#inkedpages

[actuallybean]

Last Woman Standing* | Part Two

An apocalyptic plague wipes out every woman on Earth — except you. Now locked in a bunker with Sam, Dean, and Castiel, they soon realize they’re all falling in love… and lust… with the last woman alive. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, polyamory, apocalyptic themes, emotional/psychological tension, possessiveness, protective dynamics, some angst, heavy sexual content in later parts, consensual but intense scenarios. Pairings: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Castiel x Reader (eventual polyamorous dynamic) Part Three Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage @ourmrswonderlandlove @scary-noodlesblog @sapphic-destiel @inkedpages @obsessedwithfictionalmen01 @joggince SupernaturalMasterlist | Main Masterlist

You wake in the dark before the lights know to warm the halls.

There’s a kind of stillness in the bunker that exists only at this hour—when the world hasn’t yet remembered to turn again, and everything is quiet enough that you can almost hear the bones of the Earth settling. The air feels colder than it should, like it’s seeped into your skin during the night and nested there. Even beneath the heavy flannel wrapped around your shoulders—Dean’s, you remember, still smelling faintly of him—you can feel the chill curling against your spine.

You draw your knees to your chest, folding in on yourself, the worn material of the blanket brushing against your bare thighs as you try to keep something in. Or maybe it’s about keeping everything else out. The silence. The grief. The yawning realization that no one else with your voice or your shape is out there anymore.

Your sleep had never really come, not fully. Only pieces. Flickers. You remember half-dreams that bled into nightmares: laughter that turned to screaming; hands that weren’t there reaching for you in the dark; the shadow of a woman’s face you couldn’t place dissolving into smoke. You’d reached for someone in your sleep—maybe Jody, maybe Charlie, maybe yourself—and found nothing but the frigid air clinging to your sheets.

When you finally shift upright, the ache that moves through you is deeper than fatigue. It’s the dull weight of something hollow. Like your soul had curled in on itself during the night and left your body behind.

The floor is mercilessly cold beneath your bare feet, even though you know every crack in the stone by now. The familiarity doesn’t make the chill any less sharp—it just makes it feel earned.

You don’t know why you’re up.

You’re not hungry. You’re not looking for anyone.

You just... can’t stay still. Not anymore. Not when the room is filled with ghosts and the bed doesn’t know how to comfort you.

You gather the flannel tighter around your shoulders and step into the hallway, moving like a shadow, silent and slow. The lights haven’t kicked on yet, but the bunker hums faintly with the sound of its own life—pipes creaking behind the walls, the low rumble of power somewhere deep beneath your feet. It’s a mechanical heartbeat, but it keeps time well enough to keep you from unraveling.

As you pass through the long, narrow hallways, a familiar ache begins to build in your chest. Not pain. Not even fear. Something lonelier.

Restlessness.

You tell yourself you’re just walking to walk—but then you hear them.

The sound rises up from the war room just ahead. Not loud, not shouting—but urgent. Three voices. Frayed at the edges. Layered with something you don’t recognize until it tightens your throat from the inside.

Worry.

You press yourself against the wall just before the threshold, heart beginning to thump—not from fear of being caught, but from recognition.

Sam. Dean. Castiel.

You don’t step forward.

You don’t clear your throat or enter the room like you have every right to.

You stay in the shadows. Because something in your gut tells you this isn’t meant for you.

They’re not fighting. Not quite.

But their voices carry like storm clouds brewing.

Dean’s voice is the first to reach you, low and rough, like gravel ground down to a whisper.

“You think she knows?”

Sam responds quietly, his voice clipped with tension. “She’s smart, Dean. Of course she knows something’s changed.”

There’s a pause. Then Castiel, softer than you’ve ever heard him—almost mournful.

“She’s grieving. She feels watched. Watched and wanted. She feels mourned.”

Your breath catches.

Mourned.

You didn’t realize how true that word felt until you heard someone else say it.

You lean into the wall, barely breathing, heart thudding like a metronome you can’t quiet.

Dean speaks again, this time not holding anything back. His words fall heavy.

“She is mourned. You think I don’t miss the way things were? You think I don’t hate that this world made her this lonely? But I can’t even look at her without—fuck—without wanting her so bad it makes my chest hurt.”

The silence that follows feels dangerous. Thick. Crushed under weight that’s been waiting too long to be named.

He wants you.

You had suspected. You had seen it in the way his eyes lingered on you in the morning, when you wore his flannel and nothing else. In the way he touched your back when passing you in the hall, brief but possessive. In the way he never let you carry anything heavy anymore, like your body was a relic he’d promised to protect.

But hearing it out loud?

It digs under your skin in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Sam’s voice cuts through next. Quiet. Honest. Raw.

“She’s not just a woman,” he says. “She’s the woman. The last one. And I try not to think about it like that, but… I do. We all do.”

Another silence. This one deeper. More loaded.

Dean again, this time slower, like the words cost him something.

“It’s not just physical. Not for me. Not anymore. She walks around in my shirts like they’re hers, and I let her because they are. Every time she pulls away, it feels like a goddamn sin not to hold her. But I see the grief in her face and I just… I don’t move. I let it burn.”

There’s a scraping sound. Maybe Sam’s hand against the table.

“She's everything we’ve ever lost,” he murmurs. “All of it. In one heartbeat.”

You feel like the floor tilts under you.

They’re not talking about lust.

They’re talking about loss.

About reverence.

About you.

“She isn’t a cure,” Castiel says quietly, solemn. “She’s not a promise. Or an obligation. She’s a person. And right now… she’s broken.”

There’s a pause. Then Dean speaks again, voice low but resolute.

“Then we fix it,” he says. “Or we hold it together ‘til she can fix herself. But one day soon… she’s gonna look at one of us different. And when she does—”

“We follow her lead,” Castiel finishes, simple as scripture.

You pull back before they can hear you.

You step away from the wall like it’s burned you, your hands trembling slightly as you retrace your steps back through the corridor, the chill of the stone under your feet suddenly sharper, harsher. You don’t know if your heartbeat is racing because of what you heard—or because of what it meant.

They weren’t talking about you like a possession.

They weren’t even talking about you like a burden.

They were talking about loving you.

And it’s too much.

It’s everything.

✦

You’re already seated at the kitchen table when they walk in.

The bunker is still shadowed in early gray, caught between night and morning. The fluorescent lights above you flicker unevenly as they hum to life, casting pale light over the steel countertops and stone floor. The air smells faintly of old coffee and something slightly burnt from dinner the night before. You sit curled inward, Dean’s flannel draped loosely over your shoulders like armor, your fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of untouched coffee. It's gone cold in your hands, but you’re holding it like it might still offer comfort, or at least something to ground you.

You hear their footsteps first.

Soft at first—Sam’s slower, longer stride; Dean’s heavier, always with purpose; Castiel’s near soundless, like he doesn’t even touch the ground until he chooses to.

They round the corner one by one, their conversation dissolving the second they see you.

You glance up, and for the briefest second, the world hangs still.

Dean freezes halfway through the doorway. His eyes land on you and twitch away immediately, like the weight of your gaze is too much. His expression shifts in a microsecond—surprise, hesitation, guilt?—but he covers it quickly, jaw tightening as he looks somewhere just over your shoulder.

Sam stops behind him. His posture is careful, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to relax yet. His lips part slightly, and there’s a faint smile there—gentle, but cautious. You can see the war in his eyes. One part concern, one part tenderness, one part dread that maybe this is about to spiral into something no one’s ready for.

Castiel lingers furthest behind them, barely inside the doorway. His presence is quiet, but thick. His hands are folded in front of him, and his expression is unreadable as always—except for his eyes. They stay locked on you, unwavering, like he sees every inch of you even when you’re trying to hold pieces back.

No one speaks at first.

The silence is loud. Uneasy.

They don’t know what you heard.

And you don’t tell them.

Not yet.

Instead, you set the mug down slowly. The ceramic taps against the wood.

Your voice is soft, but steady. “I know.”

Dean blinks. “Know what?”

You lift your head fully now, meet their eyes—each one of them in turn. Not accusing. Just aware.

“That you’ve been watching me,” you say. “That you want me. That you’re all trying not to.”

There’s a pause. It’s not denial that follows—it’s stillness.

Castiel’s head tilts slightly. He takes one quiet step forward, as if honoring the gravity of your words with his movement. His eyes don’t flinch.

“I overheard you this morning,” you continue. “Outside the war room.”

Sam reacts first—his whole body shifts, like something in him just gave out. His mouth opens slightly in response, but no words come out. He looks at Dean instinctively, and you see the guilt settle behind his eyes.

Dean’s fingers flex at his sides. He brings a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly, like he’s trying to wipe away the shame, or the exhaustion. “Shit,” he mutters. Quiet, but not surprised.

Castiel lowers his gaze for a heartbeat. When he raises it again, he bows his head—wordless acknowledgment.

“I’m not angry,” you say, your voice softer now, carrying the weight of everything you’ve carried alone. “I’m just… realizing some things.”

Dean clears his throat, looks at the floor. “If it makes it better… we’ve been trying real hard not to make it worse.”

Your lips twitch at that—somewhere between a smile and a sigh.

“I know you have,” you say. “I see it. I feel it. The effort. The restraint. Every time one of you pulls away instead of reaching for me. Every time you try to hide what’s written all over your face.”

Sam shifts closer to the table now, one hand brushing the edge like he wants to sit but doesn’t know if it’s allowed. “What is it you’re realizing?” he asks.

You look down at your hands. The ceramic of the mug has warmed slightly from your grip, but it still feels like a placeholder—like you’re holding onto it so your hands don’t shake.

“That I thought grief was the only thing I had left,” you say quietly. “But maybe… maybe I’m still me. Not just the last woman. Not just some symbol, or a curse, or a fucking monument to what’s gone. Maybe I’m just me. Still.”

You glance up again.

Dean is watching you like a man seeing sunlight after years in the dark.

“And maybe,” you continue, voice breaking slightly, “I get to decide what that means. How I want to live. How I want to be looked at. How I want to be touched.”

The silence expands, then contracts around your next words.

“And who I want to look back at.”

Sam takes a careful step forward. His voice is low and warm. “We’ll follow your lead,” he says. “No matter what that looks like.”

You nod slowly. The lump in your throat is heavy, but you swallow around it. “I’m still scared.”

Dean finally moves closer, crossing the room with a quiet kind of gravity. He doesn’t touch you, not right away. Just sets his hand down on the table beside yours. Not touching—but there. Offered.

“So are we,” he says, voice rough with emotion he doesn’t try to hide.

Castiel’s voice follows—steady, resolute, like the closing of a prayer.

“But you are not alone in this.”

You look up at them. One by one.

Sam, who watches you like you’re the beginning of something sacred.

Dean, who aches like he’s been biting down on love since the world ended.

Castiel, who speaks with reverence and sees through you like glass.

And for the first time since the world fell apart, you believe it.

You’re not alone.

Not in this room. Not in this grief. Not in this hunger blooming beneath your skin.

Because it’s not just grief that pulses through your chest anymore.

It’s want.

Not loud. Not dangerous. Not overwhelming.

Just awake.

And it’s growing.

Like something warm finally waking up in the ashes.

✦

After dinner, after the hush of laughter that sounded almost real again, after long glances shared over plates of canned green beans and reheated cornbread…

After Sam reached across the table to take your empty dish even though your fingers were still loosely wrapped around it.

After your knuckles brushed, and neither of you pulled away.

After Castiel, still and silent beside you, watched the way your fingertips circled the rim of your water glass like a prayer he wanted to learn by heart.

After Dean leaned back in his chair, stretched like he was trying to shake something off—and then stared at your legs beneath the tablecloth for just a second too long before abruptly pushing his chair back, muttering something about needing air, and disappearing into the hallway like a man who’d accidentally stared at the sun.

After all of it, you asked them to meet you in the war room.

No fanfare. No tension in your voice. Just a quiet request, and three solemn nods.

Now, the map table lies between you like neutral ground. Like the last battlefield before surrender.

You sit on its edge—ankles crossed, fingers laced in your lap. The wood is worn beneath you, familiar in its permanence. It has held the weight of plans, weapons, grief. Now it holds the weight of choice.

They come in separately, but the air tightens the second all three of them are there together. Sam stands to your left, arms crossed loosely, brows slightly furrowed like he’s been thinking too much. Dean flanks your right, hands shoved deep into his pockets, jaw tight but eyes darting your way and then away again. Castiel hovers just behind them both, spine straight, hands folded neatly in front of him like a knight awaiting orders he already knows by heart.

None of them speak first.

The silence isn’t hostile—but it’s thick. Electric. Laced with something unspeakable but known.

It’s you who breaks it.

Your voice is soft. Measured. But sure.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say, eyes flicking between them. “About... this. About us.”

Three heads lift in unison.

Dean’s frown barely flickers. “What do you mean?”

You slide off the edge of the table, feet landing softly on the floor. You don’t back away. If anything, you move closer to the tension. You want to meet it head-on.

“I mean what you said,” you answer, your gaze settling on him before sweeping to the others. “What I overheard. What I feel now. It’s not just in the air. It’s in me. And it’s real. We’ve been pretending it’s not getting heavier. But it is. Every day.”

Sam shifts his weight. One hand rises to scratch the back of his neck. Nervous. Thoughtful. “We didn’t want to pressure you.”

You offer a gentle smile—one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I know. You’ve been walking on glass around me. But I’m not made of it. I don’t need to be wrapped in silence and watched from afar.”

Castiel’s eyes flicker with something warm. Something relieved.

“I’m not a relic,” you continue. “Not a symbol. Not a sacred last piece of something the world lost. I’m just… still me. And the grief is still there, but underneath it—” your voice drops, barely above a whisper, “—I want to feel something again. I need connection.”

Castiel takes a small step forward. “You’re asking us for something.”

You meet his gaze. There’s no fear in yours.

“Yes,” you whisper. “But I’m also offering you something.”

The room stills. The moment breathes, stretched so thin it might tear.

You draw in a slow breath, grounding yourself in the weight of what you’re about to say.

“I want to try something,” you say softly. “Something new. For all of us.”

Dean’s arms cross over his chest—not in defiance, but restraint. You can see the storm in his shoulders.

“Like what?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You hold his eyes for a beat.

“One day. With each of you. Separately. One-on-one. Time to just… be. However we need to. Together.”

The air thuds between you like a skipped heartbeat.

Sam’s mouth parts, breath stuttering just slightly. His eyebrows lift like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Dean’s gaze drops to the floor. His throat bobs like he’s swallowing something sharp.

Castiel blinks slowly, reverently. “You want to share yourself with us.”

You nod. “If you want it too. If this is something you choose. Not because I’m the last option. Not because the world fell apart. Because you want me.”

There’s a silence that swells like a tidal wave—then finally breaks.

Dean exhales sharply, a short, disbelieving breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect us to stay standing.”

You laugh, just a little. It feels good. It feels real.

Sam moves first—always the one brave enough to start. He takes a slow step forward, voice low, measured. “So you’re saying… you want to spend a day with each of us. Separately. And we all agree to take turns.”

You nod. “Yes. If it feels okay to you. If we set boundaries. Talk first. Make sure it’s us. Not chaos. Not pain. Just… real.”

Dean’s voice is quieter now. Raw. “That sounds a hell of a lot better than pretending this isn’t eating us alive.”

“I want this to be mutual,” you say. “Not something you do because you feel like you have to. I need to know that it’s me you want. Not just what I represent.”

Sam’s eyes find yours again. They’re warmer than they’ve been in weeks. “It’s you,” he says.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. “Always been.”

Castiel steps closer. His words are soft, steady. “There is no other world in which we could love more truly. This is not compromise. It is choice.”

Your breath catches.

And something inside you—something you didn’t realize was still closed—cracks open.

The silence that follows isn’t fragile anymore. It’s reverent.

This is happening.

“This isn’t a game,” Sam says. His voice is firm but not cold. “We need to talk everything through. Openly.”

Dean nods. “Ground rules. Honesty. No hiding.”

Castiel’s voice is calm, like ritual. “No jealousy. No competition. Just presence. Just respect.”

You nod, heart thudding hard beneath your ribs. “And consent. Every step. No matter what.”

They each nod.

It feels like an oath.

Dean steps toward the table, leans on it with both hands like he’s anchoring himself. “So… who gets the first day?”

They all turn to look at you.

The decision is yours.

You hesitate, breath trembling.

Then: “Sam.”

Sam’s eyes widen. His smile comes slow, soft. Sincere.

“Okay.”

Dean doesn’t flinch. He just gives a small nod, understanding passing across his face like weather.

Castiel bows his head in quiet acceptance.

Sam looks at you again—and then down, as though the weight of being chosen is heavier than he thought. You see his knuckles flex. His pulse in his neck.

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Guess I better stock up on whiskey before it’s my turn.”

You laugh, quiet but real. The sound of it echoes gently in the room, and the tension starts to loosen. It’s no longer choking. It’s alive.

Castiel’s voice is soft but certain. “Tomorrow begins something new.”

You look around at the three of them—these men who have become your anchors, your grief, your gravity.

Your voice trembles, but not from fear. “Thank you. For letting me choose. For making me feel… human. Again.”

“You never stopped,” Sam says, his voice a balm.

Dean smirks, but there’s love behind it. “You’ve just got the whole world riding on you now, sweetheart.”

“No pressure,” Castiel murmurs, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches in something like a smile.

You roll your eyes, but the air has shifted.

It’s no longer sharp with what might’ve been.

It’s charged—with what will be.

The night ends not with ceremony, but with touches that say everything.

Sam brushes his hand along your back as he passes, gentle and grounding.

Dean pours you a drink and sets it down beside you without needing to speak.

Castiel lingers at the doorway, eyes meeting yours like a vow has already been spoken.

Tomorrow is Sam’s day.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep not thinking of the end of the world—

But of what might finally begin.

[ao3feed-arcane]

all that is left

by InkedPage “Are you gonna tell me what you’re making?” He asked. “You’ll know,” was Jinx’s soft reply after a few seconds. She squeezed his hand and suddenly Ekko couldn’t shake the feeling away that she was apologizing. For what, he didn’t know, and it made something heavy settle in his chest.  A moment and its aftermath Words: 1432, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Characters: Ekko (League of Legends), Jinx (League of Legends) Relationships: Ekko/Jinx (League of Legends) Additional Tags: Missing Scene, Canon Compliant, Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentioned Isha (Arcane: League of Legends) read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/fk3P1La

[pureye-archived]

@inkedpages​ ; n / a    ↳ “ you want to tell me something— i can see it. so you might as well speak. ”

          ❝ Kawaki’s gone , ‘ttebasa ! Tou-chan doesn’t believe me  .  Somehow both of us are able to erase our chakra but I found enough time to create this clone to let you know. . . ❞  he didn’t know a lot about Inojin’s dad but now wasn’t the time to ask him questions about his earlier life  .  Boruto needed help right away. . .for Code was in the village  .  As if Boruto was going to let his brother get taken so he had erased his chakra , made a clone to inform at least someone what was going on  ,  ❝ . . . Code is here ! ❞

[moonchildpages]

🌙✨late night musings ~ . . . . . . #poetry #poems #poets #poem #poet #inkedpages #latenightmusings https://www.instagram.com/p/B18u4ZpAWXZ/?igshid=megr4hmw5wml

[phantomgraphicnovel]

#inks #pencils Not that easy to find s refernce for this angle, it turns out. But, also as it turns out, I'm pretty resourceful! On to colors and letters, now! I'm so excited to are this book come together. And i can't wait to share it with you! Summer, 2018! #phantomoftheopera #graphicnovel #phantomcomic #lefantomedelopera #gastonleroux #palaisgarnier #parisoperahouse #phantomphans #phandom #phanart #inkedpages #makingcomics #comicart #comicpages #artstagram #beckylaff #beckaroo

[keopsibanez]

Hate to do this, but I'm cleaning out my work area so Im selling the original black and white inked/penciled page of this baby! It's from my portfolio from a while back. India ink on 14x17 bristol board. Dm me if intrested I'll cover shipping #comicart #comics #spiderman #marvel #pencils #inking #comicbooks #ink #inking #superhero #inkedpages #venom https://www.instagram.com/p/Boe6xY6HkNL/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=17y30ug9g4lgl

[tomatatuaje]

I love coming home. #barcelona #depthoverdistance . . . . . . . . . . . . . #creativeliving #traveling #sketchbook #doodle #nomad #travelbird #bcn #drawing #drawdaily #tattoo #inkedpages #blackink #dotwork #sketching #paperplane #arte #streetart #ink #inktopaper #staedler #cominghome #dailydoodle (en Barcelona, Spain)

[galisaweo]

" Mmm, if you don't mind me saying," Luna paused briefly, but not long enough to hear any potential objection. " I think you're putting too much pressure on yourself. Which, we both know you do." Her chortle was soft, pushing herself up to the edge of her arm chair. "I think it should be the other's choice. To stand in harm's way and still choose you." She met his gaze boldly then, a challenge swirling in her amber orbs.

OPEN: F [ mutual/non mutual ]

PLOT: Friends that hide love for each other,yet never act upon it

MUSE: Kin Yuto, 38, assassin, kind, graceful, loyal, serious, gentleman, deadly

" It is not the time that I lack, commitment,will or interest to date. " smooth baritone began, sooty eyes finding hers. " It's worry. Worry of passing my sins to the woman I would cherish. . .create a vulnerable spot for someone to. . . use. " Kin could say nothing more, hiding the nature of his calling.

[medallioncomics]

Issue two preview. It is looking nice! Bet you almost forgot we are making more but no worries issue 2 is well into development. Stay tuned for more news. #medallioncomics #comics #indiecomics #webcomics #superheroes #hero #superherocomics #inprogress #comicpages #digitalart #illustration #indiewriter #indieproject #digitalart #inkedpages #diala #indie #indieart #lifeline https://www.instagram.com/p/B0TnJjJBT8g/?igshid=6bk4xvaofshf

[actuallybean]

Last Woman Standing* | Part Three

An apocalyptic plague wipes out every woman on Earth ��� except you. Now locked in a bunker with Sam, Dean, and Castiel, they soon realize they’re all falling in love… and lust… with the last woman alive. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, polyamory, apocalyptic themes, emotional/psychological tension, possessiveness, protective dynamics, some angst, heavy sexual content in later parts, consensual but intense scenarios. Pairings: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Castiel x Reader (eventual polyamorous dynamic) Part Four Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage @ourmrswonderlandlove @scary-noodlesblog @sapphic-destiel @inkedpages @obsessedwithfictionalmen01 @joggince SupernaturalMasterlist | Main Masterlist

You woke to warmth—not the kind that came from the bunker’s vents, which always felt stale and artificial, but the comforting, human kind that seeped into the room like sunlight. At first, you didn’t know what pulled you from sleep. You were wrapped tight in your sheets, one leg tangled in the blanket, the air still heavy with the remnants of dreams that faded faster than you could hold onto them.

Then the smell hit you.

Coffee.

But not just any coffee.

Your coffee.

The blend Sam always remembered. The one you used to drink during stakeouts and long nights in the library—rich, dark, with just a hint of vanilla, something indulgent from the old world that had always made you feel a little more human. It lingered in the air like a promise, weaving itself into your sleepy senses, stirring you awake slowly, gently.

You shifted beneath the sheets, stretching with a low hum, the fabric slipping from your bare legs in a whisper. The room was bathed in the kind of golden light that only came with early morning—honey-dipped and lazy, stretching through the small, narrow window near the ceiling like it had fought to get in just for you. Dust motes danced in it, suspended like they, too, were reluctant to move.

You blinked against the softness of the light, body warm from sleep but already aching in a new, expectant way. There was a calm in your chest you hadn’t felt in weeks. No rush of grief. No pit of dread. Just stillness—and the quiet beat of anticipation.

Then the door creaked.

You turned your head lazily toward it, blinking as Sam stepped into view.

“Hey,” he said, voice like velvet—low, warm, threaded with something tender.

He looked like a photograph come to life. Like something out of a time before the world burned down. He wore a slate-gray henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fabric pulled tight across his chest and forearms. His hair was slightly damp, curling at the ends, and he held two mugs carefully in his big hands, steam curling from both.

One for him.

One for you.

His smile was slow and a little sheepish, softening the strong angles of his face. It reached his eyes before his lips. There was something in that look—something reverent, almost shy.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You brought me coffee?” Your voice was still sleep-thick, soft around the edges. You sat up, letting the sheets pool around your waist.

Sam’s eyes flickered down—just for a moment. A quick glance at the exposed skin of your collarbone, the hint of your bare thighs under the blanket. Then, as always, he pulled back. Respectful. Careful.

But that flicker—it burned like a fuse.

“I brought breakfast too,” he said, stepping closer and setting the mug down on the nightstand beside you. “Figured you deserved a day where someone else takes care of you.”

Your fingers brushed as he handed you the mug. The contact sent a ripple through you—a spark from skin to skin, subtle but undeniable.

“Thank you,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around the ceramic. It was warm. Solid. Familiar. You took a sip and smiled. “You remembered how I take it.”

“I remember everything about you,” he said without thinking.

Then his eyes widened slightly, like maybe he’d said too much. But you didn’t call him on it. Didn’t tease or dodge or deflect. Instead, you leaned forward, set the mug back on the nightstand, and reached for him.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to start the day with me,” you said, voice low, steady. “Right here. In bed.”

He froze.

Not in fear. In reverence.

His breath hitched, chest rising as if your words had knocked the air clean out of him. And for a second, the only sound in the room was the steady hum of the bunker and the soft curl of steam from your untouched coffee.

Then he moved.

Slow. Deliberate. Like you were something sacred.

He set down his own mug and crossed the room in two strides, lowering himself onto the mattress with careful hands braced beside your hips. His body hovered over yours, warm and strong, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt.

You reached up, threaded your fingers into the hem of his shirt, and tugged.

The message was clear.

Sam pulled his shirt off over his head and dropped it to the floor without breaking eye contact. The sight of him—bare-chested, golden in the morning light, those broad shoulders and carved lines of muscle—made your breath catch.

He settled between your thighs, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and his hands found your hips.

“You sure?” he asked, voice thick with restraint. “I don’t want to start this day wrong.”

“I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want you. All of you.”

The look that crossed his face then—it was nothing short of worship.

He kissed you softly at first. Slow, tender. His lips moved over yours with patience, like he was savoring every second. But as your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, the kiss deepened. Grew hungry. His hands slid beneath your oversized shirt—his shirt—and pushed it up over your head.

He sat back for a heartbeat to look at you, eyes dark and reverent, jaw clenched with barely checked desire.

“You’re…” He swallowed. “You’re so beautiful. You have no idea.”

Then he was kissing down your neck, tongue tracing the sensitive spot just below your ear. You gasped, hips rising instinctively to meet him, and he groaned low in his chest. His mouth found your breasts, lips wrapping around a nipple, teeth grazing gently before soothing it with his tongue.

One hand slid between your legs.

You were already soaked.

“Fuck,” he whispered, fingers slipping through your folds. “You’re so ready for me.”

You could barely speak. Could only moan as he stroked you, thumb circling your clit with slow, agonizing pressure until your body was trembling, your back arching off the bed.

Then he lined himself up and pushed in.

Slowly.

Deeply.

You cried out, clutching his shoulders, the stretch of him overwhelming and perfect all at once.

“Jesus,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—fuck, baby. You feel like heaven.”

He began to move—long, slow thrusts, hips rolling in a rhythm that made you see stars. His hands gripped your hips, his mouth finding yours again, swallowing your moans.

You held him close, nails digging into his back, legs wrapped around his waist to pull him deeper. Every thrust hit just right, the pressure building until it was almost unbearable.

“I’m close,” you gasped. “Sam—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Let go, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shattered beneath him, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you.

And he followed, hips stuttering, his voice a broken groan as he spilled inside you, holding you tight through every wave.

You stayed like that—tangled, breathless, the sheets twisted around your legs and the morning light still spilling golden across your skin.

Eventually, Sam pressed a soft kiss to your temple and whispered, “Let’s go on a run.”

You blinked up at him, utterly wrecked but smiling.

“Seriously?”

He chuckled, nuzzling your neck. “I figured you’d want to get out of the bunker. Clear your head. Then maybe… come back and keep making the day about you.”

You grinned. “Okay. But I’m holding you to that.”

He kissed you again—slower this time. Like a promise.

Like the day was only just beginning.

✦

The trail was quiet.

Not abandoned, exactly—just reclaimed by time. Weeds curled along its edges, ferns brushing your ankles as you ran. The dirt was soft beneath your feet, still damp from the rain two days prior, the kind of softness that swallowed sound and made every footfall feel like a secret. Moss-covered stones peeked out like forgotten memories, and the trees overhead arched together like cathedral ceilings.

You jogged side by side with Sam, the air between you charged with something that hadn’t settled since this morning. His presence, so tall and steady beside you, was a grounding force and a temptation all at once. The occasional brush of his hand against yours as you moved in tandem made your heart skip, made heat bloom in your chest. Neither of you said anything—it didn’t need to be said. The tension had been simmering quietly between every look, every laugh, every shared breath since breakfast.

The silence out here was different than in the bunker. Not heavy. Not hollow. It was sacred.

Birds sang overhead, darting from tree to tree like little sentinels of joy. The sun streamed through the branches in fractured gold, dappling the trail in patches of warmth. Leaves rustled with a gentle breeze, the kind that whispered through your hair and cooled the sweat on your neck. And with every inhale, you tasted pine, damp earth, and the soft sweetness of something blooming just off the path.

After nearly an hour, your pace naturally slowed.

You exhaled, chest rising and falling, lungs grateful for the change in rhythm. The two of you drifted to a stop near a bend in the trail, where a cluster of tall pines cast a sweeping shadow over the earth. Sam slowed with you, his breathing steady, not even winded. Of course he wasn’t.

He looked over at you with that soft little tilt to his mouth. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer—not right away.

Instead, you glanced down a narrow offshoot of the trail, nearly hidden behind a fallen log and a mess of ferns. It led deeper into the trees, where the light grew softer, more diffused, like the woods were holding their breath.

You stepped toward it. He followed, wordlessly, like his body knew your rhythm before his mind did.

It wasn’t far—just a hundred feet or so. But it felt like stepping out of time. The air shifted. The birds quieted. The light thinned into something almost blue, filtered through so many layers of green. It was secluded. Forgotten. Perfect.

You stopped beside the thick trunk of an old tree, the bark gnarled and dark, its roots twisted like sleeping limbs beneath your feet. You placed a hand against the bark, grounding yourself as your body hummed with adrenaline—but not from the run.

From him.

Sam came up behind you like gravity itself. His chest was a wall of heat against your back, arms slipping easily around your waist as his nose brushed the side of your temple.

His voice, when he spoke, was a low rasp of want. “You okay?”

You turned in his arms, face upturned, breath catching.

“I want you.”

His eyes darkened immediately, pupils dilating, the shift in him instant. His hands flexed against your waist.

“Here?” he asked, like he had to be sure, but his voice was already thick, already frayed at the edges.

“Right here,” you whispered, backing up until your spine pressed against the tree.

You barely got the words out before his mouth crashed into yours.

He kissed you like he’d run out of time. Like the world could end again any second and he needed to memorize the way you tasted before it did. Your back hit the bark hard enough to scrape, but you barely noticed. His tongue swept against yours, hands slipping beneath your shirt, palms hot against your skin. He cupped your breasts, groaning into your mouth when your hips arched forward to meet him.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re unreal.”

His hands moved with urgency, pushing your shirt up, pulling it over your head, tossing it somewhere into the ferns without care. His lips followed the path he uncovered, trailing heat down your chest, pausing to suck one nipple into his mouth while he rolled the other between his fingers. Your knees nearly gave out.

Then he dropped.

To his knees.

Right there, in the dirt and leaves.

“Sam—” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.

But he was already there—hooking your shorts down your legs, pulling your underwear with them. He looked up once, eyes glassy with hunger, lips slick and parted. Then he buried his face between your thighs like he’d dreamed of this.

His tongue found your clit instantly, slow, controlled, then faster—sucking and licking in a rhythm that made your legs tremble. You gripped the tree behind you, head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure rolled through you in hot, dizzying waves.

He moaned against you when your thighs tightened around his head, like the taste of you was the only thing he’d ever need. One of his hands gripped your hip, the other came around to tease your entrance with a finger—then two—pushing in slowly, curling just right, drawing whimpers from your throat.

When your orgasm hit, it tore through you like lightning.

You cried out, loud, raw, not caring who heard. Not caring if the whole forest knew Sam Winchester was fucking devouring you like you were the last sweet thing left in the world.

Your knees buckled. He caught you.

He rose to his feet, face glistening with you, breath ragged.

“You,” he said hoarsely, mouth hovering near yours, “taste like fucking heaven.”

You didn’t wait. Your hands went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, yanking down his pants and boxers in one frantic motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, already wet at the tip. You wrapped your fingers around him, watching his head fall back with a groan.

“Fuck me,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“God, yes,” he growled, his control snapping.

He gripped your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing, pinning you between his body and the tree. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and he lined himself up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

Then he thrust in.

Hard.

You both gasped.

The stretch burned—in the best way. He was deep, impossibly deep, and he held you there for a second, forehead pressed to yours, breathing through the sensation.

Then he started to move.

His hips snapped forward, each thrust slamming you against the bark, making the tree groan behind you. His grip on your thighs tightened, your nails dug into his shoulders, and every time he hit that perfect spot inside you, stars exploded behind your eyes.

You sobbed his name.

He kissed your mouth, your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your breasts—anywhere he could reach. His movements were wild now, desperate, all-consuming. And still, somehow, every touch felt reverent. Like he was worshiping you even as he wrecked you.

Your second orgasm came faster—sharp and violent, crashing through you so hard you almost screamed.

He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, groaning your name like it was the only word he knew. He pulsed inside you, buried deep, shaking from the force of it.

Afterward, he held you against the tree, both of you panting, trembling, skin damp with sweat. He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips—soft, lazy kisses, like he couldn’t bear to stop.

You whispered something into his neck. You didn’t even know what. Maybe his name. Maybe a prayer.

He smiled against your skin and said, “Guess that counts as our cool-down.”

And you laughed. You laughed—breathless and blissful and so full of him you thought your heart might burst.

✦

Back at the bunker, the air hung thick and heavy, still holding the heat of the day but nothing compared to the warmth pooling low in your belly—the slow-burning ache nestled deep between your legs, coiling tighter with every heartbeat. It wasn’t just physical; it was the hunger you carried, the yearning that reached far beneath your skin and settled deep in your chest, like a flame waiting to be fed.

You moved through the quiet halls with deliberate slowness, shedding your damp clothes one piece at a time. Each garment slid off your skin like a whispered confession—fabric falling away to reveal the bare, trembling truth beneath. The cotton shirt slipped over your head, falling softly to the floor, your bra next, unclasped with shaking fingers, the cool air kissing your heated skin. Your jeans, heavy with sweat and dirt from the run, followed, each movement freeing you more, like peeling off layers of old tension, hesitation, and fear.

You stepped into the shower alone at first, the water bursting from the showerhead with relentless force—scalding hot, like a wild wave crashing against your skin. It soaked into your hair, ran down your face, tracing every curve and hollow with electric sensation, sending shivers that rippled through your body. The sound of the water pounding against the tiled floor and splashing off the glass walls echoed softly around the room, filling the space with a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence.

Steam curled thick and heavy around you, blurring the edges of the world until it felt like you were suspended in a private fog—an intimate sanctuary carved out of warmth and mist. You closed your eyes and tilted your head back, water streaming down your neck, trailing icy rivulets through the heat. The heat washed away the remnants of worry, the grit and dust of the day, and the vivid echoes of the forest trail where Sam had held you moments ago, where the wildness of your desire had first taken root.

Then, you felt him.

A presence soft and steady, pressing close behind you.

The warmth of his skin pressed against your bare back was immediate—a solid, grounding heat that chased away the shadows. The slow, deep inhale of his breath mingled with the steam and your own, a quiet rhythm that filled the space between you.

Sam’s hands slid around you—strong, steady, certain—lifting and cradling your ribs as if you were something precious. His chest pressed flush against your back, his heartbeat steady and sure beneath your shoulder blades. You melted into him without hesitation, fingers seeking his wrists and curling around them as though holding on to the only thing keeping you tethered.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, voice low and rough, laced with something like longing and promise.

You smiled against his shoulder, the curve of your lips soft and slow, before turning in his arms. The water cascaded down both your bodies, tracing rivers of warmth and life across your skin. Your eyes met—those earnest, searching eyes that always saw every piece of you, even the parts you hid from yourself.

“Then get used to it,” you whispered, voice thick with want and certainty as you sank to your knees, not breaking eye contact for even a heartbeat.

His breath caught, sharp and sudden—a crack in the calm that was almost tangible. His hands found your hair, fingers threading through damp strands as you leaned forward, lips brushing the smooth skin of his lower abdomen with reverence and hunger.

You savored the moment—the faint, wild scent of pine from the trail still clinging to him, the steady pulse of his heart beneath your lips, the subtle tremor in his muscles that mirrored the tremor growing within you. Every detail was vivid and alive.

Slowly, deliberately, your tongue traced upward along the length of him, the heat of your mouth awakening every nerve ending with the wet, soft pressure of your lips. You felt him shiver, his hips twitching involuntarily, breath hitching into a strangled groan that sent a shiver down your own spine, a thrilling echo of your shared hunger.

When you took him fully in—warm, slick, and alive—the sound he made was raw and ragged, a guttural growl that vibrated through his chest and into your core. One hand came down to brace against the slick tile wall for support, the other tangled in your hair, holding you firmly but with a tenderness that spoke of complete trust.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped, voice thick with need. “Your mouth… Jesus.”

You worked him with practiced care, your tongue swirling, flicking, and teasing in patterns you knew made him lose control. You paid attention to every subtle reaction—how his hands clenched into fists, how his hips jerked against you, how the tension coiled tighter and tighter until he was trembling beneath you like a live wire.

When the release came, it was violent and beautiful—spilling into your mouth in waves that left you breathless and dizzy with triumph. His body shook, chest rising and falling rapidly, and he groaned your name as he clung to you, lost in the rapture of the moment.

You stayed still for a heartbeat longer, letting the waves of intimacy wash over you both, anchoring you in the raw, exposed closeness.

When you finally rose to your feet, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, you kissed him—slow, deep, tender—letting the water cascade over your joined bodies, washing away everything but the fire you’d created together.

For a long moment, you simply held each other in the steamy quiet, silence wrapped around you like a sacred vow.

Unspoken, but certain.

✦

Dinner unfolded slowly, deliberately—an oasis of calm amid the storm of everything else that had been weighing on you. The bunker’s usual heavy silence softened, gently broken by the rhythmic clink of cutlery against plates, the subtle scrape of forks sliding through tender food, and the quiet rustle of fabric as you shifted in your chair, seeking comfort in the small moments. Each sound felt amplified in the intimate space between you, a delicate soundtrack underscoring the fragile peace of the evening.

The dim overhead lights cast a warm amber glow over the room, wrapping the table in softness. Shadows flickered against the walls, shifting with the gentle movements of your bodies. It felt like a world apart—a cocoon carved out of time and space, where the noise of grief and fear fell away, leaving only the quiet hum of two people reconnecting.

There were moments when everything seemed to pause, as if the universe itself was holding its breath just for you. You caught his gaze across the table—those deep, earnest eyes searching, steady, and full of something tender. A slow, genuine smile curved at the corners of his lips, lighting his whole face with a warmth that reached all the way to his eyes. In that smile, there was relief, hope, and a silent promise.

Your own lips lifted in response, the small smile a fragile bloom of trust, recognition, and gratitude. It felt like rediscovering a long-lost song, a melody you once knew by heart—familiar, comforting, and aching all at once.

Soft laughter slipped between you, light and hesitant, as if testing the waters of this new closeness. The sound was gentle, a fragile thread weaving you closer together with each shared breath. It wasn’t loud or boisterous—it didn’t need to be. It was enough to fill the spaces that had once felt unbearably vast.

You fed each other bites—slowly, reverently, like a ritual rediscovered. The fork pressed tender morsels to your lips, the brush of his fingers briefly grazing your hand as he offered the food. You caught the faintest spark of heat where skin met skin beneath the tablecloth, an electric connection that made your pulse quicken. Every brush of fingertips, every careful touch was a whispered conversation, a secret language spoken in the quiet language of intimacy.

His hand slid out from beneath the table, fingers resting lightly on your knee. The touch was feather-soft, a delicate promise wrapped in warmth and steadiness. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you shifted slightly, pressing your leg a little closer, leaning into the subtle connection as if anchoring yourself to something solid and real.

That small gesture said more than words ever could—comfort, desire, the slow rebuilding of trust and closeness after so much distance.

Every glance between you was charged with meaning. Every brush of skin, every shared breath was a note in a song you were learning anew. The silence around you wasn’t empty—it was full of everything you both needed but hadn’t yet said. It was reverence, longing, and the tentative hope of something healing taking root.

In this quiet, ordinary moment, the world felt like it might just hold a little more light again.

✦

Later, the world shrank to just the two of you, enclosed within the quiet sanctuary of his room. The air hung heavy, thick with anticipation and something tenderly fierce—a fragile mix of vulnerability and yearning that neither of you tried to mask. The weight of the day finally slipped away, dissipating like smoke, leaving behind only the rawness of desire and the sweetness of trust that had been quietly growing between you.

You stood above him, completely bare, bathed in the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp that painted your skin in warm hues, making every curve gleam like liquid fire. Your breath was steady but quickened with the thrill of the moment—an electric pulse humming just beneath your ribs. His dark eyes were fixed on you with awe and hunger, traveling slowly across every inch of your body, memorizing the familiar landscape as if seeing you for the first time. There was reverence in his gaze, a quiet worship that sent a thrill rippling through you.

“You sure?” you whispered, voice fragile and barely more than the rush of blood pounding in your ears.

His hand rose without hesitation, fingers brushing gently over your cheek, thumbs warm and soothing as they traced soft circles. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said, his voice low and steady, full of unwavering certainty.

Slowly, deliberately, you lowered yourself onto him—inch by tantalizing inch—feeling the exquisite stretch, the fullness of being enveloped completely. A deep, guttural moan escaped your lips, raw and honest and alive, at the intimate sensation of connection that pulsed between you. The feeling of his body beneath you was solid, grounding, and yet every nerve in your skin sang with electricity.

His hands found your hips immediately, clutching them firmly as if anchoring you to him, keeping you safe in this moment of perfect union. His gaze locked onto the place where your bodies met, drinking in the sight of you moving above him—an intoxicating dance of slow, sensual rhythm and mounting desire.

“Ride me, baby,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with need and tenderness intertwined. “Take what you need.”

And you did.

You began to move with slow, rolling thrusts, letting your body find its own natural cadence, every motion fluid and deliberate. Your hair tumbled forward in wild, tangled waves, occasionally brushing your flushed cheeks as you lost yourself in the sensations. His hands cupped your breasts with tender strength—palms warm and steady—while his lips and tongue sought out your nipples, teasing and licking with a worshipful hunger that made you tremble.

The pace built gradually, a slow, smoldering burn that ignited every nerve ending, each touch and movement coaxing pleasure deeper and deeper. Your breath hitched; your hips rolled harder, meeting his thrusts with increasing urgency. Every motion sent ripples of electric fire through your body, tightening the coil of pleasure wound deep inside you, drawing you closer to the edge.

When you reached the precipice, he shifted beneath you, pulling you down gently but firmly. His arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you as he settled beneath you once more. His touch was both tender and commanding, grounding and loving all at once, as his intense eyes locked with yours, conveying everything that words could not.

Then his mouth lowered between your thighs again, warm and reverent—an intimate ceremony of worship. His tongue traced slow, deliberate patterns, each flick and swirl sending shivers spiraling through your spine. Your body arched instinctively, fingers digging into his shoulders as the pleasure built, sharp and exquisite like shards of light piercing the darkness.

You came with a gasp—a cry torn from your soul—so fierce and unrelenting your whole body trembled beneath him. Waves of release crashed over you like a tidal surge, raw and beautiful and overwhelming.

But he wasn’t done.

His body rose again, sliding inside you slowly—deep, steady, deliberate—each movement a solemn vow of devotion. You rode the final wave together, breath mingling, hearts pounding in perfect, fragile sync.

When you finally collapsed into his arms, breathless and utterly spent, the silence between you was thick with all the things left unspoken, with the profound intimacy only shared moments like this could hold.

“I love this day,” you whispered, voice soft and sure, your cheek resting against the steady beat of his chest.

He pressed a tender kiss to your temple, fingers threading gently through your hair, anchoring you in the warmth of his embrace.

“I love you,” he said, low and unwavering—a truth laid bare between you.

And as sleep pulled you under, the last thing you remembered was the way he said those words—like they were the only truth he’d ever needed to speak, the single beacon that would always guide you home.

Tomorrow would be Dean’s day.

You didn’t need to say it aloud. The promise hung in the air like a secret flame—bright, alive, and waiting.

[pastramination]

Vault Lines Debuts Deluxe Black & White Editions with These Savage Shores #1 https://buff.ly/2GZNSfs @thevaultcomics #vaultcomics #thesesavageshores #vaultlines #ramv #SumitKumar #comicbooks #ink #inkedpages https://www.instagram.com/p/BuVK7JtgUnj/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1qiozjkzl4d3o

[toywalker]

My man @engelsuniverse is currently finishing the last pages of the Cro-Man mini-comic. I promise, it'll be worth the wait in the end. It won't be many pages, but every single page will be a piece of art on its own! 💥 #cromanconquerorofiron #blackandwhite #inkedpage #indiecomics #comicart #comicbook #minicomic #motuko #fivepointfive #comingsoon https://www.instagram.com/p/CAYbNuFAdBh/?igshid=bojdds0twe8w

[legendarypersonadeer]

The final inked page of Starfish & Platypus Issue 4. After 2 years of procrastinating the hiatus is over baybeeeeeeee!!! Im going to add colors to the pages then put it up on webtoons. Thanks for all the love and support!!! https://www.webtoons.com/en/challenge/starfish-platypus/list?title_no=588976

[emptypages]

Yesss it crushed my heart.

For reference:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Hey! So have you read “O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman? Because oh my goodness I was reading it and suddenly Tony’s death scene pops up in my mind and I’m seeing Peter telling him “we won. You did it sir”. It just fits so perfectly with the poem??!!!

Anyways, i just wanted to share this with you! Because I have a lot feels about this suddenly!

Hi there!

I just read it then and oh my gosh, you’re absolutely right! That bittersweet sense of victory and death totally fits that scene, and can I just say:

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still. My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will...

KILLS ME! 😭

Thanks so much for sharing that poem with me and giving me all the Irondad feels again hah. I hope you have a great day!

-Superherotiger

[phantomgraphicnovel]

#pencils #inks #sketch "Did you hear that...?" I'm going to begin coloring and lettering in a couple of weeks! Weeeeeeee!! I can't wait! #phantomoftheopera #graphicnovel #gastonleroux #beckaroo Patreon coming, Summer of 2018! #comicart #phantomcomic #poto #potographicnovel #phanart #phandom #phantomgraphicnovel #phantomart #christinedaaé #raouldechagny #palaisgarnier #parisoperahouse #inkedpages #artstagram #artistsofinstagram #beckylaff #design #illustration #makingcomics