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angryhausfrau-writes · 10 months

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You Fill Me Up Chapter 8

It is the height of summer and it is sweltering. Even naked with the blankets kicked down to the foot of the bed. Even with the blinds closed and the windows wide open, trying to catch some nonexistent breeze, Hawkeye feels like he's melting into a puddle of sweat.

Trapper, unfairly, looks delicious. The summer sun has given him a tan down to the navel and up to the indecently short length of the shorts he's taken to wearing. They're the kind you're supposed to wear with tall argyle socks and loafers, on the golf course or the tennis court, although Trapper mostly wears them at home and often disregards the socks. It leaves his long, long legs – God, they look so long leading up to the hem of his pink or baby blue or forest green shorts like that - bare in the bright afternoon sun as he lounges in a camp chair or putters around the yard.

He looks like he oughtta live on the deck of a yacht, somewhere off the coast of New Hampshire or something. Drinking champagne and eating Maine lobsters like Hawkeye's sure all Trapper's Ivy League classmates did in the summers. Though Hawkeye bets they didn't look half so good doing it.

Trapper's hair is sunbleached, too, and blonder than usual. He's a golden Adonis in the morning sunlight, posed in indolent recline against the pillows, the long sweep of his body curled towards Hawkeye's side of the bed all lean muscle and gleaming golden skin. Hell, he even looks good with damp temples and a bead of sweat trailing down his chest to where the sheets pool in his lap.

Hawkeye wants to follow the path with his tongue.

Trapper grins at him like he can read Hawkeye's mind. “See something you like?”

A pause as Trapper looks at Hawkeye and he looks leonine, predatory as he gives him a once over. “Cuz I sure as hell like what I'm seeing.”

Trapper lets his glance trail teasingly down Hawkeye's body, from the dip between his soft little breasts and over the round hill of his little belly to stop just before the twisted sheets that half cover him. He looks so good like this, plump and soft and pampered. Trapper lets his finger trace around the dip of his navel, down to the sweet little crease at his hip, the fold his belly makes on his lap. He wants to bite at it and then kiss it better after.

He wants to bite and kiss Hawkeye all over until they're both wild with it and then he wants to open Hawkeye back up where he's still slick and tender and used from last night at nearly midnight, standing in the dark in front of the window to try and catch the almost-cool breeze, an exercise in keeping quiet and Trapper wants to fuck him screaming into a pillow, through the mattress, a hundred thousand times.

Trapper's erection is obvious under the thin sheets and a red flush has spread across his golden skin. Hawkeye can imagine ripping those sheets away, pushing Trapper back against the pillows, and straddling him. Spreading himself wide. Plunging down onto Trapper's gorgeous cock, red and flushed just like his chest. He can imagine riding Trapper, nails digging into his skin, rising and falling, rising and falling over and over and over again until he's panting and red faced and even sweatier than he is right now. Until he's gasping for the humid summer air.

Which, no. Absolutely not.

It's a nice fantasy, but it's just too damn hot.

Hawkeye hadn't ever been much for exerting himself, in the bedroom or otherwise, and that was before he'd put on thirty-seven pounds. Although only about nineteen of them were added to what he'd weighed before Korea. Still.

“I'd like it a lot more if it wasn't ninety degrees at eight in the morning,” Hawkeye grumbles. “It's too hot out to do anything except complain about how hot out it is. And eat ice cream.” The last is said hopefully, because Trapper likes to indulge Hawkeye and his sweet tooth, and he's gotten pretty good at taking a hint.

Trapper's a little disappointed that his hopes of an encore are being crushed, but he can't blame Hawkeye. Boston summers are as hot and muggy as any they sweated through in Korea. Nights so warm they'd slept naked in their cots and any trysts were limited to breathless gasping dreams. So Trapper puts away his thoughts of anything athletic but maybe...

“I'd take care of you. Do all the work, you wouldn't have to lift a finger, Hawk.” He's always been a little lazy in bed. Always liked to be pampered and looked after, when he's not demanding to be used and used hard. And Trapper sure likes taking care of him.

“I'd lay you out on the mattress. Spread you open. Suck you off while I fuck you open. You wouldn't have to do a thing.”

Hawkeye looks at him, gives him a real thorough once over. Eyes hot and focused on his hands and his lips. “Tempting....”

Trapper grins, victory almost assuredly assured. He reaches a hand out to cup Hawkeye's cheek, intending to whisper gentle nothings and then kiss him senseless.

“But it's just too damn hot. You'll have to take a rain check until we move to Antarctica.”

Trapper lets his hand fall, but he laughs good naturedly. “Well, I don't know what that'd do to our morning commute. Why don't you take a cool shower and I'll fix you something to eat. It oughtta be better downstairs anyway.”

Especially in the kitchen where it's got tile floors and it's on the shady side of the house. God alone knows Trapper's thought about laying down naked on those floors some nights after long sweltering days in hospital gowns and long, even more sweltering rides home on a bus and a streetcar full of other sweaty men and women, just for some kinda relief from the heat.

For all that he's used to summers in Boston, and in hotter, more crowded apartment blocks and tenements than this, it does get real fucking hot.

Maybe he oughtta think about air conditioning for the bedroom.

He imagines sliding into bed, the sheets as cool and refreshing as the tiles of the kitchen. Imagines the room cool enough he and Hawkeye could sleep cuddled together, like they're able to now. Trapper curled around Hawkeye's smooth back, arm over the plump flesh covering his ribs, hand cupping the softness of his belly. He imagines slipping the hand down the smooth cool skin, sliding under Hawkeye's shorts to cup his cock, fondle his balls until he's hard in Trapper's hand and begging to get fucked.

Imagines turning with Hawkeye under him, pressing him into the cool mattress and fucking him raw.

Trapper shifts and the sheet pulls lower.

He's so hard. Hawkeye wants to put his mouth on him. Wants to give in to temptation and let Trapper fuck him, no matter how much he'd regret it later, when he's even hotter and sweatier and more out of breath from the humid air.

He rushes for the bathroom, before he gives in to temptation.

Hawkeye leaves to take a shower and it breaks Trapper out of his dreams of window air conditioning, cool floors, and ice cubes melting on his skin. Of fucking Hawkeye and then collapsing onto cool sheets. He grips himself, hard.

God, he just wants to rut his aching cock against the mattress until he cums, spilling hot and sweaty and sticky all over the damp sheets, until the fire in his loins is cooled even though the rest of him is hot with exertion and the sticky humidity of the day. But he'd want a shower after and for all they worked hard to share a shower stall in Korea, Hawkeye's gotten territorial about the bathroom.

Trapper stands, breathing heavily in through his nose, getting himself under control. He's not that fucking desperate he can't keep from rubbing off against the nearest available surface, rutting like some kinda animal just cuz Hawkeye wasn't up for it.

Hawkeye. Fuck. He's supposed to be making him something to eat right now.

Trapper gives himself another squeeze, tight enough to cut through the ache of his desire and hopefully keep him sated for a while. And then he puts on one of Hawkeye's little silk robes, shivering as it trails cool and tantalizing across his thighs and chest and still-hard cock and he goes downstairs to wash at the kitchen sink and then fix Hawkeye a little something. Something light and cool enough it'll be refreshing, but filling enough he doesn't go hungry.

Trapper looks through the refrigerator and they've got some fruit he can slice up with cheese or something? A little European maybe but Hawkeye's cosmopolitan enough it's probably fine. And then he remembers they've got ice cream in the freezer, like Hawkeye'd asked for earlier. Trapper likes that – likes the idea of making Hawkeye an ice cream sundae for breakfast. Likes the idea of giving Hawkeye what he wants.

It's just so fucking decadent. It'd be so sweet and cool on Hawkeye's tongue. So cold and heavy in Hawkeye's stomach. Filling. But Hawkeye'd still ask for more.

Seems like Hawkeye's always asking for more of everything, now he knows Trapper'll give it to him. Wait on him hand and foot, a good little wife.

Fuck. It's just so fucking too much and not enough at the same goddamn time.

Trapper grinds and presses against the hard wood of the kitchen cabinets as he slices strawberries and scoops ice cream into a bowl. It's not enough.

They've got chocolate chips in the baking cupboard. Not quite hot fudge sauce, but Trapper adds those and tries to decide if he's got enough time to make whipped cream. He hears the shower shut off, so probably not.

Another time maybe – he's sure this won't be Hawkeye's only ice cream sundae of the week. God, he can imagine it now, Hawkeye's face a mess of whipped cream and chocolate. Can imagine kissing him and tasting rich chocolate fudge sweet and dark on his tongue.

Yeah, definitely a thought for another time.

Hawkeye steps out of the bath onto the bathmat, his skin so delightfully cool in the slight breeze from the open bathroom window, the curtains billowing in what might be a real breeze. He stands in front of the mirror, taking in his appearance.

It's changed a lot since Korea. His hair is longer – it's probably time to ask Trapper for another haircut since the wet strands hang down to his collar. He's clean shaven, now that he has access to sharp razors free of rust. And he's certainly filled out since he's moved in with Trapper – a Trapper who's also changed since Korea, as evidenced by his desire to cook for Hawkeye. To give him everything he could ever ask for, and a few things he'd never known he'd want.

A Trapper who likes Hawkeye like this. Likes him coddled and cossetted and spoiled. Likes waiting on him hand and foot, just as much as Hawkeye likes being waited on. Because that's something Hawkeye's learned about himself over the course of the almost a year he's been living with Trapper. He likes to be spoiled almost as much as Trapper likes spoiling him.

Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise. Most people would probably kill for a lover as devoted and all-consuming as Trapper is. How burningly, passionately too much he is.

Too much for just one lover, much to Louise's chagrin, and occasionally Hawkeye's.

Too much even for himself. Feeling so much, he could never just come out and say what he was feeling for the people he loved. He had to show it instead.

Hawkeye runs a hand down his chest, feels the water sluice down the smooth slope of his chest, the peaks of his nipples blossoming under his hands. He cups his hands over his pectorals and squeezes, the soft flesh cool and malleable as clay.

It feels good, grounding. He rubs hard with the heels of his palms, grinding against the hard nubs of his nipples.

He, on the other hand, was flighty. Afraid of commitment. He pushed everyone away with a laugh and a joke. He gave everyone what they wanted – kept them happy, or as happy as they could be, at a MASH in Korea. But he didn't give them anything deep. Anything meaningful.

Hawkeye's the last person to ever settle down. An eternal bachelor. A one-night-stand.

And here he is, standing in Trapper's bathroom in Trapper's house after almost a year of sleeping in Trapper's bed.

Not that he's been the only one sleeping there, some nights. Hawkeye doesn't think he's any more a one man's man than Trapper is. But he is the only one with a toothbrush on the counter and a towel on the hook.

Hawkeye's hands drift lower, pressing into the soft flesh of his ribs, down to the paunch that circles his waist. It's softer than his chest, and still cool from the shower. He pinches a part of it and it sends a zing of pleasure down his spine.

Trapper loves to pinch and nip at him when he's blowing him. Loves to fondle at his paunch when he's fucking him slow and steady, Hawkeye sitting in his lap, unable to do anything except pant into Trapper's shoulder and grip the muscles of his shoulders, scraping his back with short neat nails. Loves to cup it gently is his huge hands when they sleep together, Hawkeye curled up inside Trapper's long, lean body.

Hawkeye kneads harder into the softness of his stomach. The towel he's wrapped himself in is digging into the new flesh of his hips, but as he turns to examine himself from all angles, he doesn't mind how he looks.

Trapper likes it, for one thing. Can't keep his hands off of Hawkeye. And that does some great things for a guy's self esteem. But Hawkeye's grown to like it just for himself, too, if he's being honest.

It's a whole hell of a lot better than the way he'd looked when he'd just gotten back. He'd been so skinny he could count all his ribs, back then.

But even before he'd been drafted and shipped halfway around the world to eat moldy food in a flea pit (which did not help one's appetite, not one bit) he'd been too skinny. Not as dangerously so, but he wasn't exactly in the habit of eating three square meals a day. Between the long hours at work and the coming home to an empty apartment, there just didn't seem to be much point in things like eating breakfast. Or in eating dinner that didn't consist of a handful of pretzels and too many gin martinis at the bar down the way from the hospital. He was probably heading right for liver failure and scurvy, living like that.

Hawkeye takes the towel from around his waist and actually starts in on drying off.

Now, he's got some meat on his bones. His face has filled out, with round cheeks that dimple when he smiles, if you can believe it. The towel glides over the plump flesh of his arms, when before he'd been able to circle his whole spindly biceps with thumb and middle finger. He sweeps the towel across the padding over his collar bones and ribs and pelvis, where before they'd been sharp enough he'd worried they were going to break through the skin. The towel journeys lower.

The meat of his ass and the softness clinging to his thighs is erotic, in some ways. Inviting. Far better than the scrawny stick-legged thing that had paraded through the mess hall naked, begging for attention and both humiliated and aroused at being on display.

There's something lush about him now. Pampered.

His hands are soft with scented soaps and lotions applied after scrubbing up from surgery, his nails neatly trimmed. His hair is soft and his face is baby smooth. And he's got all the attention he could want, now.

He thought it would be stifling. Constricting.

The only thing he had it to compare to is his failed almost engagement that he'd been too chicken, too scared of commitment to even choke out a “will you marry me?” even when she'd threatened to walk out the door. And then made good on that threat, leaving him with a nothing but a green apartment to remember her by.

He hadn't been willing to change, for her. Hadn't been willing to give her what she wanted.

He'd naively assumed that every committed relationship was like that. But Trapper isn't asking for anything, just offering it. And taking what Hawkeye's able to offer in return. He isn't asking Hawkeye to change for him, but Hawkeye's changing anyway. And not just physically, although that's probably the most noticeable part.

Hawkeye pats his tummy, relishes the soft heft of it. He probably ought to get back to Trapper. And breakfast.

Hawkeye takes fucking forever to actually get downstairs. The ice cream's half melted by the time he actually sits at the table, still damp and wearing only a thin silk robe, which clings to him enticingly.

Trapper blushes. He's not supposed to be thinking things like that right now. Things like how the silk cradles Hawkeye's little belly or how plump and soft his thighs look where they stick out from underneath the hem.

“Quick, Hawk, Eat it before it melts.” He practically throws the sundae across the table. And sits down quickly before he can stare too long at the front of Hawkeye's robe to where his plush breasts press against the slippery silk.

“Ice cream for breakfast?” Hawkeye picks up his spoon and bats his eyelashes. “Trapper, you spoil me.”

Trapper blushes deeper and stands. Sitting down isn't keeping him from staring as much as he'd hoped it would.

“Well, you asked for it.” And he really likes giving Hawkeye what he asks for.

“There's other stuff too,” he adds, and brings the plate of cheese and deli meats and slices of fruit and bread over to the table. “If you wanna eat something other than dessert for breakfast.”

“Very cosmopolitan,” Hawkeye comments, and goes back to licking melted ice cream off his spoon. “Must be that Ivy League education.”

Trapper sits down again, and takes a slice of peach to keep from taking Hawkeye's hand instead. Or taking his mouth in a kiss.

“Well, just to balance it out, I was thinking of grilling this evening. Hot dogs and hamburgers and everything.”

Hawkeye looks up from his ice cream in interest. Everything is a pretty broad category, after all.

“Unless your majesty would prefer cucumber sandwiches?”

Hawkeye laughs and sticks out a pinky as he raises his spoon. “I'll have those for afternoon tea, Jeeves. As long as you make those little cakes to go along with.”

“Greedy,” Trapper accuses, and leans across to give Hawkeye a chaste peck, mindful of the fact he hadn't wanted to get all riled up earlier. And not sure if he can control himself if he tries for more. “I'll see what I can do.”

Trapper had made petit fours for one of their dinner parties with Charles and Hawkeye will not stop waxing rhapsodic about them. They're a pain in the ass to make, though, and Trapper only breaks them out for special occasions. So it doesn't hurt to sweeten the pot, so to speak.

“I might be willing to reconsider my stance on moving to Antarctica if you do,” Hawkeye says with a wink.

“Good to know you accept bribes, Hawk. Or maybe it's me that's accepting a bribe,” Trapper says with a grin. “But even if we don't have to go as far as Antarctica, we could still think about getting out of the city for a while. Head up the coast for some R&R.”

He's been thinking about taking some vacation time, and Hawkeye's almost done with the journal article he and Charles are writing, so it shouldn't be too difficult to pry him away from the hospital. They could head up to New Hampshire or Maine easily enough on the train. Spend a week or two swimming in the cold ocean and eating fresh crab and lobster boiled over a fire right there on the beach.

Trapper's family had never done it when he was growing up, sticking to the public beaches at the end of the trolley lines. But some families he'd known rented cottages on the shore to let their kids splash in the waves without a million other people around. And everyone he'd gone to college with had summered on The Cape or at The Vineyard.

“Some R&R sounds nice,” Hawkeye agrees.

“Want to head up to Maine for a couple weeks in August? You can show me around.” Trapper leers. “I'm sure you know of a few private little spots where we could relax.”

And it's true. Hawkeye's “entertained” a fair number of people in and around Crabapple Cove. And there are a few sandbars and barren little islands where you can conceivably get stuck for a night without any of the local busybodies saying anything. And showing up back in town rumpled and sandy is only to be expected.

But all that feels like half a lifetime ago. Fooling around in uncomfortable haylofts and fucking on rocky shingle has sort of lost its appeal, if it ever had much.

Hawkeye's used to comfort now, if not a little decadence. He's used to soft mattresses and breakfast in bed, if Trapper's feeling particularly doting. Used to being pampered, to being spoiled. And he doesn't want to give that up just to relive a few half-remembered flings.

“None of the places I know are places I'd want to take a classy dame like you. You deserve better, and frankly, so do I.”

“All right,” Trapper says easily, “I'll book us a room at the Ritz Carlton. Or whatever the New Hampshire equivalent is.”

That'll probably mean a conversation with Charles, he'd know classy vacation rentals better than anyone. Hell, his family probably owns at least two summer getaways. It might take a dinner party in a sultry little cocktail number to get advice off of him, but Trapper's done worse things to get laid, and he'll have to clear their little vacation with Charles anyway.

Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

“It'll be nice to have a vacation all by ourselves,” Trapper continues. “A secluded cottage, a private beach. I bet Dr. and Mrs. Pierce could have a real nice week together up the shore.”

Mrs. Pierce?

It's a title Hawkeye didn't think anyone would ever hold, even for a joke. But apparently it's one Trapper wants. And Hawkeye wants to let him have it. At least for as long as their little vacation from work and Boston and reality lasts.

“Is that so?” Hawkeye asks, his chin resting in his hand, spoon artfully dangling from the other. He's looking up at Trapper with wide, shining eyes.

That makes him shiver, almost as much as him calling himself Hawkeye's wife does.

He wishes they were at that beachside cottage now. A place with total privacy. A cool sea breeze through the open windows of their bedroom as they move from sleeping to waking. Long days with no other obligations than each other, and no real reason to leave the bed.

Trapper leans in. “Yeah. I think so.”

Hawkeye closes the distance and kisses him. His mouth is cold and sweet as Trapper's tongue probes inside, all thoughts of keeping things slow gone from his mind. Everything's gone from his mind, except for the way Hawkeye's dropped his spoon, dots of ice cream splattering against the table, and his hand is now gripping the scruff of Trapper's neck tight enough he'll probably have scratches from Hawkeye's nails.

It feels good. Not as good as the way Hawkeye pushing into his mouth like he'll die if he doesn't feels, but still pretty damn good.

When Hawkeye'd kissed Trapper, he'd meant for it to be chaste – well, relatively chaste. But then Trapper'd pushed. Deepened the kiss. Pressed inside Hawkeye's mouth, deep and relentless, and suddenly Hawkeye'd been gripping him by the back of the neck and pressing back.

The table's cutting into his stomach and he's going to get a crick in his neck, but Hawkeye can't make himself pull away.

It's good and deep and sweet and Hawkeye's practically crawling on top of the table to get closer to him.

Trapper stands and pulls him up from his seat and into his arms. They kiss like that, deeper and hungrier, until, “You gotta stop, Hawk, or else I won't be responsible for my actions.”

He's hard against Hawkeye's hip, erection hot through the layers of silk. And Hawkeye won't say he's unaffected either.

Trapper's thumbs smooth down Hawkeye's biceps and he shivers, even though he feels like he's boiling over. It's too much. It's not enough.

“Would it be so bad if you didn't stop?”

“Hawk...” Trapper clutches at him and he sounds broken. “Please... Don't tease me.”

His hips grind forward involuntarily, desperately.

“No tease, Trapper. I'll let you have what you want.”

Though maybe not the way Trapper wants it.

Hawkeye smiles gently and leads him over to the living room. He pushes him down on the couch and Trapper lets him.

He runs a hand down Trapper's chest and Trapper tilts his head back in a moan.

His chest is tan and toned and Hawkeye rips the robe open to get better access. His hands, his mouth, map out the breadth of his shoulders, the nubs of his nipples as they harden, the lean muscle of his stomach, all the way down to Trapper's lap.

Hawkeye's on his knees between Trapper's thighs, as Trapper tries and fails to look like he's not already unraveling at the seams. He runs a hand through Hawkeye's hair, and that helps. The strands are still damp from the shower, and long enough for Trapper to twine his fingers in.

“You need another haircut, Hawk.” It comes out more of a gasp than he'd like.

“Later,” Hawkeye says, and pushes aside the flimsy robe that's barely covering him.

Trapper gasps as the cool silk slides over his fevered skin. As Hawkeye's breath ghosts over the head of his cock.

His hips buck and Hawkeye backs off.

“I still don't want to have anything to do with sex this morning, especially after I went to all the trouble of getting clean.” Hawkeye leans back on his arms, the picture of nonchalance even with his own cock sticking out hard and obvious under the light silk of his robe. “So you're just going to have to take care of yourself Trap.”

Trapper whimpers. Grips the arm of the couch and digs his fingers into the couch cushions.

The robe slips further off his shoulders, spreads wider, revealing everything.

He feels so exposed like this. On display. His dick twitches and he can feel the way Hawkeye's gaze lingers. It's heavy, almost like a physical touch.

Almost, but not quite.

Trapper unclenches his fingers, takes his hand off the arm of the sofa. He spits in his palm and wraps his hand around his big, hard cock. His back arches and his hips buck into his touch. His entire body is alight.

Fuck.

He looks so good. Hawkeye's own thighs spread open where he's sprawled on the floor. His own cock hard but untouched, a pleasurable ache. Desire all the sweeter for being unfulfilled. Or for being given over to Trapper, fulfilled by Trapper, while Hawkeye simply watches.

He's always was an exhibitionist, a showman. But he's enjoying being a voyeur as well.

Trapper's an Adonis in the throws of pleasure. A golden god of hedonism and self-love. Narcissus, but so wrapped up in his own desires, he's clearly unaware of just how delicious he looks.

Masculine, in this light. All hard angles and thick cock. But softened by the pink silk, the vulnerable place under his jaw bared as his head is thrown back in ecstasy.

Hawkeye settles further back on his elbows and looks.

Trapper's hips and arm and whole body strains as he works his tight fist over his hard cock. His eyes are half-closed in pleasure but he still glimpses Hawkeye sprawled indolently on the rug in front of him from underneath his eyelashes. His pale, soft thighs so different from the lean muscle of his own, hard and straining as he chases release.

A greyhound panting after the lure, his teeth are bared.

He wants to sink into Hawkeye's softness. He wants to chase him, to mount him, to push his hard cock between those soft thighs. To fuck him hard and sink his teeth into the tender flesh of his shoulder. He wants to mark him with his teeth and lick the blood away after.

He wants to devour, lean and hungry the way Hawkeye is soft and spoiled. But Hawkeye won't let him. He has to devour himself instead.

Trapper's fist clenches around the hardness of his cock, wrings the head of it harshly. He cums all over himself and his hand.

Trapper strains, finishes, and then slumps forward, a broken man. Hawkeye gets off the floor, and oof, he's not as young as he used to be. His arousal has faded with Trapper's own orgasm and now, now he can stand to touch without feeling like he'll turn to ash.

He tilts Trapper's chin so he can see his glazed, far-away eyes and cups the cheek next to his red, panting mouth. “You were so good for me, Trapper. So good.”

Trapper takes a deep breath, and calms. Turns his head into Hawkeye's palm and kisses him there. He breathes.

Then Trapper sits up, wipes his hands on his thighs with a stinging slap. Says, “Well, I guess I better go take a shower now. I'll cut your hair after, if you want.”

“Sure, Trap. I'd like that.”

#MASH #you fill me up #Piercintyre #chapter 8

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inkskinned · 10 months

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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!!#my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her)#hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet.#i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!!#i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art.#i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

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puppetmaster13u · 5 months

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Prompt 102

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. In for ten seconds, out for eight. Alright. Okay. “Let me get this straight,” he didn’t motion to the three teens- or not teens even if two apparently looked like they were- but it was a close thing. “You-”

Phantom perked up, white hair flickering with what he was pretty sure were stars as they turned away from the window looking out into space. “-are two years old.” The fae-esque being who looked more like a fourteen year old gave a half-distracted nod. Which, for a toddler, they were paying attention pretty well.

“You-” Klarion looked up from where he was fiddling with the cuffs that had been on him, cat sprawled on his shoulder now that it was out of the carrier. “-are six?” Another distracted nod, the apparently-child seemingly enamored with the sounds the cuffs made when they clinked together.

“And you-” He turned towards Marvel, who shrank back before seemingly steeling themself. “-are in fact ten.” The… well they had thought demigod but apparently all three were some sort of realms-being, which had apparently made Constantine pale and start cursing before stomping out of the Watchtower. Another nod and shaky thumbs up.

Alright. Okay. They had in fact let a ten-year old join the league, which wouldn’t have been so bad if they had known. Especially the fact that apparently Marvel was only half-human, which suddenly explained so much about how he didn’t know so many things about a human life. Which-

“You,” he turned towards Phantom again to make sure he was listening before returning his attention to Marvel. “And you have both lived at least a year in the human realm with human companions, but your-” He turned his gaze towards the ravenette in the center. The six year old apparently. “-experience with the human realm is literally just with the Light.”

Yet another distracted nod. Okay. Bruce was tempted to scream in a room for the entire situation that had cropped up from the single action of taking Klarion’s familiar and then the boy himself into custody. Then again, it was honestly a much better thing they had apparently caught this.

“Alright,” he sighed, suddenly feeling incredibly exhausted. “To make sure I have all of this correct-” Because it was already a shitshow and the amount of shouting had absolutely spooked the child. To the point he’d- according to Marvel- made what was apparently some sort of very distressed noise that had made both him and Phantom running. Or rather flying and portaling.

“-in the realms, people there make friends through fighting,” Bruce pauses to make sure he got that part correct. The origin of this entire misunderstanding with the chaos-lord. Lordling?

All three nodded, Klarion losing interest in the cuffs and starting to pet his cat. Familiar. Everyone had referred to it as a familiar and Marvel had appeared utterly horrified that they had taken said familiar away. Somehow he was the one the trio were currently trusting and weren’t doing the same towards any of the other league members.

“And you have been trying to make friends with the Jr team, which they have been taking as an attack due to this miscommunication.” Honestly they should have gotten more information, though he couldn’t exactly blame any of the teens, what with everything they were currently dealing with.

“... is there any sort of guardian or something you might have, that can be contacted? Or anyone that could help prevent a situation like this from happening again?” All three avoided his eyes, suddenly finding things like the table and walls very interesting.

Oh. Hm. This could be a problem.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #prompts #Bruce is so done #Danny: I would have a guardian but the observants locked him up in his clocktower 'cause he used to date the king #Marvel: Does Tawny count?? Like he's a tiger but he also talks and is sapient...#Klarion: Mother Chaos is busy so dropped me off in this world to play #Bruce: Oh no #Bruce already filling out temporary custody papers: Oh No #Bruce: Do any of you know how to do human things #Danny: Oh my human caretakers were mad scientists-#Bruce: OH NO #Marvel: Oh when I'm smaller the street kids help me out #Bruce grabbing a blanket: OH NO #Klarion: I am doing good at being human a completely normal thing to want a good grade in #Bruce already bundling them up: OH NO #They all have familiars lmao #Klarion has Teekl the cat #Danny has Cujo the dog #Billy has Tawny the tiger #JL in the other room having a breakdown or five #Why yes they were fighting a literal child #And yes apparently they did let in another child and literal toddler #Danny: Hold on can I at least get my sister before we go anywhere #Bruce: Hnnnn #His kids are going to laugh at him for bringing home 4 kids

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crystalflygeo · 11 months

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Ok but imagine dragon!Zhongli fills you up with eggs and by the time they hatch you end up with a bunch of tiny baby dragons squirming around like worms. What'd you do then??

WHAT'D I DO?? TAKE CARE OF MY CHILDREN OF COURSE???

"Worms", the audacity they are dragons and they are my precious babies omg

But fr tho imagine like a dozen of tiny baby noodles with a bit of fur and tiny stubby horns just curling up on your lap or around you as you sleep, draped around your shoulder, on top of your head (and Zhongli's) that is so cute pls too adorable. 💕

I'd imagine they'd be still too weak/young to fly let alone shapeshift so they're housebound, zhongli and you have to take turns watching them and going out to do stuff. Also since they're dragons/reptiles they wouldn't need milk?? rather probably just smol pieces of meat or like soft food aaaaaaaaaaaa too cute imagine feeding them with a spoon carefully.

Until they start teething that it, then they become lil menaces, biting everything on sight including each other when play fighting and/or their father (lmao) Zhongli would make small crystals they can bite into instead of destroying everything 💕

Speaking of their father imagine Zhongli feeling the urge to take dragon form just so he can curl around them and soothe them in a way they'd be more instinctually comfortable with (PAPA DRAGON ZL INSTINCTS RUNNING WILD IMAGINE HIM LICK-BATHING THEM SVCGAHBAK 🥺💕💕💕) tho they 1000% recognize you as mama and like to burrow in your hair or under your shirt (babies noooo) and just be close to/on top of you at all times

JUST A BUNCH OF TINY NOODLE BABY DRAGONS I WOULD WEEP I WOULD CRY like I did these???? I made them with my husband?? my babies??

smth like this is you will AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

#crys answers #PLS IMAGINE JUST TRYING TO CARRY A BUNCH OF BABY NOODLES AND THEY GET TANGLED TOGETHER AND AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #I would adore being a dragon mama #zl can fill me up with eggs yep yep indeed #imagine their tiny scales and manes would have different shades of brown and whatever your hair color is #and at first you tell them apart by that #IMAGINE ONCE THEY LEARN TO FLY THO OH GOD #zhongli and you herding a bunch of floating ribbons #pls this is too cute I love it

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thehealingsystem · 1 year

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It's so wild to me that as a community we're still so hostile to multigender and genderfluid people existing in gay and lesbian spaces.

You...are aware that people who are both men and women are allowed to be gay, right? And lesbian? Their other genders doesn't cancel their connection to womanhood, or manhood, or whatever else they id with. They are allowed to be gay despite their fem-alignment, and they are allowed to be lesbian despite their masc-alignment.

It comes from these weird online spaces that the standard to be gay or lesbian is to be a "non-woman" or a "non-man," which is inherently transmultiphobic and...extremely ahistorical. And completely misunderstands nonbinary identity. So if you're both then you just don't belong anywhere I suppose.

#they treat these people as abnormal when really shoving anyone into categories of non-women and non-men is fucking #completely out of touch with how identity works #like i saw a demiboy lesbian flag and the comments are just FILLED with teenage queers getting so mad for no reason #saying shit like im in your walls or your father left you or whatever #please this is so CHILDISH grow UP #multigender #genderfluid #gay #lesbian #lesboy #turigirl #queer #lgbtq #just a he/they transmasc nonbinary boydyke lesbian VERY tired of this nonsense #actually erasure of multigender experience and that one of our genders will cancel out the other #made me very resistant to the fact that i may still be connected to feminity and girlhood #even though i am undoubtedly am #transmultiphobia

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little-pondhead · 2 months

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The Curse Of Hope

Danny is in another universe. He had a reason, but he doesn’t remember anymore. He can only stare, horrified and disgusted, at the sickest city spirit he’s ever seen. Shivering and swaying with every step, core exposed, and ectoplasm leaking from wounds that are decades old. A ratty blanket was thrown over their shoulders, barely hiding the spirit’s pale grey skin and protruding black bones.

The spirit didn’t even sense him until he reached out to touch its wispy shoulders. The spirit flinched, clutching at the dozens of trinkets hanging from their neck and tucking in on themselves like they were expecting a blow.

“Oh, shit,” He swore, floating back a few feet, hands in the air, to show he meant no harm. “I’m sorry. I promise, I’m not here to steal from you.” The spirit shivered again and rolled a pearl necklace in between their fingers. A nervous habit. “Uh, I like that pocket watch? It’s very nice.”

That got their attention. They peeked at Danny, and he saw that more tattered cloth was covering their eyes, blending in with the stringy hair that reached the ground. Their blanket fluttered weakly, revealing hundreds of thousands of tiny marks etched into their skin. Scars, really. Scars that wrote out curse after curse onto the spirit’s very being. They burned with evil intent, and even reached inside the spirit’s body and wrapped around their core.

Occasionally, blinding specks of color raced across their body, temporarily erasing the writing, but it always returned quickly. He watched, a little detached, as one particular line rewrote itself across their rough forearm, drawing fresh ectoplasm like someone was writing it with a thin knife.

“Are you…alright?” Danny stuttered. A stupid question.

The spirit cocked its head. He couldn’t see their eyes, but he felt their burning gaze as they pondered the question.

“The pain of others becomes mine own.” They rasped. “The lights of the city dim as rotten wealth clogs mine veins. Magicks long forgotten have eaten mine skins, pulled mine cloak, and darkened mine skies. Helios has refused to grace mine doorstep, and the seasons of the Earth have revoked their kindness.”

Danny held his breath. It felt like he was the one with the exposed core, not the spirit.

The spirit shivered once more. “Tell mine soul, little lamb. How could this Forsaken City know peace, when it was long since ripped from mine hands?”

Shit, he needed Frostbite. And maybe Clockwork. Now.

-Or-

Danny meets the spirit of Gotham City. The villains and rogues that have plagued the city for decades are literal curses that are taking quite the toll on Gotham, and honestly, Danny isn’t sure how much longer they can hold out. The heroes seem to be doing some help, and are probably the reason Gotham made it this far, but the poor city needs help from the Realms if they want to get better.

Luckily, Danny can provide that help.

But only if he could get Gotham to leave their city behind. Because recovery is going to take a very long time.

#dpxdc #pondhead blurbs #Gotham is very lanky and tall and had dozens of necklaces around their neck #the necklaces are just cords filled with lost things the citizens have lost over the years #like bits of glass or wedding rings or hag stones made from a destroyed gargoyle #actually I have a weird picture of Gotham in my head I might draw it #it’s giving Bloodborne to me but idgaf #basically Danny meets Gotham and is trying to convince them to go with him for medical help because what the fuck #those curses are the equivalent of leaving hundreds of leeches stuck to your body for ten years #Danny is BEGGING Gotham to come with him #there’s potential for angst but if you want crack then Danny probably replaces Gotham #I think there’s already a similar fic where he becomes the new spirit of Gotham but I haven’t read all of that #anyways the Batfam are like #invasive animals that are actually helping the ecosystem recover from an even WORSE invasive species #but they aren’t supernatural heroes and they don’t understand that the issue is deeper #I’m calling this the Curse of Hope because Danny is offering hope to Gotham #but Gotham is just so tired and sick and hurt that they don’t want to risk it #they think Danny is another curse come to plague them #should he just straight up adopt the city at this point?#idk it probably depends on how it’s written #sad course is to let Gotham die. happy ending is where they are treated and returned #crack ending probably has Danny adopting the city and introducing them to his own city spirit Amity Park #oh shit is that a new ship #guys please I can’t keep doing this #Gotham City x Amity Park #how the fuck do you come up with a name for that #Burger Joints?#Wet Pavement?#bro idk I’m putting this down before I make something I might regret #low key wanna write this but like. I have so much to do

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quartzitess · 4 months

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They're still there. They're in there. They're in they're body but yet they're so far gone. the infections like a parasite and yet two was trying to fight it, they were scared and they wanted gaty. Not just to protect her but to feel the person that they felt close and comfortable around, and to take them both to the couch, they could've went for anyone. But they went for GATY. they could've killed her but they didn't. There's something so strangely endearing about that. Truly. Even when they're voice is being used to lure gaty in a sense I feel two geniunely wanted to help, they're so far gone, the little details, not just with how they move but with how they SPEAK. they're practically the host for a parasite and yet. They're still there.

#osc #object shows #tpot #tpot 9 #tpot 9 spoilers #two tpot #tpot gaty #something about this episode makes me so unnerved. maybe it's the voice acting. maybe its the change of tone.#or maybe ITS THAT DAMN SOUNDTRACK #it sounds so eerie. it isnt even necessarily even scary. theres nothing DIRECTLY scary about it #but you wanna know something? its so simple. its almost. too. simple #its too quiet. its far too quiet #theres so much left for our brains to just fill in the blanks #its like your own living hell. it really is one of those ost’s that sends off your flight or fight instincts #theres nothing and yet theres something there. you feel it in your bones. it sends a chill down your spine and its just .. nothing.#its nothing but you. your making it up and your brain is filling in the blanks and it's. terrifying.

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onfjre · 1 month

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TUMBLR PHANNIES

hey everyone!! ive created a survey to compare/contrast phandom experiences by platform....and i really want to hear from you!

its abt a 5-15 min time commitment depending on your answers, but your feedback is invaluable and it's completely anonymous!! (i hope it doesn't need saying but this survey is run without platform bias and the last thing i want to do is pit people against each other! i just need a bigger sample size!)

thank you <3

#if i get a large enough sample size ill write a paper with the findings #bc its always been so interesting to me #but i cant make sweeping generalizations without having data to back it up yk #so if u filled it out ill give u a live turkey and my hand in marriage #please #dan and phil #dan and phil games #phandom #dnp #amazingphil #danisnotonfire #daniel howell #phandom survey #hate begging for retweets but if i get 2 responses from tumblr and 20 from twitter it would be so skewed #so i rly want to make sure i get a relatively even spread #thank you thank you thank you

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