Clueless Dorks

Here’s some more Dick, you guys!

First one is just from an Slade’s Apprentice AU I’m doing with a friend. Probably won’t be posted anywhere.

Second one is just me having fun and fooling around TBH

“Now you’ve really pissed me off.”

Do I love the idea of Mabel and Pacifica meeting again when they’re older? Do I also like the idea of a very different Mabel and a very not Pacifica? Maybe :)

Something I whipped up p quickly for the tuesday lapidot prompt ‘kissing’ 

Punk!Lud totally falling for ballerina!Feli tho <333

He sings (with seriousness) quite little, for how he is, Ludwig thinks.

His voice is pretty though, all soft and wistful, and almost sad sometimes, but it’s always when he thinks he’s not looking or listening, hair all pinned behind his ears and eyes half lidded with a spoon in a mixing bowl and batter splattered on his face, or late at night when he’s sitting on the balcony (dangerous, he knows but he can’t stand to say anything and let Feliciano know he was listening), eyes closed and feeling the wind traveling through his brunet strands. 

Even if he never says so, he never has listened to such a beautiful song as what comes from Feliciano’s lips, longing and calm, waiting.

(For what, Ludwig is afraid to ask-

“No use crying over spilled milk.”

It’s a stupid saying, he thinks furiously, fists shaking with the force needed to hold back the awful anger brimming under the surface, that anger he’d always had trouble controlling. Every small thing causes him to despise things more, and not letting little things affect you

He’s older and still doesn’t see the point, even when he’s calmed down some and that anger isn’t so big anymore, and he’s stuck in the same stupid body even as he’s growing in age on the inside and cannot control things that he should (feels like he should be able to) and he wonders if that big anger has been replaced by something he finds so much more difficult to curb:

frustration-

and he’s even older then and growing up, and his body’s finally catching up and how relieving is that, and it’s not until he’s older that things begin to suddenly make sense and somehow more confusing. Adulthood is a mess of decisions and consequences and much more perplexing than childhood and there’s no one to tell you what to do to make things better. There’s freedom but it comes with a price.

In the end, it’s not just him that begins to understand, but it’s someone else that teaches him. It’s an white haired manic with beautiful crimson eyes that shows him that life is a ride, and years later he’ll be sitting and watching an angry kid with pale and dark fingers intertwined that he’ll say it, a knowing sparkle in his eye.

He wishes there were words to write their poisoned love in ink, but nothing can explain the way memories do, taunting lips against another, brushing fingers and rough touches-

nothing but memories can show their childlike adoration melting into possessive marks of ‘mine’ and the way their personalities clash and yet fit like crashing waves of water, every crevice filled to the brim with the want, the need for this endless game of tug of war,

I have literally been thinking about this AU for months and then I see someone else wants it too <3

Here, have a Feli as Madoka. I will draw Lud as Homara later!

The stench doesn’t fade.

It’s been months since the war and it doesn’t go away, the smell of rotting bodies and ashes, ashes falling like dirty snow, snow that once made up smiles and laughs and minds and people, and it won’t go away.

Even now desserts and sweets, the scent just after it rains, coffee and paint, none of it smells pleasant anymore. All he can register is the smell of decay, of things long dead, picked apart by birds of prey and dried out by the harsh sun. It’s not something that can be forgotten.

But bright grins and soft hands and gentle kisses from a loving Italian remind him life is worth living for, that one day it’ll all disappear into memory if he lets it, that life goes on and nothing has to be defined by the past.

There’s a perfect storm brewing, and he’s right in the middle.

Angry words form from an icy tongue, unforgiving phrases but lies all the same, setting the scene. Fists clenched, eyes narrowed, he is the personification of not Italy but fury. Black eyes and split lip are a secondary thought, or at least attempting to be

The retaliation is silence for a moment, calm, violet eyes seeing through the facade of unabated distraction, a way, a try, to get the attention of the ‘weakness’.

He isn’t fooled.

The anger is spewed for second after second, hiding shaking hands and fearful eyes, before finally arms wrap around that, popping the bubble that had once encased an emotion far too fragile to be held alone.

“It isn’t your fault.”

He pretends the water wettening his shirt is merely rain, and sighs. It’s not the calm before the storm that it’s so difficult. It’s after, the part of patching up and repairing, that makes storms so infamous.

But for him, he’d do anything, he thinks, fingers running over crimson strands.

“Your hair’s getting long, you know.”

“Hm?”  A humming sound, curiosity, and a finger twirling around auburn strands. “Oh, yeah! Didn’t really notice, honestly.” A laugh, light and good-natured, high in the throat, a twinge of embarrassment, maybe.

“It’s not really a problem.” A soft smile, meant for the eyes of only one. “Really, Feliciano, it doesn’t look bad. It was just a comment.” Years ago, denial would have arisen, perhaps shame at the love beating in pair of chests. Now, only fondness remains.

“Mmm, guess it was.” Cheerful, warm. “Maybe I’ll keep it for a little while longer.” “That’d be nice.”

Silence. Affection needs no words to fill awkward spaces. That is a place for those not used to rubbing together, those who have not found the pieces of themselves that fit together.

He loves his fingers. Not his own, but his.

They are long and narrow, defined, and how many times had he seen those fingertips press against ivory keys, perfect fingernails scratching off dried paint, warm hands wrapping around his own like-

His face turns a shade of pink lemonade, no, move along, move along-

He loves that they’re always gentle, and soft, not like he’s been told a man’s should be, even fingers touch and calloused, and his own are, but his fingers are also shorter and much more muscular than he would like, a basketball player’s hands. 

But his own hands, undesirable palms and appendages, don’t matter.

The best part is when those slender fingers wrap into his hair, entangling in blond strands at their lips touch, and he feels like he’s grown feathery wings and soaring into the sky.