the 16 of December. The day we met three years ago,” Harry answers, taking a quick peek at you on the side, mouthing ‘I love you’ before answering the next questions.

“Okay, here are two. How did you propose? And, I want to know, have you thought of letting me be the best man?” James asks, and Liam, Louis, and Niall shake their heads, laughing quietly.

“Well, Y/N and I don’t want to reveal too much about the proposal, but basically I did it when we were in a bit of a rift. She had no idea and the best part was that she was mildly irritated at me when I did it,” Harry says laughing. “My sister actually helped me pick out the ring, because her and Y/N are best friends and she knew what she wanted. I already had an idea, but that really helped. And for the second questions, no. I already have my best men.”

“Really? Are you sure? I would make a great best man,” James says, earning laughs from everyone in the room.

Harry just shakes his head, waiting for the final question to follow suit.

“Did you ever think that maybe you two were too young to get married right now, I mean you’re both in your twenties,” James says, sitting back in his seat and drinking from his mug.

“No, not at all. We love each other, and the people who love us, support our decisions completely,” Harry says, smiling and finishing the interview before walking off stage and sneaking up behind you, and hugging you tight.

“Hi, baby. You did great up there,” you say, leaning up to kiss him, your arms locking around his neck loosely.

“All because you were here,” he says, kissing you back, foreheads resting against each other. 

You had finished UNI within the first year of you and Harry dating, so ever since then you’d been on the road with the team. Management paid you in bits to just keep everything in check, seeing as though you basically acted like a mum to the group, even with Liam being the responsible one. It was really nice being able to spend time on the road with Harry and not have to be away for a long time.

“Alright you two, are going to come back to the hotel with us or not?” Louis asks, looking behind waiting for you to follow.

“Yes, yes, hold on,” Harry says, taking your hand and guiding you out to the car. The ride seems shorter back to the hotel and as soon as you were let out, both you and Harry walked straight up to your hotel room. 

You unlocked the door, feeling Harry push you in lightly, closing the door behind him and locking it. You quickly take off your sweatshirt and shoes, giggling when you feel Harry pull you up close to him.

“What do you want from me, mister? Is it was I think it is, hmm?” you ask, leaning up against his ear and kissing down his jaw and near his lips, but never touching your mouth to his.

“You know what I want, missus. Now stop teasing me,” he whines, grabbing your cheeks gently and connecting your lips to his. You two strip of your clothing and fall on the bed, spending the night professing your love to each other in more way than one.


“You know, I know we say it, but I can’t describe how happy you make me,” you whisper, fingers tracing the butterfly on his abdomen lightly.

“And I know I say it quite often, but I am so in love with you, that I can hear you breathe in the morning and I feel like I fall more in love with you,” he says, the pads of his fingers resting lights on your bare back. 

He’s so in love with not only you, but this moment. You’re both lying underneath the blanket, bare from making love just hours before, and now you’re professing your love for one another in whispers, as if you want no one else in the world to know why you are so deeply in love with each other.

The wedding was not too far off, and he couldn’t wait for moment where, this, right here, would become his forever.

Hello, darlings.

Here is another request. I am trying to get as many as I can done before I go to dance later on, and then once I get back, I will finish up.

Feel free to send in requests and I will respond back as soon as I can.

All the love,

Caitlin xxx

me:  [sees friend is upset;  makes them something they’d like to help cheer them up]

my brain:  this is bad bc it means you’re manipulating them into thinking you’re a good person when actually you’re not.  also you giving them that gift was selfish and that’s why no one likes you

me:  ?????????  what?

it’s in a motel room,
of white noise and white sheets,
that your curl your fingers around the pin underneath his ribs,
and pull it, drinking the wisps of gunpowder straight from his lips,
hungrily awaiting the explosion to come.

it’s on a motel bed,
of selfish gifts and selfish greed,
that he stains nicotine onto your jaw,
inking rosary red into your thighs,
and prays for faux absolution against your neck,
shaking fingers,
with metal wires tangled around your wrists,
and white linen.

it’s on a crumbling balcony,
of cerulean sunrises and cerulean fingerprints,
that he confesses his sins,
screamed into the wasteland distance
and hissed into your neck,
when the shrapnel tears your lungs,
and leaves you bleeding out in the dirt,
that you might just regret curling up around the explosive,
but in the end, maybe burning with him was all you planned to do.

it’s in the frozen bathroom,
of dying wall lights and dying boys,
that he presses a bullet between your collarbones,
laughing in black jeans on bony hips,
sprawling in the fracturing bathtub,
whispering, ‘weren’t we meant to live forever?’
and carving a youthless, deathless,
revolution between his lips.

—  dis aliter visum (the gods have deemed otherwise.) // r.d (for @kcvnsky)
A Work of Art

A story based on this post  by nerdyholler


It starts as nothing more than an absentminded thing. Bucky is lying on the living room floor on his stomach, pillows propped under his chin. He’s not even sure what he’s watching, to be honest. When Steve gets home, he sits on the floor beside Bucky and sets a hand on his back. As they sit in silence, Steve runs his hand over the contours of Bucky’s back, causing a shiver to run through him. Bucky’s shirt gets rumpled up beneath Steve’s palm and so, gently, wordlessly, he rucks it up so that the plains of Bucky’s muscular back are exposed. Without saying anything, Steve begins to trace over the divots of the muscles and scars that expand across and under the skin. Every few minutes, the movement of Steve’s fingers on Bucky’s back are interrupted by the soft press of Steve’s lips. First, to his flesh and blood shoulder, then to the seam of metal and flesh on his left. Finally, to the middle of his spine.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked softly, after what felt like hours of Steve’s methodical tracing.

“Do you want me to stop?” Steve answered, his fingers faltering slightly.

“No…” Bucky breathed quickly, “It feels nice. Just curious.”
Steve hummed an acknowledgment, his hands moving once more, “I’m drawing.”

Bucky closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders back, “Drawing what? There ain’t nothing there.”

The sound of Steve’s chuckle sent a burst of warmth through Bucky’s body, “It’s there, in my head. I’m drawing a portrait… You.”

Furrowing his brow, Bucky turned his head to the side, catching a glimpse of Steve. He was frowning in concentration, his tongue poking out between his teeth. Bucky loved how Steve looked when he was really into a drawing. For a moment, he could almost see the smaller Steve. The one from a lifetime ago. It was as close as he got to really remembering. Even now, a year after Hydra had fallen, the memories were not as many nor as clear as he would have liked. He knew Steve, their history both as friends and lovers, and who he had been. Sometimes, when they made love he could feel the frail frame of Steve’s other body beneath his hands. But, these flashes while Steve drew were the clearest it ever got. And here, under the careful scrutiny of those sparkling blue eyes, Bucky felt whole.

He sighed, “I ain’t much to draw, to be honest. Not much to look at either,” he drawled, accidentally letting a bit of his old Brooklyn accent slide through.

“Oh Buck,” Steve said. He nudged Bucky, giving him a hint to flip over. After he was on his back, Steve let his hands roam over Bucky’s chest. “You,” he began, drawing a line with his finger from Bucky’s sternum down to his navel, “are the most beautiful person on this earth.” He splayed his hands over Bucky’s pectorals, feeling the thumping of his heart and the ripple of his muscles. Bucky inhaled sharply. Steve was looking at him as though he was precious, sacred even. When he spoke again, it was nearly a whisper, “You are my favorite subject to draw…” he leaned in close, his lips brushing Bucky’s ear, “Also, my new favorite canvas.”

It became a nightly thing after that. Sometimes, Steve would join Bucky in the living room, stripping him of his shirt, and just running his hands over him. Other times, Bucky would simply walk, shirtless, into whatever room Steve was in. Mostly, they laid in bed, Bucky stark naked, while Steve ran his fingers all over him. Sometimes Steve would draw intently and, others, he would simply let his fingers slide lazily over Bucky’s skin. Whatever kind of touch it was, it made Bucky feel warm, warmer than he’d felt in years. After so much time in cryo, his body ran colder than normal. But, under Steve’s gentle touch, it felt as though he had a fire rolling in his core. It was comforting.

On Steve’s birthday, Bucky was almost shaking with anticipation. He wanted to give Steve his present, but he wasn’t home yet. It was just like Director Fury to send Captain America out on his birthday. Bucky didn’t care if it was also the most patriotic holiday, this simply wasn’t fair.

It was eleven thirty when the door opened and Steve walked in. He was still wearing his uniform, but his smile was wide. Bucky got up from the couch, wrapped his arms around Steve, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, “Happy birthday, Captain Rogers,” he whispered.

“Thank you, Sergeant Barnes,” Steve replied, kissing him again, “I got sung to more times than I can count today.”

“Good thing, too,” Bucky chuckled, “'Cause I can’t sing for shit.” He stepped back, reaching for the wrapped box by the couch. He held it out to Steve, “Happy birthday, buddy. It’s-” he faltered as Steve smiled, beginning to open the box, “It’s kind of a selfish gift but, I hope you like it.”

“I’ll like anything if it’s from you, Buck. Thank you,” he glanced in the box and furrowed his brow. Slowly, he pulled out another box with the label ‘Body Paint’ printed boldly across the front. His eyes widened and he blushed so red that he matched the stripes of his uniform. “Bucky,” Steve looked up at him, “So I can… to you?”

Bucky nodded, “Told you it was selfish. If you don’t want to, it’s-” but the rest of his sentence was lost as Steve crossed to him and began to lift the hem of his shirt.

“I want to,” Steve breathed, yanking off Bucky’s shirt and starting to undo his uniform, “Right now.”

Smiling, Bucky helped Steve with all the buckles until he was just in his boxers and undershirt. “Where do you want me?”

“On your stomach, right here. Arms outstretched,” Steve said at once.

Bucky smirked, “Okay, Captain Bossy.” But he did what he was told. Once on the carpet, he saw Steve take out the black paint and a small brush. “What are you gonna do?”

Steve only shook his head slightly and sat cross legged beside him. He dipped the small brush into the black paint. When he began running the small brush over Bucky’s shoulders, he gasped. The paint was cold, but it felt good. Steve worked from the middle of his back, outwards, first his left and then his right. He painted down to the elbows, blowing gently to dry the paint before setting his arms back on the carpet. Once he was done with the outline of whatever he was doing, Steve picked out some colors and a larger brush. Bucky found it difficult not to be lulled to sleep by the almost rhythmic stroke of the brush along his back.

A soft touch at the back of is neck caused Bucky to come back to attention, “Hey,” Steve said softly, “I’m done. Do you wanna see?”

“Mmm,” Bucky hummed, nodding sleepily and standing up, “How am I gonna see it?”

“Just hold out your arms,” Steve said, flicking on the lights, “and I’ll snap a picture.”

Yawning, Bucky held out his arms to each side. He heard the shutter sound of Steve’s phone and turned back to face him. Steve was beaming, blue eyes sparkling. Bucky took the phone from him and felt all sleepiness drain away as he took in Steve’s handiwork. Expanding across his back and down his arms were a pair of red and blue wings. Each feather was drawn in detail and shaded as the blue in the middle of his back faded down to red on his arms. The paint even showed up well on the metal of his left arm.

He looked up at Steve, who looked apprehensive for Bucky’s reaction. “Stevie,” he gasped, “This is fucking amazing.”

Steve’s smile spread over his face again, “You like it?” Bucky nodded, “I’m gonna get a polaroid camera so I can hang the pictures of everything I paint on you.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” Bucky replied.

Steve cradled Bucky’s face in his hands and kissed him sweetly, “You can go take a shower. I’m gonna print this picture.”

In the shower, Bucky was fascinated by how the colors flowed down his body and into the drain. The red, blue, and black still looked so beautiful. He was Steve’s work of art now. And, somehow, that feeling didn’t go away, even as all evidence that the paint was ever there disappeared.

The mural of photographs on the wall of Steve and Bucky’s room expanded every day. Any evening they had to themselves was spent with Steve painting Bucky’s bare torso. Once, Steve painted “Starry Night” by VanGogh onto him. The only bit of his upper body that was left unpainted was his neck and face. That had taken four photographs to capture. Another time, Steve had sketched the New York skyline, as they had known it growing up, onto his back. Bucky loved the feeling of Steve’s hand smudging the paint for shading, as well as the quick precision of the sketching itself.

The painting didn’t stay confined to Bucky’s upper body for long, either. Soon, Steve had him sitting in his boxers or standing as Steve painted his legs. One evening, Steve painted the entirety of Coney Island on every bit of bare skin he could reach. There were ten photos of that one, with close-ups on the moon, the Ferris wheel, and the two of them, sitting atop it. Some nights, they would barely finish documenting a painting before Steve would pull Bucky into a ferocious kiss, running his hands over the barely dry paint and getting it all over his white undershirt. They would talk and laugh as Steve was working, relishing this time that was theirs.

It was a brisk evening in January when Steve stomped through the door, expression pained. It was instantly clear to Bucky that something was wrong, “Hey,” he whispered, putting a hand to Steve’s shoulder, “You okay, buddy?”

Steve looked from the hand on his shoulder to Bucky’s eyes. Bucky’s stomach dropped. The sparkle that was usually present in his blue eyes was gone. Steve’s eyes were dull, lifeless almost. Bucky furrowed his brow. He didn’t want to push, but this was worrying behavior from someone as upbeat as Steve.

Wordlessly, Steve grabbed the hem of Bucky’s shirt and lifted it over his head. Bucky watched in equal silence as Steve removed his own shirt as well. He reached out, but Steve walked right past him and sat down on the floor in the living room. Understanding, Bucky walked into the room and sat facing Steve. There were five colors between them: black, brown, grey, dark green, and red. And there were no brushes in sight.

“Steve…” Bucky began again, but Steve shook is head curtly, mouth pressed into a thin line. Bucky took that as the cue that Steve was really not in a talking mood. He needed to vent his feelings and Bucky was willing to be the canvas them.

That night, the mood in the air was somber as Steve opened his paints. He dipped his fingers into the different colors and applied them to Bucky’s skin in imprecise, almost angry strokes. He put different colored handprint and smears all over Bucky’s torso, splattering the paint back onto himself. When Steve finally opened up the red paint, Bucky saw that there were tears in Steve’s eyes. Steve put a generous coat of red paint over the palm of his own hand and planted it right over Bucky’s heart. Then, he grabbed Bucky’s left hand, painting the palm of the metal red. Finally, he lifted the hand and Bucky watched, wide eyed, as Steve placed Bucky’s hand over his own heart. He let Bucky’s hand drop limply as the tears in his eyes fell over his cheeks. Bucky was stunned. Steve was just sitting there, sobbing. He looked down at this chest. The mixture looked smokey, except for the green. The green resembled the color of his old army uniform. But, what really drew his eye was Steve’s red handprint. He felt Steve take his hand gently and Bucky looked back up to meet his gaze.

“Sorry,” Steve whimpered, tears still falling steadily, “I’m okay. Sorry for scaring you.”

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked softly.

Steve pursed his lips, trying to stop the tears, to no avail, “You fell. Seventy-one years ago today. I don’t know why it hit me so hard. You’re back,” he let out a choked sob, “I have you. But… we were robbed of something, Buck. And we can’t ever get that time back.”

Bucky looked back down at Steve’s handiwork. He could see the smoke billowing from the train, the green of his uniform and the trees rushing by, the pale snow and blood from his arm. It wasn’t until a tear hit his chest that he realized he was crying too. He looked back up at Steve, “You’re right. We can’t get it back. And honestly, we’re both fucked up from all of it. Hell, I don’t remember enough to know that it’s today. Otherwise, I woulda said somethin’ to you this morning. But,” he ran his clean hand through Steve’s hair, “We got each other now and… damn, if I’m not gonna make the most of it.”

Steve smiled through his tears, “I know we usually take pictures but… I’d rather not remember.”

Bucky nodded, grabbing Steve by the hand and dragging him to his feet. They walked in silence to the bathroom, undressing one another reverently. They held one another under the hot water, watching the grey’s, blacks, and red mix into a pool at their feet and wash down the drain. As their lips and fingers traced over the other’s skin lightly, they both felt as though, when the paint was gone, the pain would be too. And they’d only be left with each other, now and forever.

one touch, life

pushing daisies au drabble for constileslations [x]

Derek stares resolutely at Scott, who is beaming at him and gesturing at the coffin on the raised dais. 

“This is not a sugar factory,” Derek says sternly, gesturing at the empty church. “You promised me we were going to see quality granules that would be excellent in my pies.”

“He was murdered, Derek,” Scott says, making puppy eyes. “I have a responsibility to his family to see the truth come to light.”

“You mean the money come into your pockets,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“Come on,” Scott cajoles. “Don’t you want to get a little justice for the people from your old town of Beacon Hills?” he asks, flipping the coffin open.

Derek stares in shock at the still body, for a moment, then recognizes the smattering of moles on the pale face. Childish thoughts of affection that Derek thought he locked away so many years ago spring into the forefront of his mind.

The facts were these: Derek Hale, aged twenty four years, six months, two days, and three minutes, was in possession of a most unique gift.

Keep reading

Art trades and priorities

Why do some people put commissions on a higher priority over art trades (which THEY set up in the first place…)

The time I spent on the art for the trade has a monetary value equal to the commissions I do (say, $30 = 1 chibi of mine).
So in essence, you’ve been paid with art (instead of money) and I am like a commissioner who gets booted to the end of the line just cause I didn’t pay with money but with art, which you wanted (and asked ME to trade with you).

And how long is too long of a wait? I do trades within days of them getting set up, just as I do commissions within days of getting paid. There should not be a hierarchy of what payment method gets done first. Do them in the order that they are paid (whether that is art or money). If you need money more than art, then don’t start art trades and keep your partner waiting for ages. It’s devaluing their time and effort. They could have done a commission rather than wait for a one-sided trade…

So. I would rather draw gifts for friends than do art trades, because there’s been too many times when trades just don’t go smoothly. When do I stop expecting my half of the trade? I’ll just give up on accepting trades altogether in the future. Patience does run out eventually…

Even if it’s a friend that I’m trading with, that just makes it even harder to bring up my unease of being left behind everyone else.

Treat art trades like commissions, or don’t do them at all.

I’ve drawn this for @skribblie
I know it’s a bit too late for this, but I think a bit of an encouragement can’t be that unuseful?
I’ve done this to show you that you do matter, that you are loved and that you’re not pathetic. That it’s okay to cry, to need someone to talk to or to care about you because you can’t do it yourself. To need someone in general.

Also, the people I brought in as examples for as those who love and care about you, are
Male anon with two BEAUTIFUL eyes (the one is yellow, the other blue. I’m so proud of the eyes hehehehe)
@Female anon with beautiful green eyes ( I drew one open and the other closed because I can’t draw. I do that way too often, as you can see.)

Just don’t forget that you are loved, even when some people don’t show you because they’re too shy.


1. Chica by @kaindycandy Sorry senpai, I just had to draw her X3
2. Mangle by @ceciil She’s so cute! I caaaan’t 💕
I don’t want to be selfish or rude, but… Could you reblog this? But don’t feel forced to. I really tried my best… I hope you like it.

anonymous asked:

Dearest Man, A man with whom I am barely acquainted has recently made me a gift of a curiously lifelike artistic rendering of his, well, manliness. I have never indicated my desire for such a gift, and I am rather perplexed. As a Man, what is your opinion on his not-particularly-generous endowment? —Just Back From An Unexpected Holiday in the Netherlands

Dear Unexpected Holiday,

Ah. The unexpected gift of a lifelike artistic rendering of a man’s, ah, manhood. I often find myself having to explain this particular item to women, because indeed, it does not make sense to non-men.

Imagine that you have a cat. (You do have a cat, do you not?) Your cat loves you, in the limited fashion that felines can do such things. The way your cat expresses its love is often to leave you treats—the choicest bits of the mouse, the occasional pile of bird-feathers.

“Look,” the cat says, “here is this wonderful thing that I had, and I love you so much that I want to share it with you. I do not believe you have mouse kidneys, do you? Perfect!” Your feelings on receiving such a gift are not relevant to the cat; cats do not love with empathy. They love with selfishness.

This gift follows along much the same lines. “Look,” the man is saying. “I may not have much of a brain or a talent for poetry, but there is one thing about me that I am sure is good, and I am fairly certain that you do not currently have one of these. Allow me to share mine with you.”

What is the proper response to such a gift? Well, the same as it is with cats. If you love the cat in question—or even hold it in mild affection—you pat it gently on the head and toss the offering out with the trash when the cat isn’t looking.

If you don’t like the cat, however, you need not feel so limited. Screaming, throwing things, and picking the absurd feline up by the scruff of the neck and tossing it out in the cold are all reasonable responses.

Yours Truly,
Stephen Shaughnessy
A Man Who Feels No Need to Prove His Manliness

Someone once told me suicide was selfish. That the scars those ghosts created would haunt those left behind. That their memories would ripple on into tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. In return I asked what about the people asking them to stay? How was that any less selfish? Any less cruel? How was being forced to live through your own hell supposed to be some gift?
Now I know that both are equally selfish. But I need you to trust me. Let them want you. I know you might not feel wanted right now. But you have to let your future want you. Give yourself over to the greedy minds that are smart enough to want you. And I promise that one day you’ll be playing with sunbeams and friendship bracelets. Oceans and lovers. Laughter and wine glasses. Being selfish is a human gift. So let them consume you. Let life take you.
—  not too sure where i found this but it made me cry a lil bit so i thought we could all share in the excellence together 
of Bloggers & Birth Control

I’m about to risk eliminating half of my audience.

Around the world, men fall to their knees and groan in despair. Conservative mothers rip the computers out of children’s rooms and threaten to protest my funeral.

I can’t even believe I’m writing about this.

Perhaps that means I should.

The last time I saw a doctor was four months after my 12th birthday. It was a routine doctor’s appointment in which Nostradamus told me: “It won’t be long till puberty comes knocking on your door, little lady!”

I became a woman literally two hours later.

Dishonor on him. Dishonor on his family. Dishonor on his cow.

Puberty and I had a pretty uneventful relationship for the past decade. Occasional ice cream dates, late night visits, tears over Hallmark commercials. I guess you say for the most part, minus fluctuating weight loss/gain, I’ve lived a pretty dang healthy life.

Until a few months ago.

You know when something doesn’t feel right. Better said, you know when your body isn’t operating correctly.

I assumed I was dying. WebMD confirmed my suspicions. I quietly and carefully began to delegate treasured earthly possessions to those in my life whom I deemed worthy in my last will and testament. 

(He/she who inherits this computer may find said will under file name ‘Jellyfish Soup.’)

After several months of unusual behavior, I did what any self-respecting 23-year-old woman would do: I called my mommy.

“You should probably go see a gynecologist.”

I shuddered.

This wasn’t just a doctor–this was a FEMALE doctor.

I HATE going to doctors. Which explains why I haven’t been to one in the last twelve years. (Don’t even ask how long it’s been since I’ve seen a dentist…)

The morning of the appointment, I braced for impact.

Surely it’s cancer. Surely it’s spreading rapdily throughout my body. Surely my dreams are dashed. Surely I should think about my Make A Wish. Surely I’m going to die. Surely I’m not overreacting. Surely.

I get to the office early, knowing I will have six days worth of first time visitor paperwork to fill out.

Answer Each Question Honestly, it says.

“Have you ever received a tetanus shot?”

“Have you ever been abused emotionally, sexually, physically, etc?”

“How old were you when you first had sex?”

“How many sex partners have you had?”
I can’t get a guy to hold a door open for me. So…

“Have you ever been pregnant?”
Are we talking immaculate conception?

“Are you on any prescription or illegal drugs?”

“Do you drink regularly?”
My drugs, yes.

“Do you wear a seat belt?”
So am I dying or nahhh?

“Do you wear sunscreen?”
Only when I don’t want melanoma.

“Do you have any allergies?”

I finish. I wait. The sweet southern nurse calls me back. She’s basically Paula Deen. Paula gets my measurements. She pricks my finger and draws some blood. She asks me about my concerns, then steps out. The Doctor walks in. She’s an older woman. She looks like the kind of lady who would be really confused in a hipster cafe and try to order ‘plain coffee.’

We talk for a bit. She takes a deep breath.

“I’m gonna go ahead and prescribe you some birth control, Sarah.”


“I think it will help clear up the issues you’ve been describing,” she explains, “it’s perfectly normal for girls who aren’t sexually active to take it. Plus, it will clear up your skin.”

Thanks for reminding me I have acne AND nobody who loves me.

She starts the full body exam. She checks me for any sign of unusual bumps, bruises or freckles and finds none. I breathe a sigh of relief.

I’m not dying.

I’m just going on birth control.


I suddenly feel every eye in the Wal-Mart pharmacy piercing the back of my head.

‘They know why I’m here,’ I tell myself, ‘they MUST.’

As I wait at the counter for the prescription to be filled, I fully expect someone who knows me to walk up. My Pastor. My Sunday School teacher. Someone who read my blog on staying pure and WHOA LOOKIE WHAT WE HAVE HERE.

I make eye contact with the elderly lady buying a box of Ensure. I squnt, she smiles. Cheeky.

My subconscious goes all East L.A.

'You think you know me, you think you know my life, you think you know my story…’

“Sarah?” the pharmacist asks as I offer my last name.


He hands me the bag. I take the long, $4 walk of shame back to my car.

I get home, pour a glass of water, say a prayer and pop the first pill.

No turning back.

I tend to be someone who doesn’t run to a bottle of pills at the slightest inkling of a fever. Going without medical insurance most of my childhood, whenever I got sick, I was forced to learn how to suck it up and go on with life. 


So here’s what’s scary: It’s working.

All those issues I was dealing with? Gone. (You’re welcome for the sparse details.)

And heck, my skin DOES look a little bit clearer. (Suck it, Proactive.)

Yet, there was still this small part of me that felt ashamed, maybe even a tad embarrassed at the means to the end. 

‘I can’t tell people about this.’

…so I’m telling you about this. 

I fall under the category of a purity blogger. No shame. Full ownership.

It’s not like it’s something I set out to do. I didn’t wake up one morning and think, “Man, I wanna talk about sex for the rest of my life.”

I write about what I’m passionate about.

Some days, that’s life. Some days, that’s food. Some days, that’s coffee and Switchfoot lyrics.

And some days, it’s relationships and romance and marriage, and my desperate attempt to try and understand the greatest picture of the kingdom any one man and woman could possibly grasp this side of heaven.

Purity bloggers talk about purity.

Purity bloggers don’t talk about being on birth control. 

Call it intimidation, but I tend to base a lot of what I should or shouldn’t talk about based on what other bloggers are or aren’t talking about. What’s taboo, what’s not, or if what I have to say is even worth saying because it has already been said 1,000 times before me.

I want so badly to talk about the mess I am and share what I’m learning about Jesus along the journey, while the other side of me wants so badly to sit at the cool kids table with all the other bloggers who have their stuff put together.

So I follow the list of “do this, not that” blogger rules that morph my voice into an echo of religion.

All the while, God is looking for voices who are willing to be honest.

Grace allows us to be honest.

I never understood that. Not for the longest time.

But, I think I’m learning what the value of grace is.

It’s not some spiritual get out of jail free card or a coupon to partake in selfish habits. It’s the gift that tells us that we can have something more, something better than the self-destruction we’ve known.

When it comes down to it, relationship with Jesus isn’t so much idealistic religion or a set list of rules.

For me, doing things like not partying or waiting to have sex till I’m married or choosing to opt out of certain pop culture phenomenons isn’t because I want to be a good, little Christian. I mean, the point of His death was because NONE of us can or ever will be good enough. It’s because at the end of the day, following Christ means believing that I might actually be worth more than my sinful nature says I am.

It takes bravery to seek life more abundantly, because that kind of life forces us to see ourselves as loved as God says we are. Recklessly, all-consumingly, passionatly loved. Most days, I set out to understand it and end up drowning instead.

I’m trying so hard not to get caught up in dying to self that I forget that the motive of it is to live.

But what do I know.

I’m a purity blogger on birth control.