Anti-Onism

Indie multimuse with characters from Marvel, Psych and Teen Wolf.

[antionism-blog]

❝ The drinks came. I wasn’t about to be sobered by anything like regret. ❞ - jace

Guide to Troubled Birds: (Accepting)

Simon is drunk. Well and truly, he’s lapped sloppy and he’s crossing the threshold from white girl wasted to...to...something. Vaudeville? Hobgoblin? 

Maudlin. That’s the one. 

They’ve given up on any sort of hooking up, because they’re both so drunk their noodles aren’t even managing al dente. It’s just Simon and Jace in Simon’s crappy bed, in Simon’s crappy borrowed boathouse, nothing between them but drying sweat and skin, and the afterimage of noise still pounding in Simon’s ears. 

He’s tracing those runes with the tip of his finger, Jace murmuring what they mean. Equilibrium, Strength, Soundless, Vision. 

And it hits him. It hits him really hard that their lives are insane and that Jace literally chases down monster’s for a living, and for a second, Simon can’t catch the breath that he doesn’t actually need. 

“I don’t want you to die.”

Jace’s very nicely sculpted eyebrows are doing that thing that says what the hell, Simon? without the words actually leaving his mouth, and that’s okay, because Simon has enough words for the both of him. 

“My life keeps getting crazier, and crazier, and bad things keep happening. And I finally have some kind of control over myself and over my life and daylight is pretty awesome and I have you-”

That’s where Simon has to stop for one shuddering moment, unable to look anywhere but at Jace’s otherworldly eyes. When he speaks again, it’s little more than a whisper. 

“I don’t want to lose you, Jace.”

[archerwarlock]

Jimon + Hands

[iwillbestronger]

(insp.)

[feralmerit]

@antionism from x

Jace’s mouth opens, invariably to tell Simon to fuck off. If he doesn’t want Alec around, a man who is as much himself as his own hand is, he doesn’t want their resident dweeby vampire up here hounding him.

You know-

The sentiment never gets past his throat, thoughts fall away, recentering from deep– pointless, useless– brooding (yes, he is self aware enough to know that’s what it is) right on over to what the fuck?

He’s not Alec, who can hold an entire conversation with the muscles in his face and the disturbance of his presence, but he hopes the eyebrow he arches gives an emphasis somewhere in the ether.

Simon’s not looking at him, can’t see him, so Jace lets his stare linger, marveling in how easy it is for his thoughts and mind turn to Simon’s rambling. He wonders, staring at the way Simon’s ear curves, if he’s the shrimp here. Head and heart all twisted up together and encased in a cold box.

He shakes it off. Again, no, fuck off, Simon rises defensively in his chest, again falls away unsaid. There’s no energy in him for misaimed vitriol, a rarity in itself.

Simon, clumsy, misstepping, skinny Simon, who’s (rightfully) mistrusted him from the moment he met him.

Simon who took time out of whatever it was he was doing– something more important than this– to check on Jace. Of all people.

He pushes back from the railing with a rough exhale, a friendly clasp to Simon’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” doesn’t know what to say anyway, “– but only an idiot turns down free food. C’mon, we’ll see if there’s blood sausage or something for you.”

[antionism-blog]

“Blood sausage sounds terrible.”

But he’s smiling, beaming bright because Jace is away from the ledge. 

He’s still nervous about that, about Alec having been up there, so close to ending it. He and Jace were parabatai, two parts of the same whole. What if Jace was standing up with his toes over the edge, hoping someone would pull him back too?

That’s the thought that overwhelmed Simon’s natural desire not to be ridiculed, enough so that he faced Alec, and then Jace in rapid succession. 

“I mean, I know it’s a thing that people eat in the UK, but-” He shudders dramatically, and uses it as a not so subtle cover to the fact that he feels cold where Jace’s hand used to be. 

“No thank you. Plus, I already ate.” He’s never been able to get comfortable with the word feed. It makes him sound like some kind of wild animal. Oh, sorry I can’t come out to dinner, I have to feed my disgusting vampire.

“But you haven’t. And you need to. Brooding takes a lot out of a guy.” He crinkles his nose, and misses his glasses for the millionth time, because this would be a perfect time to do the nerdy ‘push them up the bridge of the nose’ thing. 

“Trust me. I looked it up on google. It burns a ton of calories. I see why you’re so ripped.”

[antionism-blog]

❝ As always, all I should’ve said was, “I love you.” ❞ - jace

Guide to Troubled Birds: (Accepting)

It’s not like it happens all of a sudden.

There is no boombox outside of his window, no fire escape to climb. Love is nothing like what the movies taught him it was. (Love is nothing like what he’d thought it would be with Clary, and maybe that’s saying something.)

Love ends up being the stupid, handsome jerk who sits next to him and playfully insults him at every turn. Who tries to teach him how to flirt. (He’s still not sure if Jace purposely sabotaged him with Maia, or if it was a subconscious thing.)

It starts with a whole bunch of frustration, and Simon focusing on what always been out of reach, so he doesn’t have to think about what’s standing at his elbow now.

The feeling creeps up on him. Warmth in his chest and fondness spilling in his veins when he looks over and catches Jace looking.

And Simon hates it. He hates that he’s essentially back in ninth grade again, crushing on the Captain of the football team, because nothing is ever going to come for it.

He hates it, because Raphael didn’t tell him that feeding from someone is more intimate than sex could ever be. Because it doesn’t matter how much water he drinks and throws back up in the boathouse bathroom, he can still taste angel and rune and Jace on his tongue.

Simon hates himself, because he’s traded one impossible love for another. Where Clary was fire, burning too hot to touch, Jace was the sun, too bright to look on him for long, but it never stops Simon from wanting to gorge himself on the sight even if it blinds him.

He hates himself until he doesn’t, until Jace looks at him with those mismatched eyes and he says I love you and Simon’s whole world comes to a screeching stop.

“Me?”

It comes out squeaky door high, and for a guy who doesn’t even have to breathe, he’s pretty sure he’s on the verge of having a panic attack.

“Why?” It comes out without a thought, fingers twisting and catching in his jacket, and the only thing that stops Simon from saying seriously, did you hit your head or something? is that Jace’s looks like he’s about ready to bolt.

“I mean you? You’re you. No one is going to be surprised that I’m head over heels in love with you. It’s just um...surprising? You know? That you might...me.”

[meliorn]

@madziebane requested: alec glaring at simon

[antionism-blog]

❝ I’m three ounces of whoop-ass. ❞ :|

Guide to Troubled Birds: (Accepting)

“Yeah?”

His voice pitches up an octave, somewhere between impressed that Alec actually spoke an entire sentence to him unprompted, and concerned that this was a threat. 

A really...really weird that. 

“Does...does that mean...I mean--uh-” He’s trying to do math in his head and talk and he doesn’t know how many ounces a tall, broody shadowhunter should be, and it’s way too much to process at one time.

“What about the other...ounces? Is this like a percentage thing?”

[antionism-blog]

❝ I do not go to my happy place, I go to my high lonesome place. ❞- jace

Guide to Troubled Birds: (Accepting)

Coincidentally, he knows that. 

Simon knows that because when he asked where Jace was, Alec’s face had done that thing where he can’t decide if the annoyance is physically painful, before he looked up. 

(It also took Simon another thirty seconds to realize that wasn’t a terrible eye roll, but was in fact an indication. It helped when he got a real eye roll and a he’s on the roof, Simon.)

And now he’s here. 

He’s here, and Jace has his back turned and his shoulders pulled up to his ears and he looks like every brooding YA novel protagonist, hair tugged by the wind and his eyes on the city below. 

Which...unfair. Simon always looks like he’s pouting when he’s trying to be broody. But Jace nails it. Like he nails everything else. Because he’s kind of slutty. And because he’s good at everything and it’s disgusting.

“You know...”

Jace cannot possibly know, because Simon has zero idea what is about to leave his mouth. It will be just as new to him. 

“A shrimp’s heart is located in it’s head. I mean...technically it’s in the thorax behind the head, but it’s covered in a singular exoskeleton so it counts.”

What? Jesus. That was his leading line?

Simon kicks a stone that’s come loose and steps up beside Jace, trying very hard not to look over out of some respect of privacy, even as Jace fills his peripheral vision. 

Jace does that. He kind of fills all of Simon’s vision when he’s around. 

Simon sighs, his own shoulders drooping. 

“I probably can’t fix anything that’s bothering you. But I can buy you a truly terrible hot dog off of a cart down there, if you want to go for a walk.”

[ask-meme-addicts]

“Guide to Troubled Birds” sentence meme

❝ The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math. ❞

❝ I preen for Satan. ❞

❝ I disembowel. It’s what I do. ❞

❝ He gave them the heebie-jeebies. He had nothing else to give. ❞

❝ I’d sell you to Satan for one corn chip. ❞

❝ I love you despite the warning signs. ❞

❝ I’m a dirty bird. ❞

❝ This was a topsy-turvy world of anguish, shame and self-torment. ❞

❝ I’m three ounces of whoop-ass. ❞

❝ Dealing with you is like herding cats. ❞

❝ My mating dance is mostly seizures. ❞

❝ This jackassery will not stand! ❞

❝ I’ve been through hell and come out singing. ❞

❝ Your love has made me a drunk. ❞

❝ I’m not majestic on weekends. ❞

❝ God can’t help you now. ❞

❝ That’s a crazy idea. Insane. It doesn’t make sense. ❞

❝ I had on my prettiest dress and he never even looked at it. ❞

❝ He had a violent, uncontrolled temper, which sent him literally insane when he was annoyed, but he was good looking. ❞

❝ This might have passed a very pleasant evening had shit not gotten real. ❞

❝ Perhaps you can do something about the evil spirit in my head. ❞

❝ My emotions have three outlets: haughty silence, tears and rage. ❞

❝ I do not go to my happy place, I go to my high lonesome place. ❞

❝ I am often seized by the fatal American need to have a pretty good time. ❞

❝ I’m addicted to shiny things. ❞

❝ The ability to remain sober and gracious is, indeed, a mild form of insanity. ❞

❝ My modus operandi is dial up the awesome and break the knob off. ❞

❝ Looking for trouble and if I cannot find it, I will create it. ❞

❝ The drinks came. I wasn’t about to be sobered by anything like regret. ❞

❝ Foie gras this, motherfucker! ❞

❝ The whispery groans in my mind are beginning to issue orders. ❞

❝ Unicorn of love, impale me! ❞

❝ Oh. You’re an artist. ❞

❝ I hope you’ll excuse my cheap wit, but the hour is late and it’s all I have left. ❞

❝ As always, all I should’ve said was, “I love you.” ❞

[shewitches]

- jph.

[antionism-blog]

bloodsings:

        There’s a lot of perks that come with being this young, bright-eyed and beautiful thing in the Firm; Teddy’s used to his smiles and sweet promises and soft hair getting him what he wants, and it’s either personal interest or it’s for the gang. Something quick, rough, back in an alley or in some bloke’s car, or maybe they want him down on his knees, like Driberg, who’d list off the addresses of his posh friends afterward, and suddenly Teddy and the boys are coming back with money and valuables that aren’t theirs, and the Firm’s just that much richer. He don’t mind. Weren’t much different from his usual antics, anyway.

        I don’t do that.

        It does sound like rejection. And there’s a deep crease in his brow at the sound of it, trigger-pull sudden, a change at the flip of a switch. He’s about to challenge Eddie, but it softens him around the enthusiastically jagged edges when he’s called gorgeous; this grin spreads again, a snicker slips out from between his teeth.

        Respect. Him?

        Sure, he’s treated with some kind of caution, most of the time; they don’t call you Mad Teddy Smith for being a softhearted bloke, and just knowing who he’s associated with tends to send the more sensible men the other way. But Teddy’s practically flourishing at the thought of something nicer. Which is funny enough to make him actually laugh, now, to the point that he draws two pairs of eyes their way, but he doesn’t pay them any mind.

        He’s just as happy to be slapped around, prefers it even, and most of the time the men he’s with don’t care if he even gets off.

        He always does, though. Feels good when they use him up proper, leave him panting and flushed and messy, whispering their praises or curses, and Teddy laughs at them and tells them that they ain’t ever gonna find someone they can fuck as good as him again.

         ❝ Reckon you can respect me in bed, though, yeah? ❞ He’s still beaming, but he doesn’t push further — partly because he wants to see what Eddie means, like it’s just the most foreign thing he’s ever heard. Teddy reaches for his glass again, but he’s still close, shoulder-to-shoulder.

        The night’s still young.

He could. 

Eddie thinks he could take him to bed and show him how a real man treats someone. With respect, and reverence, and kindness. But there’s a street dog meanness to those eyes, and Eddie isn’t too sure he could touch him without getting bitten. 

Or worse. He’s heard rumors of what happens to those who fall out of Mad Teddy’s favor, and it ain’t pretty. 

“Depends.”

His own drink is untouched, sweating on the table. He’s had enough already, but you can’t put your hand over the glass and stop a refill here. It’s disrespectful. 

“Is it something you really want to do, or are you just tryin’ to prove a point? Because if you need my name to tell somebody that you proved me wrong, well...you can have it. You don’t have to pay for that with your body.”

[antionism-blog]

@bloodsings

Actual footage of Eddie and Teddy in the wild:

[antionism-blog]

@bloodsings from ( x )

The touch is a mistake. 

But he’s had just enough champagne to feel warm beneath the skin, and the room is honey gold and warm around him. With the music playing and the man crooning on stage, it’s easy to get lost in it. 

It’s dreamlike, the feel of soft hair at the nape of Teddy’s neck. Eddie’s never really been this kind of bold. He’s from a part of the city that frowns upon his way of life, and Eddie’s just always been a private guy by nature. 

When Teddy puts a hand on his thigh, he has a moment to realize that he’s been thrown into the deep end, and no one ever taught him how to swim. (Eddie was small time muscle. He broke kneecaps and he collected cash and he asked no questions. This was bigger than that. Much bigger.)

“I don’t...do that.”

He’s lost in those fever bright eyes, and it’s secondhand that Eddie realizes how his words sound. Like a rejection. 

“Not because of you, I mean. You’re gorgeous. But I don’t...I don’t treat people like that.” His breath catches at the squeeze on his thigh. “You deserve better than that, you know? You deserve to be treated with respect.”

Now if he could just get his body in line with his words.

[antionism-blog]

spiderlingman:

come on. we got out of there way faster because of the fight

...he punched me in the dick.

[antionism-blog]

‘ there’s nothing but light when i see you ’ #SHRUGS AT U IN THE DISTANCE

“That’s because you’re not looking at me, you’re looking at the aura of my power.”

And he’d imagine that the time stone makes it especially difficult to see anything other than it. Though he’s no slouch on the magical front himself. Stephen gestures to the stuffed chair across from him. 

“Please, have a seat, Miss Aberdine. We have a lot to talk about.”

[antionism-blog]

‘ i’m sorry that the world always takes and never gives ’

Poetry Starters: (Accepting)

“Sorry doesn’t change anything.”

Hotch knows that. Just like Clint knows the words aren’t really for his comfort. It’s a bridge being built, one olive branch at a time. That’s how you get your team to trust you, that’s how you make them loyal. 

Empathy, sympathy and respect. 

Fury used to do it. Maybe Clint believed in it back then. That felt like a lifetime ago, because Indy had it right.

It wasn’t the years, it was the mileage.

“But thanks, Boss.”

[antionism-blog]

‘ for now , i’d rather stay here ’

Poetry Starters: (Accepting)

For now. 

Because this is a temporary stop. He’s a temporary stay of execution for whatever thing Pete is trying not to do. Clint puts his feet up on the coffee table and he downs his watered whiskey and he doesn’t think about it. 

Because this is his job. His job has always been to fill a space, to play a role. To be whatever the hell is needed of him. 

“No problem, man. Mi casa es su casa.”