[profile picture id: simple drawing of heart, mind, and soul holding hands. end id]

this blog depicts unhealthy, dangerous, and abusive dynamics frequently. you are encouraged to block this blog if you do not want to see that. there are also (recently added) tags for these that you can block - see the tagging system section.

cjshipping (shipping for Chonny’s Charming Chaos Compendium (i think people use this term for like. jashling shipping now. but whatever i'm not changing it)) occasionally (daily to whenever i can muster it). these are writing excerpts, not drawings

concept based on @occasionallycoinpin and other occasionally blogs in the osc (they’re where i found out about this gimmick blog concept)

i'm mod q (it/its, main: homoeroticjunoincident. ao3: janSikepa (i am at liberty to use anything i post here on there))

asks are encouraged!!! send thoughts on the posts (no crit besides like spelling/tense errors though, this is for fun) or anything cjshipping related as long as it's not based off of like. some fanon thing idk about.

requests are also encouraged, but i may not do it, or wait months to do it. i still like hearing them though :)

just turned on submissions!!! i may deny anything for any reason. however please please please please

anyone can ask to be a mod!!! However. i have to trust you enough to not blow the blog up. and also like your things enough to want them on the blog.

do not take offense if i deny anything! i am an extremely specific person who will not reblog things if they said mind would make pancakes with pancake mix instead of from scratch. i do not hate you if my opinions on the characters differ from yours.

tagging system:

(gun?)

Mind’s fingers probe the edge of Heart’s blindfold. Heart flinches away, shutting his mouth before his gasp can grace Mind’s ears. “(Why would you care?)”

“[It’s not like that.]” Mind says quickly. His harried exhale tingles against Heart’s mouth. It’s…

It’s as if he can’t bear being questioned about anything he does. Really, hypocrite is too nice of a word for whatever Mind is. Mind should just quit.

He won’t, though.

Heart and Mind will stay in this cycle. A weird lingering touch, a weird unsaid feeling. Whatever-this-is.

“(What is it like, then? You don’t have to do this. I wish you wouldn’t.)” Heart asserts. He doesn’t like how Mind reaches out to him. He doesn’t like the spark (of pain) (of—) Mind lights up on his skin. He doesn’t like, doesn’t want—

“[I just want to check,]” Mind insists, logically. It could make sense if Heart wanted it to. If Heart wanted Mind to be doing all this for a good reason.

But—

“(Check what?)”

“[What he did. How bad it was.]”

“(You can just ask—)”

And that’s the crack in all this. Mind doesn’t need to touch Heart to figure these things out. Heart’s found the flaw in his argument— to do what? Exploit it? Make Mind—

Mind tugs Heart’s blindfold off. “[I don’t want to ask,]” he says.

“(You wanted to touch, instead.)”

“[I—]”

“(If you expect me to let you, at least admit it, Mind.)”

“[Let me?]”

“(I’m not weak. If I— wanted— to stop you, I could have.)”

(He really could have. But he didn’t. Because he wanted—

Whatever Mind wants, whatever the driving force is behind this thing. He wants that too. He really does.)

“[You want—]”

Mind presses his forehead against Heart’s, just a bit. “[Can I— touch your face?]”

“(Yes,)” Heart says, because there’s nothing else to say, really. Has there been? Has he ever said no to Mind when it comes to this-kind-of-thing?

He doesn’t touch Heart’s scar. His fingers trace up Heart’s chin, press into his cheek, and linger near his lips.

Heart reaches out. He takes Mind’s wrist, and pushes his fingers where they clearly want to go.

“[Heart,]” Mind pleads.

“(Do it,)” Heart tells him, and he doesn’t know what question he’s answering, really, it could be anything—

He does know.

He says the word ‘nice’ like he doesn’t know what it means anymore.

Like its shape in his mouth is something foreign.

“[What do you even mean, Heart? I don’t-]”

I don’t know who you are anymore.

“[…know what you’re trying to do here, but I’m not going to accept it. What life are you talking about? You know it’s not one we can have. We’re meant to die.]”

“(Always the Mind,)” Heart remarks, offhand. “(We aren’t meant for anything. I don’t care what your logic tells you. All you have to do is give up the fight, give up the pretenses, give up- all this- and we can live. If you take my hand, I’ll drag you up. Don’t you- want me back?)”

Mind stares at him. A pleading edge is creeping into his words- Heart is barely allowing it in.

What does he see, standing in front of him?

“[Just punish me already. That’s what I want. I know you’re going to do it.]”

“(I don’t have to.)” Heart tells him. “(This is all your fault.)”

“[Just do it!]” Mind draws his gun and points it at Heart. “[Just fucking do it!]”

His hand shakes.

It’s pathetic. Isn’t it?

He sighs in fractions, easing himself into the idea of ease. This posture isn’t uncomfortable. That’s why he takes it. It’s a simple effort to lighten the weight—the weight he can’t carry with dignity, the weight he shouldn’t carry in the first place.

He glances towards the door.

His room has no bloodstains. The walls are painted in blue which hides the dents and scratches and flaws of it all. Not very well—but Mind has tried, and this is all he can do.

Is it?

The door is locked. Mind could open it and walk across the hallway, just a few simple steps towards Heart, and reach for a semblance of what he wants. If Heart learned of all this, he would call it self-denial, if he didn’t spit in Mind’s face.

There are circumstances in which self-denial is appropriate. Mind leans his head on his knees, and closes his eyes.

This weight—it’s irritating, loathsome, disgusting. The image of Heart’s room flickers behind his eyelids—the blankets piled onto his bed, the childish stuffed animals strewn across his floor, the bloodstains in his carpet. Most of all, it’s Heart himself, turning to face him with a smile playing on his lips. Heart’s room is only desirable because it is Heart’s.

Because Heart is—

He tightens his grip on his knees.

This position is a childish attempt at comfort—a reach for a useless desire. It reminds him of Heart. Perhaps that’s why he takes it.

This weight—

—seems to bear down on him, a mockery of everything he is. He attempts to shove it down inside of him, yet it resurfaces, like a corpse in the water. Detestable. No matter how much he detests it, the feet between him and Heart remains few, a distance small enough to cross easily.

The distance between him and Heart’s rooms, to be accurate. If it were that easy, Mind would open the door. Heart himself is not in reaching distance.

There is not a version of Heart he should reach for. The distances are irrelevant.

Yet—if Heart were just a little closer—if Mind just—

If Mind just put Heart out of his thoughts, he wouldn’t have to sit like this, arranged like a plaintive figure on the made bed.

He’s not afraid of being denied. It’s the exact opposite-he doesn’t ask because asking would give the impression he cares about whether or not Soul wants him there.

It’s not like it matters. If Heart were to ask, Soul would say yes.

Heart flops onto Soul’s bed loudly. Soul doesn’t look away from his monitor. “{Want anything, or…?}”

“(Haven’t showered in two weeks.)”

Ah.

“{Could’ve told me after the first.}”

“(I was afraid.)” Heart says, clipped and monotone.

“{And you’re not now?}” Soul turns his monitor off and swivels his chair to take Heart in. His hoodie hikes up above his waist-

Soul averts his eyes.

His pose is lax, hair in disarray, arm framing his head on Soul’s pillow. Simply, at ease.

“(Too tired to be afraid. …You can do what you want.)”

“{That’s… an invitation.}”

Heart lifts his head and looks at Soul. “(Call it whatever you want.)”

Soul is tempted to make use of that invitation.

He stands up and leans over the bed, reaching for Heart’s hand. “{Let’s shower. Do you want me to be outside the bathroom or…}”

Heart takes it. “(…Inside? I…)”

“{You don’t have to explain it to me.}” Heart’s hand is warm, and he squeezes. It’s not reassurance. It can’t be. Soul isn’t capable. It’s… “{Let’s go.}”

He waits for Heart to get up. Heart leans his weight on him. They shuffle to the bathroom in half-steps.

“{…Should I help?}” Soul asks, after Heart’s discarded everything but his boxers. Soul doesn’t linger on the knife scars on his chest, straight and deliberate, nor the ones on his arms, jagged and careless. He doesn’t linger on the triad slashes of his trident. Most importantly, he doesn’t linger on the bare skin, on the happy trail leading straight to his -

He’s seen it all before. Yet, he itches with something he refuses to name - he flushes -

{He shouldn’t be seeing this -}

{He wants to -}

“(I - well -)” Heart’s mouth snaps shut. He starts again, “(Soul-)”, his name in Heart’s mouth like a plea, humiliated but wanting.

He steps towards Heart, and thinks that he doesn’t have to ask for permission either. He puts a hand on Heart’s waist. He’s soft and warm and Soul can’t help but move a bit further down until his fingertips scrape the top of Heart’s waistband. He takes it between two fingers and pulls down slowly, waiting for Heart to stop him. He doesn’t.

Soul takes his clothes off. “{Ready?}” He steps into the shower first without letting go of Heart. Heart follows. He pushes Heart in front of him. “{Turn on the water.}”

Again, Heart follows. Easily, like they do this everyday. Could they? Did Heart want this all along?

“{Give me the soap.}”

“(S-?)”

Heart hesitates- but relents.

Soul lathers Heart’s back with one hand. The other stays at Heart’s hip, his fingers clinging onto Heart, his grip as tight as he dares to make it. He doesn’t want to leave.

He takes his time cleaning Heart’s skin. Neither of them say a word as Soul strokes Heart’s skin, as he lingers in caresses so light that Heart shivers and presses up against him, seeking just a bit more of whatever-this-is. Soul memorizes the line of Heart’s spine, the slope of his shoulders, the back of his neck.

His feathers are sensitive. Soul wipes them down until they gleam, and then a bit more. They’re soft, and Heart likes it. Does Soul need any more of a reason?

Maybe he’s losing it a little, he thinks, when he crowns Heart’s wings with a kiss. Heart gasps, almost inaudibly. Pride blooms in Soul’s chest.

He can’t stop himself from doing it again. Again, and again, and again. “(Soul…)” Heart whimpers. Soul can’t stop himself from grinning. It takes up his entire face, and usually that would be a bad thing, but- Soul’s never felt like this before.

Soul leaves one last kiss against Heart’s spine before he continues.

“{Smile for me.}” Soul says, out of a spark of- inspiration? Stupidity? Heart musters a fragile, “(Why?)”, knowing well enough that if he raises his voice to a normal volume Soul will make him regret it. Soul indulges himself in a quirk of the lips, a paltry admission of how much he likes Heart like this, and says, “{I want to see it. You’ll look pretty.}”

Both of them flinch.

If there’s any care in this, it’s tacit- or meant to be. But Soul ruined it.

“(Pretty?)”

Soul sighs- “{Yes, Heart,}”- like Heart has no reason to ask. “{You’re pretty, okay? Don’t you know? I bet Mind’s slipped and told you before.}”

“(…No, he hasn’t.)” Heart raises his head-carefully-as if to make eye contact. “(He doesn’t think I’m pretty. There’s no way. I’m not-)”

“{You are. It’s- he hasn’t? Isn’t it obvious?}”

“(Obvious?)”

“{You’re easy to want, Heart. Easier to want on your knees. So- so, smile.}”

Heart is there. Wings outstretched, eyes closed, monopolizing the couch no one really uses besides him. They do have a TV, and he is in front of it, but it isn’t on, because when it is on all it plays is static. No one wants to hear that.

Why would they? It’s just static. Always just static. Right?

Soul softens his steps as he edges towards the couch. He doesn’t do it often. Right now, though, he wants to get close to Heart without Heart snapping his wings shut and his eyes open. Heart is too relaxed to take note, even when he ends up behind him, peering over the edge of the couch.

He casually plucks a stray feather lying on the top of the couch. Soul squeezes his hand into a fist, the feather’s softness scalding- like a punishment for daring to take this from Heart. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve to know how it feels in his hand. He doesn’t deserve to see Heart lying comfortably on the couch, no thanks to him.

Yet he watches, fist clenched.

Heart’s soft like this. And isn’t that mocking, how his violence is a want, not a need- how he can turn up like this the next day, blissfully ignorant to what the line of his chin, the shadow cast by his arm over his chest, what the painting of his body spells out? Isn’t that beautiful?

It’s really something- Heart has this knack for forcing Soul to clutch at the bleeding edge of his thoughts like he would a wound. He can’t take this back any more than he can the bloodstains on the carpet. He can excuse away watching Heart for an hour straight, but when it comes to that adjective-

It’s not Soul’s fault that Heart’s something to marvel at.

That’s not an excuse either. Soul props his elbows up on the edge of the couch, and lets out the smallest sigh, but apparently that and that specifically is enough for Heart’s eyes to flutter open. “(…Soul?)” This would be a lot easier if he was actually asleep. Or a lot harder. It’s hard to wake him up, but if you do, you should probably run.

How does Soul excuse this?

“{Heart.}”

“(Were you… watching me?)”

Soul sighs, again. “{It’s not my fault that you’re something to watch, is it?}”

“(Are you saying I’m pretty?)”

“{Not yet.}”

Mind remains in his desk chair. Sitting up, and it creaks as he shifts the tiniest bit, and-

“{You stayed?}”

Mind turns around. His lips curl into a smile, and his hand hovers near his mouth, ready to cover it up. Luckily he refrains, so Soul can memorize its mirth, the light in his eyes. Metaphorical. Mind left the light off for him, despite the book sitting in his lap.

“[It would be in poor form to leave my Soul to the rain, wouldn’t it?]” Mind says, oh so casually, but-

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a joke. Somehow, the knowledge that Mind- what, waited for him to wake up?- feels a bit more like… something that Soul doesn’t have the words for.

The window reflects Mind’s face.

Soul stretches his arms above his head, and it’s a relief to throw his blankets off with the warmth building in his cheeks and in his chest. He opens the window. The rain is unfiltered, splattering onto the ground, threatening puddles. The sun is brighter, too. Soul doesn’t think about it.

He gestures from Mind towards his bed. “{Sit by the window, dearest, you should hear it properly.}”

Mind nods, “[Of course,]” and sits down next to him. He rests his arm on Soul’s thigh. Soul swallows.

“{One time, I tried to sing…}”

Mind picks up the harmony, trusting him with the lead. Soul gives him “Tell me about the sky,” and he only hesitates slightly, his voice deep but soft. Earnest- like words pressed into his palms as the stars shine behind the window. Of course, Soul plays his part for Mind, reciting lyrics that weren’t meant for them.

Soul tilts his lips to Mind’s ear, and almost whispers, “{but I won’t let you lose yourself in the rain.}” A lyric that wasn’t meant for him- but that’s what it sounds like in Soul’s mouth.

“[We have so much left to sing.]”

“{There’s a storm for every spring…}”

“[All you see, and you and me, we came from the stars.]”

Mind looks away from the window, turning his head to aim his gaze directly at Soul.

“{So observe these blues and greens, and embrace this harmony.}”

“[All you see, and you and me, we came from the stars- from the stars, from the stars...]”

Mind sounds- like he’s putting all his effort into it. Like he means this.

Like he means it how Soul means it.

Soul’s mouth dries. He can’t say, “But you know how it goes,” because, well- is this how it goes? Soul can’t imagine feeling resigned about the way Mind sings him.

{Even if it isn’t him. Does it matter who it was meant for? Can’t Soul enjoy the song?}

In lieu of words- in lieu of the somewhat ridiculous thoughts that stick in his head, and the somewhat ridiculous flutter in his gut, like the sun upon him- Soul pulls Mind into his chest. “{The rain is nice today,}” Soul tells him, “{that was good,}” meaning so much more than those adjectives. “{You… you did a good job, dearest.}”

Mind makes a little surprised noise in the back of his throat. Or - Soul doesn’t need to avoid embarrassing him in the comfort of his own head, or anywhere, ever - Mind squeaks, eventually stuttering out, “[So- well- so did you.]” He seems to think that Soul’s going to break this, but slowly, he relaxes into Soul’s body. His hands raise, almost wavering in the air, and then he reciprocates the hug.