Some High-quality Tattoo Designs, My Dudes

Omg thank you *blushes* this is so sweet <3

Can we talk about how beautiful xxdanaja ‘s art is?

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Danaja Kurnik (@danajakurnik) • Instagram photos and videos

306 Followers, 237 Following, 191 Posts - See Instagram photos and videos from Danaja Kurnik (@danajakurnik)

if any of y'all'd like to follow me

bro I love your writing style so much

🦔🦔🦔 i think hedgehod emojis are a good shot at expressing the keysmash of how meaningful you writing this is to me. you literary energy drink!!! i love having a sense of writing for someone to feel it!!! you can send me a prompt, if you want; the most uncomfortable situation you can imagine, for me to resolve in a short fic; the juiciest prompt you can imagine; an unwritable situation for me to write; an idea that was poorly executed in your dream

Your art is .. wow. I don't know what to say. It's amazing! Keep up your good work!

Thank you sooo much for thinking so and sharing your opinion with me! Extremely lovely of you, person :)

i've got a NEW instagram! you can follow me on my NEW instagram!  https://www.instagram.com/danajakurnik/

Pidge is fourteen. She and Keith are pressed against the Garrison wall, both a little breathless despite not having moved for half an hour. The memoir is taking place on the other side of the wall, outside, beautiful day. They can hear everything. This is the first time she's alone with Keith. It's funny how a sentiment brings you closer instantly; a tragedy to call this all-consuming loss a sentiment.

''I could sneak you in, at the end,'' Keith offers, seventeen and blood simmering.

''No. I don't want to see his face,'' she says and immediately feels horrible.

She draws a forever sign in the dry soil and it intensifies her pure agony like she thought it would. She stretches her long socks further past her ankles, hair still long and tied into low buns. She doesn't feel like herself. Her brother was a half of her self-definition.

''It is now appropriate to pause for a moment to reflect on the huge impact the crew will continue to have on humanity’s aspirations. We extend our deepest sympathy to everyone inspired by their spirit.''

Dust is rising from where Keith is thumping his fists on the ground with a devastating frequency. His eyes are clenched.

''Hey,'' she says, lowly. Collecting ignition to continue, firestarter petroleum oozy. But Keith says, ''Yeah.''

He splays his hands on the ground. Looks up, continues looking up. It's too bright for that to be comfortable. She fixates on the bruises on his knuckles and the blood around his fingernail.

''You have blood on your fingernail,'' she says. Keith brings his hands up, stoic and turmoiling at the same time. ''Right thumb,'' she says.

They have come up with a post-mortem communication code, okay? Matt said if one of them died and became a ghost, they would knock three glasses over. It's so so horrible. Keith lays a hand atop of her head.

''Perhaps this is the nature of heroism. Striving to achieve something that is beyond our ability. Even being the best doesn’t protect you from errors. Perhaps that in itself honours space and space exploration.''

Keith clenches his fists again. He had said Shiro would never. He’s too good for errors.

''I guess,'' she swallows, ''I guess we are the only ones who—'' The only ones with this erroneous feeling. This fucking mistaken grief. ''Who believe in them more than that,'' she finishes.

''Well, that's awkward,'' Keith jokes. They smile at each other, vaporous.

''We will now play a special song – the last song recommendation Matthew Holt sent to our station on Earth. Panic Vertigo by The Wrecks.''

Oh no, she thinks. Her mind spills into a stream of no no no, when Keith growls: ''Let's get the fuck away.''

He's already dusting off. He doesn't offer a hand and Pidge is grateful.

At fourteen, the Garrison is holding a memoir for the lost crew and Pidge’s hands feel unstable when she drinks from glasses. On the way to the ceremony, she and Keith climbed off his motorbike at a gas station made for boys like Keith, rogue, creases of their jeans sharp, boots strangely clean. Keith bought them canned coke and she was grateful.

 *

 She's pulling a yellow pepper apart, thinking, quite uselessly: maybe the illusion of strength stems from weakness. She squished it until it cracked and now the seeds are falling on the counter.

She's a half of a person. But, in contrast to the missing half, an idea is forming within her. In contrast to the missing half, Enceladus is still her favourite moon. It helps her think: Keith, from whom she hasn't heard for weeks, is a cyrovolcano. And she won't remain a flyby. She'll be a rover.

She calls the Garrison three times to reach him and carries her phone as a weight in her pocket for three days before he returns the call, bleeding apprehension.

''Hello?''

''Keith,'' she says, solemn. ''Keith. Can you steal something for me?''

 *

 Pidge is fifteen and a boy called Lance makes her doubt her insight all over.

She stops in a corridor when she sees him now, well past sleep-time. Lance hovers two fingers above the skin of a girl's hand.  His eyes flicker to hers, watchful, intent.

''How does that feel?'' he mutters with a ghosting smile.

''You're not touching me,'' the girl says through the teeth of her grin. Lance smiles elastically in a way that makes Pidge feel like she can snap.

The girl clears her throat, mouth a contour of a smile, and then Lance, too, turns. The girl pulls her hair in a tail, then releases, and Pidge watches it swing behind her back.

''Hi,'' Pidge says, ''Lance.''

''Hi, Pidge.'' He grins, pulls the girl's hand behind his back and holds it there with both hands. ''Look at that. Won't tell if you won't.''

Pidge runs her fingers through the hair at her nape. She thought familiarisation would come more slowly. Not letting go of the girl's hand, Lance pulls a key ring from his pocket, spins it around his finger. It's something kitsch, lowbrow and vibrant and nostalgic. She isn't like that. He's vibrant and she compares herself to extraterrestrial objects.

''Won't tell if you won't,'' she repeats.

 *

 She can't fall asleep, just keeps thinking, defined, almost geometrical thoughts. It's often like this. She just lies frustrated.

She thought it would be easy, that she would uncover the assembly of concepts of her and re-cover them with a new sheet. Instead, she is stuck. What drives science forward is the universality of laws. Eyes open, duvet light on her chest, she is stuck. Can't go forward. She can't develop herself, no universal laws apply.

A week ago she broke a plastic fork without meaning to and didn’t know what that meant.

 *

 Lance walks into the dark dining hall where Pidge sits slouched and they both start.

''Oh, uh, hey. Pidge. Wow, right? I didn't know the dining hall was unlocked at night, but looks like you've known. What are you reading?''

She glances down at her tablet. She's coordinating outputs of Garrison detectors. The device on the backside of the tablet is reading the academy’s data analyses. Lance comes close enough for its light illuminate him and she tilts the tablet away from him, towards her stomach.

''Wikipedia,'' she lies. He grins.

''Is this referring to your, what it that, a tablet?'' he points at the special offer sticker in the corner of her tablet that she scraped from a sandwich wrapping.

''No,'' she says, ''It’s referring to me.''

''Yeah? How so?''

How funny that a person so whole is asking her this. ''You want me to tell you why I think I'm special?''

''Sure,'' Lance crosses his arms.

Her neck cracks when she tips her head up. Maybe this: she has, in a way, cracked all the joints in her body, cracked her everything, new shape recuperating under the always-loose clothes. Who is she? Primordial soup of a person. Chemically potent. An isomer inverted. And can’t stop thinking about that. The transition, the hoax, has made her the embodiment of metacognition.

''I cognise about my cognition,'' she says. Lance’s eyebrows shoot up and it makes her want to cross out her answer. ''I’ll find aliens,'' she covers up. Something less irritating, less out of reach, and no less sincere. Lance beams, whole body moving illogically with enthusiasm.

''Me too! Man,'' he says, closer now, and Pidge concludes magnetism attracts him to things, never repels. ''Please tell me you have a plan. Humanity has lived so long without aliens, it’s time.'' He straightens up with intent. ''Are you going to cognise something for the Garrison? Or, I mean, if we can reach Kerberos. I mean. Maybe we’ll have the tech to go further just when I’m allowed to fly higher than fifty thousand feet.''

''Yeah, well. Icarus only flew too close to the sun because his wings were shit.'' Lance grins, but then tilts his head.

''You look upset,'' Lance says – because he seems to live on the outside of himself. She shakes her head. Typing tempestuously from her home floorboards, she thought: the Garrison would be a she-unknown zone. She’d be a hoax, and people wouldn’t know her. But actually, no. She can give what she can give.

''Some officers don't take girls seriously,'' she says.

''Oh,'' Lance sounds surprised. ''Is there someone you like?''

''No. That girl, what's her name? Do you take her seriously?''

''The one from the hallway?'' Lance asks and it makes her feel infinitely worse. ''Whoa, dude. Yes, I take Alleine seriously. I'm not just, I don't know, playing. I have respect.''

She sweeps her electronic chips into a pile on the tabletop. She’s not trying to be inflammatory. She just feels her bedrock being attacked.

''They have internal worlds too, you know.''

''Dude. I know.'' He folds his arms and she doesn’t know what to say. He half-laughs, looking to the side, arms unfolding. Okay, adventure over for tonight. See you around. Nice talking to you, Pidge.''

''Lance,'' she calls. He turns, tilts his head a little. ''I like your confidence. Keep it up.''

''I like yours,'' Lance smiles, just by the door, when the door swings open, an officer stepping in.

''Ah,'' Lance breathes. Straightens up. ''Sir.''

''Good evening, cadets,'' an officer Pidge doesn’t know barely glances at her before settling on Lance. Crypsis, she thinks. ''McClain. Are you testing the admissions?''

Lance takes in the scattered electronics, glances at Pidge. ‘’I — Pidge was teaching me, sir. About – structural aircraft repair procedures. After today's simulation I thought I could benefit from it, and I feel – devoted—'' he stumbles over devoted three times, and she feels her body jerk. Lance looks horrified.

''Bring your devotion to class tomorrow. And don’t test academy rules. Two minutes to clear up.'' Lance keeps his eyes on him as he leaves, breathing in slowly. Shiro was a Garrison commander and she has met him twice. She’s sure Shiro would use euphemisms.

''Jesus fucking Christ,'' Lance says.

''Whatever you want to believe in,'' she replies. Lance huffs.

 *

 In her head, she once calls her inner voice her articulatory control system. Then thinks: that’s enough. Her insight told her that this person-creation would lead her further than any human has ever been. And her insight is good: she’s picking up data she doesn’t know what to do with. That’s good. Her insight was a carefully crafted thing and she absolutely loves that Matt and Keith are the two people who'd never tell her you're overthinking this. It’s for them. She doesn’t own three glasses, because she believes: in Matt, in herself.

 *

 It’s her foresight that can’t be trusted much. She talks to Lance and doesn’t feel very real. Maybe she should start listening to music.

 *

 ''Hunk,'' Lance says, back straight and voice loud, ''do you know Pidge? He's a romantic.''

''I'm not a romantic,'' she snaps, climbing carefully over the bench with her tray. Hunk is sitting opposite of Lance and now scoots along the bench and ends up in front of her. His relaxed arms, elbows on the table and hands clasped, look warm.

''Sounds like a compliment, but. Lance, you dick, what did you do?''

Lance grins while chewing. Like Michael Jackson. ''I meant it positively. But I still trade these bad boys—'' he lifts a bottle of juice, ''to compensate. Want, Pidge?''

''No. Yes,'' she snatches it Lance’s hands. She likes the knowing between him and Hunk. It’s different from her, and from Keith. They are both somehow not old enough for it, maybe; don’t have enough real niceties.

''These were out when I was a child, can’t believe I’m getting them in my dream school, too,'' Hunk says. ''Like, the smell. Smells like childhood.''

Treat and threat are such similar words, she thought while drinking coke on a curb with Keith, smelling her way into childhood. And now she thinks it again.

''Good god,'' she jerks, her fork screeching against the plate.

''Whoa. You doing okay?''

''Yeah,'' she clears her throat, a cover-up, a swallow-down. Before her insides disseminate. ''I just lost track of – time,'' she finishes lamely.

''Oh,'' Hunk says. ''Track of time is a good thing to lose. If I were to lose something,'' he smiles.

 *

 Lance chews like a Hollywood star and isn’t afraid of heights and she is volatile. But maybe she’s past the impact-heavy stage of moon formation. Pidge is fifteen, her hair is short, and she’s the first microorganisms bursting to life. She’s the detection of some geothermal activity. Still uncertain, but onto something.

 *

They are perched and tense above the extraterrestrial sample curation building. It's the most perfect of surprises. It's Shiro.

She breathes in. She sends the location to Keith, the rushed word: Shiro. Coordination and causation are her blood type, after all. It's nothing new, to be an in-group spy. An infiltrator. They all start at the explosions.

''No way,'' Lance says, strained, hype-high. ''That guy is always trying to one-up me!''

The desert-night wind cools the sweat at her hairline to a suggestion of a headache. It's all happening very fast. When she speaks, it's taut and dusty.

''Who?''

(on ao3)

Shiro, championed.

He is a tale, he knows. But he doesn't feel like one, he is way too roomless, way too thoughtless, only a tablespoonful of a something.

The tale should be fractured, he thinks. It shouldn't be about victory, it should avoid being this spurious. It should have stones. Bricks. Maximal damage. Minimal effort. He wonders if pain should bring him clarity. Yes; the tale can have this too. How creaturely he feels when in pain.

He is on his stomach, the cheek on the table half closing his eye. They have taken his spinal fluid again.

''Don't you have this already?'' he asks, voice unsmooth, the heavy door creak of it. ''You've taken it yesterday.''

They look surprised. They say something in a language he doesn't know, and don't do anything. Not anything in response to what he said.

He looks at the suited figures, feeling himself hazing. He wonders if he has missed some essence of their subjectivity – he has only been thinking of them in a plural way. Do they hesitate? Do they worry? Feel individual things? Maybe pluralising them is unjust. But then his mind clears up one more time: he will wake up in one of the small square rooms, where he has been waking up lately. Roomlessly, thoughtlessly, creaturely.

*

He has been having recurring daydreams. And wanting, recurringly, in a compromising way, in the way of wanting being his single antibody.

*

Four years from now, Shiro will watch coffee grounds swish around his french press. He will feel content at the uneventfulness of it, and call it laziness, call it something slow and nice, like a sleepy cat.

''That's fine,'' Someone will say, ''more attention to a french press than to me. That's fine.''

Shiro will walk around the counter and plop down into the couch. He will move uncaringly. He will move caringly in the right way.

''My cushion balance,'' Someone will complain. ''You disbalanced me.''

''It doesn't bother you,'' Shiro will say.

''It doesn't,'' they will admit immediately. Then, tone joking: ''I just think it's funny that—'' They will smile, with mouth corners turned downwards.

Shiro will nod a little at the joke, then scoot closer, with one leg over their legs. He will cover their eyes with his palms. Then breathe. Get close. Hover close. Breathe into their jaw.

A hand will tangle in his hair. It will make him feel wild with possibility; some tangled nerves pulled separate into their fitting paths, re-sparking. He will feel lightheaded, but not in a dizzying way. In a love way, perhaps.

''I was joking. It wasn't funny,'' Someone will murmur to clarify, opening the palm in Shiro's hair, then closing it again, tugging at Shiro's content. Shiro will make a mhm sound, the vibration of it, and place his closed lips to the corner of their mouth. He will wonder if it's expectation alone that sustains him, feeling both their breaths do billowy things on his eyelids. It would be understandable, he will think, consistent: sometimes he takes a single sip of coffee and it makes him feel much better immediately. He shakes hands with placebo.

''My heart,'' Someone will say, whispery and squealy – good, like dying for a good cause. Moving lips to talk will make them kiss; make them kissed, make them the passive subjects of kissing.

*

They don’t talk back to him.

''You don’t talk back to me,'' he says, and thinks he sounds pleasantly non-accusatory. They talk to each other, he knows. He wonders if this is his humble sacrifice for humanity, if humanity, thanks to him, knows about aliens, if it has gone father than ever before. If that guy whose video he watched got to walk on Europa, if the icy surface really did creak underneath his feet, if he really could hear it cracking, tidally stretching, when he placed his head to the surface.

Maybe he should be living mindfully, now. Maybe this will uncatastrophise his life.

He thinks about his perceptions. He feels thirsty. Maybe dehydration will hit the pacemaking cells of his heart and he will die. He focuses. He watches things that glisten. His knuckles are cold and his heart feels warm. A warm creature that bites. He thinks he shouldn't call himself warm-hearted. It's wrong. This is wrong.

*

Four years from now, Shiro will place his hand over Someone's chest.

''Your heart. My eyes, if only you could see what I'm seeing. My heart. My lungs. My spleen'' Shiro will say, and Someone will hook their arms under Shiro's, fingers pressing onto the muscle on his shoulders, and it will feel nice, and Shiro won't mind leaving his thoughts somewhat unfinished. Now his lips will be pressed on their cheek under the uncovered eye.

He will remain motionless, to see is something will boil. To explore the peculiar properties of the two of them. Eyes closed, he will feel their breathing faster than it was. He will feel good about that.

''I could start hiccupping from the emotional stress,'' Someone will whisper, hooking arms around Shiro's body, hooking and not snaking, expressing some crushing liking. Their flirting won't snake, serpent-like.

''No stress allowed,'' Shiro will whisper back.

*

Maybe he is wrong and he'd rather be less present. Daydream more. He has been having a recurring daydream.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27387220

No but wait christmassy newtmas au bam