#THE COLOURS AND LINES AND AND EXPRESSIONS AND EVERYTHING ARE JUST. THEY ARE PEEK

[triona-tribblescore]

RU-RU!!!! RUF!!! IM IM IM- HELP. STOP. PLEASE. KFKFNFLFNLFNFKFKLDDKD WHEN I SAY I AUDIBLY CRIED-

NAHHH NAHH YOU CANT DO THIS TO ME!!! EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS IS IS SO SO GREAT I LITERALLY WAS FANGIRLING TO MY SISTER RUF IM DEAD-

@triona-tribblescore's dtiys!✨️✨️✨️

TRIONAAAAAA CONGRATULATIONS ON 2K YOU'RE GORGEOUS ODKDLDRLLR AND DESERVE EVEN MORE TBH 💕✨️💖💕✨️

Wanted to draw something light

Lil bonus, SORRY LWOFKEKF

You are a wonderful person, I follow you almost all the time that I exist on tumblr and I hope that you will delight us with your works for a long time to come 💖

[snowblossomreads]

Day 23: Under the Tree

Pairing: Severus Snape x Fem!Reader

Summary: Severus comes home to his living room looking much different than he left it thanks to [Y/n].

Tag(s)/Warning(s): fluff!, decorating for loved one, mentions of childhood poverty, kissing, mostly just cuteness

Word Count: 1.3K

A/N: Ekkk I'm posting this kinda late after running aroundish so apologize for anything with wacky grammar or spelling haha! But enjoy this cute little fluff with Snape!

"What in Salazer's name-! [Y/n] what is all of this?"

When Severus had left early that morning to attend to some business, his sitting room was under decorated as it usually was all year round. That meant piles of books were littered here and there and on the shelves that lined the wall. His typewriter sat on a little table with manuscripts he had been working on for a while. And piled high next to it, were more books along with his chair that sat next to the fireplace.

Yet, when he had returned and stepped into the room he was startled when he was met with the sight of a Christmas wonderland. Nothing had technically been moved, but things had been added to the space. 

Take for instance, the strings of garland that hung on all the shelves and across the fireplace with little holly leaves attached to them. There were also four green and silver striped stockings on the mantle of the fireplace, all of them evenly spaced out from one another.

Also, how could he forget about the tree that was half as tall as the bookshelves? Decorated with little colourful lights that twinkled and would slowly change colours, it also had been wrapped in some gaudy tinsel along with tiny ornaments that hung from the ends of different branches. The tree was insanely bright and much more colourful than most things in the house, and under it were a few gifts wrapped neatly. Before he could look for any more changes in the room, [Y/n] appeared in the kitchen doorway with a bright smile and an apron on.

"Severus!" She beamed as she wiped her hands on her apron and made her way to him with a warm smile. "Welcome back! Do you like what I've done with the place?" She asked, turning around to admire her handy work. "I figured since it's our first Christmas together it should be more festive feeling and I just couldn't help myself. I hope I didn't go too overboard though."

She had thought it a shame that they hadn't decorated for Christmas with how close it was and as it got closer it just didn't feel right to not have something festive looking in the house. So when Severus had left that morning, [Y/n] decided that their first Christmas wouldn't be complete without a tree and some decorations.

So she made her way to Hogsmeade and gathered as much decoration as she could find in the short amount of time that she had to pull what she had in mind. The hardest thing was to get a tree sent over quickly and discreetly. Thankfully it was a handy thing to be such a skilled witch as her as with one little wave of a wand, the miniature tree that she had found easily became a midsize one and large enough to fit all the decorations she had bought.

She had furiously decorated the whole room not stopping until everything was done as she wanted to give him a surprise. Once all the decorations were up, she quickly ran to place the presents that they had bought for one another underneath it. Was it a temptation to take a peek at them, absolutely but she didn't!

"I think I did amazing with the time crunch I had, but you're the wizard I need to impress! Soooo how'd you like it?"

"[Y/n] I-." He started, but stopped in mid sentence causing her to look at him and notice the slightly shocked expression on his features.

He didn't quite know what to say. It had been years, since he had seen the room like this. Alive with so much colour and cheer, that when he thought of it, he actually didn't believe that he had ever seen it so full of life.

As a child, when they decorated, and that was if his parents could afford to, they would only usually have a tiny tree that had already lost a lot of it's needles. The lights were not colorful just a bright white with missing bulbs here and there, and there would usually be two or three things under the tree if anything at all.

So to see so much Christmas in his home, had his heart swirling with emotions that he still had a hard time coming to terms with. It all felt so new that all he could do was sit in silence for a moment as he took in what [Y/n] had done for him.

"Severus?" She questioned, unsure if the silence that was between them was good or bad as he had not yet voice an opinion either way.

She had been nervous about her whole decorating scheme and him not answering her made her stomach twist uncomfortably as she thought she had done something wrong.

"Oh gosh I've messed up haven't I? I debated on telling you but I thought it be a fun surprise," you know?" She babbled nervously, wringing her hands on her apron while trying to explain her reasoning. "I know you don't  like your stuff being moved about so I tried to work around it, but I just thought it be nice for a spark of colour to light the place up. Not that I don't like it as it is! It's just-."

She didn't get to finish her rambling explanation because before another word left her lips, Severus had wrapped his arms around her in a hug and his lips were pressed against hers in a gentle yet passionate kiss.

All of the worry she had about overstepping instantly melted like snow on a warm day and she was kissing him back with the same passion. Arms wrapping around his waist to keep her from falling over at how good his lips felt against hers, she couldn't hold in the moan that left her throat as he kissed her over and over until she was breathless from his affection.

"It's beautiful [Y/n]," he husked in that rich baritone of his as he finally pulled away from her lips leaving her a bit light headed. "Absolutely wonderful. A Christmas wonderland is not what I expected when I came but it is wonderful present either way."

His approval had her heart soaring, while also causing her to relax in his hold now that she knew his silence wasn't because he was crossed with her. Letting out a breath of relief, [Y/n] shuffled in his hold so that her back was against his front and she delicately took his hands so that he would lace his fingers across her waist.

Leaning back, they both gazed at the room for a moment, admiring her handy work at making everything so festive in such a short amount of time.

"Well good," she sighed out as his arms tighten their hold against her as he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. "I was scared that you were going to hate it but it makes me feel better that you don't. And also I think the lights on the tree are lovely and I would hate to take them down."

"Mhmm, they are quite lovely, but for what it's worth," he whispered huskily in her ear, a sound that made her shiver in his arms. "I think you are the brightest light in this room and in any other."

His compliment caused an involuntary smile to bloom on her lips as she turned around to face the man she adored so much. A tiny smile was on his thin lips when she looked at him, yet it was his dark eyes that were alight that seemed to tell the story of how happy he was.

"Oh Severus I do love you," she whispered as she went to stroke his cheek, causing his eyes to soften at her.

"And I love you, darling, thank you for this," he responded before leaning down and kissing her once more as they were surrounded in their little wonderland.

[moliathh]

I have a headcanon that Alucard is actually a really good artist. It's just a side of him no-one sees or expects, with him being so murder happy and unhinged all the time. He's usually too bored by it though, and is only really motivated to draw when something catches his attention enough for him to capture it. So, when Integra ages into an elderly woman, he draws her. This is because he find old age, and Integra's old age, very beautiful (we've seen him express that a few times in canon). So he patiently and lovingly captures her in great detail, making Integra feel happy and comfortable with her age :-)

OH HOW ADORABLE ... I have thought that he would've loved to trace his fingers over her wrinkles, not to smoothen them over, but to know and memorize the time maps of her years he lost now laid across her skin. Integra might have felt silly at first, that he is always touching her faces at her permission, or stroking over the hardened lines and lumps from her knuckles to each bump of her fingers, and he would always be so fascinated with eyes rounded and focused and everything. She would blushed over the attention and tried to brush it off that there was nothing attractive over an old hag like her and he would've looked at her a bit bewildered as if she wounded him. I don't think he would have to wax poetry about how well she wore time. The evidence was clear for all to see but her, and he often jests so much i fear she can only laugh at his theatrics. She was well over 50 and while she still blush, just his words wouldn not ruffled her feathers the way it did when she was 22-23ish something. But him painting? That's new! Definitely VERY new for her! Oh and he's painting Her ??? His eyes hold her face while his fingers stride across the pages, and he was uncharacteristically still when he draws. She obviously have to get on with her daily works and doesn't have time to dally around trying to sneak a peek. And she had learned to stood her ground against him watching her like a hawk years before, because predators chase preys who run, so she could only blame the years of absence, or his presence, that pricked goosebumps on her skins whenever his eyes landed on her again, every stroke across the canvas was a brush she physically feel, and just from his eyes alone. I figured the attention was not unpleasant to her, because it was a very visible message, that she was desired, she was looked at, was touched and reimagined. It would've convinced her of Alucard's sincerity about her age and his feelings. And given her time to examine her feelings as well.

I have thought of Integra as a painter too. How she would've done still life and scenery at young age as basic etiquette training, maybe some sketches of the people around her, maybe she stopped doing portraits for a while when Arthur died. If she draw him then it would've been his sickest days she had to see, and that wouldn't be what she want to remember him as. After then her profession was too stacked for paintings. And then Walter and Alucard was gone too, she would've started drawing Walter, her old butler that she remembered by folds of wrinkles and not whatever she had seen his last day. And she drew Seras, the same face every years passed by, same consistent smile and same bright eyes even if her colours changed. There are more people coming into her life. They changed of course, most people do, but none was too sudden for her. If asked, she could picture them in her head and draft out something from her memory. But I fear it was not as easy for her when it comes to Alucard. He was fleeting, everchanging, his features flunctuate outside of time. Nothing she had drawn could've captured what he was. But she could pin down the weight of his presence seeped off her memory onto the canvas as if he was there, physically, beneath her, between her thighs as she crawled over the canvas laid flatback on the cold tiled floor and striked black over white. One canvas, two and then ten concentratedly black doused canvas scattered across her room like her casted shadows he so oftenly resides in, each is a dog crate, or cat, her Schrodinger's cat. If she could childishly pretend he was her placid little sheep, soundlessly asleep inside her hand-drawn boxes, then he was.

On a side note, I have always think this painting reminded me of their relationship:

"The Painter and the Pianist (Pittrice e Pianista)", 1910 By Lionello Balestrieri

The Pianist was engrossed in their own play and The painter was struggling with their progress, slumped fowards the canvas and all. Both have their back on each other, the Pianist couldn't have seen what the Painter had painted but surely the Painter could've heard the Pianist just fine. Will the Painter turn back to the Pianist or will the Pianist's music could anyhow inspired the Painter. To me, Alucard was the Pianist, neck deep in his own endeavours between death, of his own or others. Integra was the Painter, she struggled with herself, of not knowing what she wanted and what she would choose. She was aware of Alucard and possibly her feeling for him, which was burdening her, but he was not or pretend not to be aware of his feeling for her. Whether the case, it would've been the Painter, Integra, choice to initiate contact. She could confronted him about it, as the Painter turn to the Pianist, or, inspired by the Pianist's music enough that the Painter continues their solitary affair, she could've resigned to keep sending him on little suicide missions he always begs of her and by thus, keep fulfilling her duty, even if he might've dropped anytime.

[tayas-words]

Maybe if you want a one shot prompt, you could try some fluff with Sam and Mika? Like right after when the first game ends on his route and them getting to know each other more and stuff

I like this idea! Please let me know if you like it, this is my first time writing a oneshot for seduce me! I’m taking inspiration from a scene from the hunger games bc the version of Mika I like to envision with Sam is very similar to a female Peeta, like shy but very strong and very clever.

TW: swearing

What’s your favourite colour?

Mika sighed as she stared at the screen in front of her, she had an 2000 word essay due at midnight and she only title down, and it was already 10:30pm.

“I’m never going to get this done in time,”She said to herself. “You’d think after fighting a devil and she-demon I could atleast write an essay.”

She knew she should’ve asked James for help, but seeing as him and Erik had gone out to dinner with their girlfriends, she was left to fend for herself on this essay. She thought about asking Matthew or Damien, but then remembered that Damien couldn’t read very well, even though she had been helping, and Matthew didn’t like writing. Sam never even crossed her mind for it.

“Screw this.” She closed her laptop shut and left her room, in need of some kind of distraction.

As she was about to go downstairs she heard a soft humming, walking closer to the noise she realized it was coming from an open window. Knowing it was Sam, she decided to go see him. They hadn’t had much time to talk since everything happened with Diana.

“What the fuck?” Sam stopped his humming as a pair of hands appeared.

The top of her head peeked up. “Mind if I join you Dingus?”

Just as he moved down to help Mika, she pulled herself up, steadying herself before she moved farther up the roof where Sam was.

They sat in a strange silence for a while, neither of them really knew what to say.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing school shit?” He broke the silence, he leaned back on his elbows, staring at the sky.

She shrugged. “I just can’t right now.”

“Why not?”

“I have no idea, maybe everything that happened in the last month fucked with my head.”

Sam scoffed. “Well obviously, and you humans get so stressed about all this school bullshit for no reason. You gotta get your mind off it and come back to it later.”

“Okay…distract me.” She told him. If anyone could distract her, it was him, she found it hard to not stare at him.

“Uhm okay then..how are your friends doing?” He mentally smacked himself.

“Oh, they’re good..they don’t remember anything about Diana or anything so I’m happy about that.” She nodded awkwardly.

She asked a few questions about the demon world, hoping to not overstep any boundaries, listening intently to his expressions and tone as he spoke. Eventually it felt like that had shared their life stories.

“So…what’s your favourite colour?” The way she said it didn’t even sound like a normal question, he sounded so

“Oh that questions over the line.” Sam let out a chuckle, sensing her akawardness

At the sound of his laugh, Mika blushed before turning to look at him, their eyes meeting.

“Seriously Sam, what is it?” She shifted closer to him.

“Green,” he answered truthfully. “What’s yours?” His question sounded genuine.

“Orange.”

“Like Damien’s hair?” Sam laughed as he asked her.

Mika let out a giggle and shook her head, “no, not that orange,” she thought about it for a moment, “more uh..more like a sunset set kind of orange.”

Sam watched as a small smile graced her lips as she talked about how she loved sunsets. Taking note of the goosebumps forming on her arm.

Without another word, he scooted down to where she was and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “You’re gonna get sick up here doofus.” He said as she slowly rested her head on his shoulder.

Once more they sat in silence, but a comfortable one this time. Just listening to the wind howl softly and the leaves dance as fall began to take the leaves down and recolour them.

Without speaking, Mika slipped her hand into his, interlacing their fingers.

Smiling, Sam gave her hand a small squeeze and pulled her closer before letting go of her hand.

He used his hand to tilt her chin up to make her look at him, they were both smiling and had a soft red hue run along their cheeks.

“Can I…can I kiss you?” He wished he could’ve taken back the first time he kissed her, he wanted this one to be romantic, “please.” He added.

She didn’t reaping, she just closed her eyes and leaned into him.

He smiled and leaned in, smiling as their lips pressed together. The hand that was on her moved to cup her face.

They smiled and panted as they pulled away. “I like you, so much Mika.”

“I like you too Sam.” She said as he rested his forehead on hers.

They sat on the roof a little longer, once they saw James and Erik pull into the driveway they realized Mika still had her essay due and it was already 11:15.

“Come on, you need to ask James for a lot of help if you have to get that done. I’ll bring you up a coffee and some snacks.” He offered and she gladly accepted.

He helped her off the roof and gave her one more swift kiss before heading downstairs to prepare a few small things.

She had kissed him, and Damien smiled at his older brother as he heard the happy thoughts running through his mind.

[thebirdarts]

My 2023 Year in Art

Because of my sporadic drawing, I just picked 12 pieces of mine, spread out across this year, that i felt had an impact or shows an one on my overall artistic style, from the first time I've experimented with something, and when i solidified it.

i nerd out over my own drawing under the cut!

In chronological order, starting with my portrait of my first WOTR commander, Alaun.

Original Post!

Not only is this is representation of me getting into WOTR, its one of the first times i did smoother and softer shading, something i haven't really done since. Additional, i can easily see the line between the metals i rendered here and Cecio & Celia's more stylized metallic elements. I miss Alaun, he was ahead of his time as a good kc of mine. its a fairly big full piece, and one I'm still proud and fond of today!

Original Post!

Estinian! god i miss ffxiv... Here is the root of my bright idea to use pencil brushes for colored shading, to get a textured gradient, and i used it in the metallic golds. its also my biggest art post on this blog! it is a big & detailed piece, and seemed daunting at the time, but i just put in the time, and was rewarded for trying to make sense of the armor [i used my own dragoon as a model for how thing actually interacted & what was what] Im still stupidly proud of it. it was my second piece of FFXIV fanart, and the beginning of many more!

MURA! original post

Given this is about drawings that have impacted me, i think this one is an easy contender for the one that's done so the most. Drawing Mura reminded me how much i loved fashion & clothing, and drawing it! I've always has a tremendous amount of fun with her drawings, and it all started here!! Mura also was the first time i repeatedly used a colour pallet for a character, with her pinks and purples now ingrained into my mind!

Original Post

Out of all my drawings, Estinian and Mura are tied for how much ive drawn them, which Estinian has an advantage due to my large bank of FFXIV screenshots & my redraws thereof. This was great fun, not only for understanding the armor better, but having fun experimenting in colour pallets! something i can see has carried on into my non-literaly coloured Celia & Cecio drawings!

Mura<33 original post [has link to its original art]

My first head only drawing in a long time, and somewhere where i experimented with coloring, as well as the introduction of Muras netted and braided hairstyle! in fact, you can see the visible brush strokes as what would eventually be the stylized shading used in my more recent portraits! The shattered stained glass. looks cool as hell. and was my first time majorly experimenting with layer options, something that would become very common for me.

Mura again<3 original post

Look narrowing it down to three was hard, i drew her so much, she really re-inspired me to draw. Lighting<33 you can really see here the style i would use on Cecio, just using a pencil brush rather than a roller one. its a piece Im very proud of, and one day i will light everything as consistently as this

Miss Star-Sailer<33 original

Expanding the working with a limited color pallet from Mura, and once again rendering metals, this piece of my wol has a special place in my heart. just... her<33 She<33 her muted and dark colour pallet, her expression... i love this one<33

GEORGIE!!! original

my baby boy<33 Im finally drawing curls... and the brightly coloured iris & tiny white pupil may have become a thing of mine.

Celia<33 original

the limited colour pallet, the non literal colours, the sketch peeking through, the shading on both clothing and skin, the hair? this is like the payoff to all theses previous drawings. i used a different pencil brush, and goodbye 6b and hellooo procto pencil!!!!

Cecio<3 original

If the previous drawing was the payoff, this is one of the stages of refinement, taking the new stylized skin shading and applying it to a portrait where the face is the focus, and damn!! Cecio<3

original

A compositional outlier, this piece earned its place for me revising what has to be one of the most drawn compositions of mine - the eye. In many ways its the closing loop of a full circle, the brushstrokes exactly how i would shade with my pencil on paper, the lines and movements coming naturally to me, in an entirely different medium. the main difference is colour, while my pencil drawings were firmly grayscale and i resisted all attempts to get me to use colour, this is practically a sunset, using my knowledge of not just colour but layer filters to create bright and overly saturated variations. full circle, just add colour.

Original

And the final piece! a portrait of Cecio, showing off all i have developed, from the metallics, to the stylized shading, colour pallets, the use of filters for alternate versions, the hair, the face, the new brush!!! its not my last drawing of 2023, but its a fitting end.

- end note.

if you will permit me to get sappy, 2023 has been hell of a year, but damn if it hasn't been pointing upwards. in 2023 i came to understand i was disabled, and my whole life changed course. My art became not just a hobby or skill of mine, but will be my main source of income once i graduate. my existing friendships have strengthened, and so have my online ones, ive met so many new and awesome people. seeing everyone's tags, comments and reactions to my art has been amazing, and thank you all for that. i have seen so many amazing artists and writers who inspired me to better myself, and also to focus on what makes me unique.

2023 has been a hell of a year, but thanks in no small part to some of the most amazing people i've had the privilege of knowing, it been a damn good one.

its been tough, coming to realize your physically disabled and having to rewrite your life plan was hard. its been overall up, but there have been some spikes down. im aware, that every year i say i cant get happier, and then i do, i break though another barrier, reach another high.

im not saying that this year, because i know next year will be better, and the year after that, as i have the opportunity to steer my own life, it will improve in ways i cant even think of now.

Thank you, all.

[leak321]

The allure of pastel hair colors and their application

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Ready to fully embrace pastel hair dye? Take inspiration from our editorial, "Colouring Outside the Lines," and bring your vibrant ideas to the hair salon for a personalised touch.

Behind the Scenes: The Coloured Hair Trend Explained

Go behind the scenes of our editorial shoot with Bumble and bumble colour expert Zoe Wiepert. Gain insights into the precise techniques that bring the pastel hair trend to life.

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Summer Vibes: Embrace Technicolor Hair

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Celeb Inspiration: Sienna Miller's Rose Gold Hair

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Bleaching Your Hair

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Dyeing Your Hair

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Conclusion:

The world of pastel hair offers a spectrum of creativity, allowing you to express your unique style like never before. From stunning hairstyles to non-permanent options, the journey to pastel perfection is both exciting and accessible. Whether you opt for a subtle dip-dyed look or fully immerse yourself in the trend, the key lies in embracing the vibrancy and individuality that pastel hues bring. With inspiration from real people, expert tips, and behind-the-scenes insights, your venture into pastel hair promises to be a delightful and empowering experience. So, go ahead, unleash your inner artist, and let your hair tell a story as colourful as you are!

[mahajio]

I wanted to comment on this lovely artwork, but it kiiiiiinda got of out of hand and no longer fits in a single reply, so I'm putting it in my reblog instead!

I really like these game-esque artworks you draw, because they look aesthetically pleasing and just have a certain energy to them that you totally nail in every possible way! I— I'm sounding really vague here, I know! It's difficult to find a way to properly describe what I like about it so much.

Marcille peaking her head through such a small doorway while saying "Come out, come out" reminds me of something, but I can't really put my finger on it. Either way, I like it! Gives me the idea that she's trying to find something before it finds her. Her expression has been drawn masterfully, displaying a perfect mix of worry and fear, with those little tears dripping down her face making for a nice addition as well. I also think you did a great job with colouring and shading her, and the way her Falin doll kind of looks like it's peeking with her is really neat. It's a small comfort as she looks into this marvelously disgusting room, tainted in a green-brownish hue and riddled with an almost indistinguishable mess of foliage and other kinds of matter. With how dark the drawing is, I didn't even notice the border of the first artwork is actually blue until I looked at the second drawing! I think it's a nice colouring choice that goes well with the overall colour scheme of the drawing.

The second drawing is equally as marvelous, and most certainly worthy of some serious praise! Be forewarned that I might be wildly misinterpreting what I'm seeing here, and for all I know those little eyes above her head are just icons to indicate her stress or something, but what the heck, I sees what I sees. I love how the black-and-white background has been detailed with all sorts of books, and the way those three oozing eyes stare at Marcille from behind the upper shelf looks incredibly scary, especially since they pop so much more thanks to the background's colour — or rather, the lack thereof. (WOW, the coloured thing has a more noticeable presence when everything around it lacks colour? Crazy observation.) That little smidge of dark green above the eyes adds a nice tad of shading, too. Something I also noticed is that one of the eyes' ooze dangles in front of Marcille's forehead, which makes it look like whatever is behind her is just about ready to envelop her completely. It looks very unsettling, and it's clear Marcille agrees, if her expression is any indication. Those wide eyes and sweat-covered hands clutching at her dress (love how you drew the creases in her dress where her hands are gripping it, by the way) perfectly demonstrate that prey animal energy you mention in the description. Like a deer caught in headlights. What makes it work even better is that typically, Marcille is loud and expressive, especially when she's scared. But now? She's dead silent. She doesn't look scared; she looks terrified. I love it!

I only just now noticed that the pitch blackness in the background drips over the second row of books too, and it even completely covers the right side, to the point where it's started oozing from the shelf. It further adds to this suffocating atmosphere, as if the second Marcille moves even an inch, she's done for. Also, this is something I com-PLETELY forgot to mention, but that portrait of Marcille's mother is another nice addition, helping to make the background a little fancier! Ah, one last thing I wanted to touch on is the UI, which also looks great. The doll's slumped over nicely, adding to its…'dollness,' (riveting commentary, I know) and the candle just scratches my brain right with how its been drawn. Seriously, I cannot stress enough how much I love the thick lines you use for drawing and colouring. Your art style is quite unique, and it is a joy to look at! Gooosh, and the red text for that totally regular book that her cursor's hovering over further adds to the ominous atmosphere that this artwork's got going for it! Like, I honestly cannot stress enough how much I love this. It really is just marvelous all around.

As an aside, I really like the asymmetry of the cursor/selector thingamajig. I think it adds to the style a lot, and I also appreciate the basic details that you didn't neglect to add, such as that little line in the green bar, the question mark behind the "select" option to indicate the book hasn't been selected juuuust yet, and her 2,5 remaining hit points. I know these seem like pretty basic things to point out, but I think it's worth it to appreciate! It all comes together stupendously! I love this a lot!

Well anyways, I kinda kept rambling on, and now it's midnight! Whoops! So much for maintaining a sleep schedule, me! Ah, anyways, I wish you a stupendous rest of your weekend! Marvelous art!

marcille and her prey animal energy🤞

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drawn Together 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, obsession, intimidation, and other dark elements.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You get a tattoo on an impulse to break your routine, but you walk away with something else as permanent as the ink.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You admire the tattoo through the plastic film. It’s so vibrant and red. The outline is beautiful and precise. You worried it would be less than with all your fidgeting but the hours of sitting paid off wonderfully.

You set your feet flat as Sam tosses his gloves and gathers up his tools. You fix the flat pleats of your straight cut skirt and smooth your white blouse. Plain and simple and neat. Just how everything in your life is. Well, except your tattoo.

You’re almost giddy. You feel so… edgy. You know you’re not but you’re going to enjoy the idea.

Your excitement is short lived as a heat settles over you. Like a shell you can’t see. You latch onto your wrist, holding your arms in front of you meekly as you peek across the shop. That man, Steve, he’s watching you again. You’re not sure he ever stopped as you kept your eyes on your round-toed flats for most of the time.

He smiles. The expression deepens the lines in his face and adds definition to his bearded jaw. His blue eyes sparkle deviously as you shy away. That’s the kind of boy, well, man, your mother would warn you about. Fifteen years ago and today.

You follow Sam to the counter and stir out your wallet from your black purse. You count out the rest of the fee in cash and hand it over. He explains the after care as he checks your count.

“Once you see blood under that film, you should take it off. Don’t keep it on longer than six hours. Don’t wrap it after and try to wear light clothing.”

“First ink?” The man interrupts, causing you to visibly flinch. Sam looks over your head and you hesitate to answer.

“Um, yes,” you turn your head only slightly and raise your voice so he can hear over the buzz.

“Can’t see it from here. What is it?”

“Steve, mind your business,” Sam retorts as he closes the till, “sorry about that. He’s always been too nosy for his own good.”

“You don’t gotta apologise for me,” Steve calls back, “I’m curious, is all. Sweetheart, if I disturbed you, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you bend your ankle nervously and try to muster a smile at Sam, “thanks, I really like it. I love it. The colour is so good.”

“Appreciate it. As long as you're happy, I’m happy,” he grins, “here, take this.” He takes out a small booklet, “it’s everything you need to know about aftercare. Keep it clean, don’t touch it.”

“Oh, great,” you accept it, “that’s wonderful.” You tuck it into your purse, “thanks again. I’ll, er, I’ll go.”

“Have a good day,” Sam responds smoothly, a much needs balance for your awkwardness.

You turn and head for the door. You hear a low growl and peer back as you push through. Nat lifts her gun and punches Steve’s arm as he leans to keep an eye on you.

“Would you sit fucking still?” She hisses as he snickers in amusement.

You escape his gaze and the shop swiftly. That went a lot better than you thought. You only wish he hadn’t been there. Watching. A scary man like him, tattoos and all.

Well, you’ll never have another reason to go back to the shop or see that man. You had your dose of rebellion.

🎹

You resist the urge to scratch your ankle. You have discipline. An overbearing degree of discipline. Hammered so deep that you’re left hewn in rigid stone.

The rules. You’ve always been good at following those. It’s the one talent you have.

Aside from the piano.

You set up for the day, your ritual the same as every other. You change the water in the vase and place the long stems inside. The lilies are starting to wilt but they look good enough. You put them on the window sill, a soft breeze flowing in and fluttering the curtains.

You quickly brush a feather duster around the apartment, searching for any spec of dust. You’re gentle at the piano, the old boxy instrument is finely tuned despite its worn varnish. The bench is in a better state as you recently had it reupholstered.

You kick the corner of the carpet down as it folded over with an errant step and you pause to check out the tattoo. It’s so cool. Or cool to you. It’s probably lame to everyone else.

You imagine the rolling eyes and low whispers. Not really the tattoo type…

The boring type. That’s what you are. You live in your corner of the world and you keep to it. You don’t impinge, you don’t intrude, you are a very mindful person. Of others as much as yourself.

You fold the dusters and hang it in the closet from the hook on the inside of the door. You shut it, the hinges squeaking slightly. The walkup was inherited along with the piano. Both belonged to your grandfather. The same man who taught you how to play.

You breathe out as you run your fingertips along the belt of your dress. Some would say it’s out of style, you say it’s vintage. Nothing too flashy. Forest green with cap sleeves.

It’s always a bit nerve wracking to take on a new student. Amanda moved away and so the vacancy needs to be filled. You keep to a particular capacity. Both to maintain your sanity and your finances. Too many and you won’t be an effective teacher, too few and you won’t be able to afford the keys to practice.

It’s not too difficult. Usually their parents walk them in, talk a little bit, and go. Some of them stay after a few lessons to hear their children’s progress. You offer them tea if they do and some shortbread cookies; your grandmother’s secret recipe.

You pace as you check your watch, a slender golden chain attached to an oval face. You tap the glass with your fingernail and sigh. Two minutes.

You twirl and repeat your steps across the rug, just across the top of the stairs. You pull down your lip anxiously but correct the impatient habit quickly. Don’t fidget so much. Stop picking at yourself. Your mother’s voice lives in your head.

You circle around and straighten the framed embroidery above the antique side table. You lean back on your heel and consider it. Still a bit off. You work at getting it perfect, your obsession pierced by the doorbell.

You recoil and go to the top of the stairs. You look down and see a silhouette on the other side of the half-moon pane set into the thick walnut door. You glide your hand down the banister as you descend and steady yourself at the bottom.

You set your shoulders and smile. You’ve done this so many times before. Why are you so unsure? When have you ever been sure? Oh gosh, what if they see your tattoo? What if they think you’re trouble?

You grasp the curled handle and twist it. You pull the door open and your cheek twitches in surprise as you face the unexpectedly familiar face. You blink long and hard. You don’t believe it. It can’t be him. You must be dreaming. That must be why this whole day has felt so surreal.

“Hi,” Steve’s deep tone washes over you like a tide.

“Um, hello,” you look to the right, then the left, then at him. He’s alone. It’s just him. Why is he here?

You can’t be mistaken. You see the tattoos peeking out at the ends of his jacket sleeves along his knuckles. His newest addition shows through the white fabric of his plain cotton tee. It’s definitely the same man. How could you forget those eyes?

“I’m here for piano lessons? This is the right unit, right?”

“Piano? I– yeah, I teach but, er…” you reach to rub your neck and his gaze follows the gesture before returning to your face. He watches you intently, just like at the shop. “I usually teach–”

“Beginners,” he smirks, “yeah, I know I’m a bit old but I always wanted to learn.”

“Well, of course, um, anyone can learn but I…” you try not to show your confusion.

It’s not his age. You’ve taught adults before. No, it’s that he’s even there. This can’t be a coincidence, can it? Or maybe he doesn’t even remember you.

“So, you healing up?”

“What?”

“The tattoo.”

“Oh, uh,” you look down at your feet, “sure. It’s… alright.”

“I’m dying to scratch mine,” he chuckles, “which is why I need something to keep my hands busy.”

“Yes, I mean, okay,” you grip the door tightly.

“All cards on the table, I heard you in the shop say you taught piano,” he confesses, “I looked you up. I’m sorry. I hope that’s not weird.”

You let out a long breath. It is weird but he is being honest. He doesn’t seem like he’s up to anything. And anyone can get a tattoo, even you. So maybe he isn’t too bad. And maybe you need the cheque.

“You’re late,” you say, “usually I ask my students to be ten minutes early.”

“Got it,” he nods, “promise, it won’t happen again.”

“Put your shoes on the mat,” you back up and open the door, “since we’re already behind, I won’t have time for the tea.”

“Maybe next time,” he breaks the threshold as he peers around at the entryway, “nice place.”

“It is,” you say, “the piano is upstairs.”

You spin on your heel and scurry up the steps. You cling to the railing to keep yourself on your feet. Now that he’s inside, you’re even less sure about this.

[madphantom]

Just so nobody thinks I'm playing, first chapter sneak peek under the cut:

Letter from Dr. Ignatius Habernathy to Mr. Andrew Aliceson, written 21st December 1929

My dearest Andrew,

Strange things have happened tonight at my home and I felt the great need to tell you of them all. Sit down my dear, and let no one else see these lines - best would be to hide or destroy them as soon as you have read them, but ensure you have memorized everything I am about to tell you, for it is of utmost importance for our future in this world. The letter will be delivered by my close friend and companion Emmett Martin, whom you can trust. Oh, I am shaking!

Do you remember your visit last spring? There was an old man in the square, a small and slender gentleman who despite his tattered and old-fashioned suit carried himself with a pride and elegance seldom seen. Our eyes had met for a moment when you had lost your hat, and we had noticed that his were of two different colours - one of a warm, earthy brown, the other of a piercing diamond blue. His hair had been white, his sharp face clean shaven and he had worn a silver wedding band. With him was a young girl whom Rebecca had begrudgingly fancied to be the most beautiful she had ever seen, one with long dark hair and a pale blue hat. We had briefly stopped for a chat while you were chasing your hat, and she had given her name as Suzanne. She worked for the gentleman, who she said had been like mother and father to her. I spoke of my work and when you returned, you called me the greatest doctor around. The gentleman had remarked quite sardonically, his voice striking us as lighter than we had expected, that if he should ever feel like he is on the doors of death, he would ask Suzanne to bring him to me.

This evening it had been cold as seldom before in the city. A sudden winter storm had filled the streets with snow and brought many patients to me who had slipped on the icy sidewalks. After the long day I was exhausted and longed for my warm home and a seat by the fire with a book and a good hot cup of tea. A thick mist had begun creeping through the town and the few passersby on the sidewalk before my house hurried to get home.

Rebecca was in the kitchen, making tea for the two of us, and I had just sunk down into my favourite armchair when I heard her call my name.

"Ignat, come look at this!" I sighed, rose from the chair and regretfully left the warmth of the fireplace.

"What is it?", I inquired upon entering the kitchen. Rebecca was sitting on the sill, her dark eyes wide open with a wondrous expression in them.

"Come over and look," she whispered. "But gently. You might scare it off."

"It?" I leaned against her and peeked out into the blackness of the winter night. The fog and snow made it hard to see, but in the light of the kitchen window a white silhouette stood in the garden beneath our fir trees, its eyes glowing silver like an angel's. At first I thought it was a trick of my eyes, but then I realized there were four pale shining dots in the snow. It was a deer, and by God it was the most extraordinary deer I had ever seen in my life.

"Incredible!", I whispered in awe. "Not only is an animal with albinism making it to adulthood in the wild something rare, but look at that! It has two heads! This deer is not one in a million, it is most likely the only one of its kind!"

"Will you try to capture it?", Rebecca asked, anxiously chewing on a strand of her red hair. She looked like she had seen something that wasn't from this earth; I probably did too.

I shook my head. "By God, no. This beautiful creature deserves to live in freedom. Can you imagine something so unique and so mesmerizing surviving against all odds just to be kept in some cage as something to be poked and prodded at? It'd be a downright crime."

"You have a point there."

We both glanced back out into the night. The deer stood motionlessly in the garden, all four eyes staring up to us, as if it had been created out of marble.

"... I need to see it from up close," I whispered. "Otherwise I will never believe myself."

Rebecca nodded slowly. "By all means."

I rushed down the stairs, wrapping myself in my scarf. Slowly, endlessly slowly, I opened the door and stepped outside into the snow. I shivered in the cool breeze.

Four silver eyes glistened at me in the shadows. The deer watched as I placed one foot in front of the other. It took a hesitant step towards me, then another. I saw the muscles moving underneath the snow white fur. Then, suddenly, it took a giant leap and disappeared in the fog.

"Dr. Habernathy!"

I turned, surprised by the clear voice calling my name, and saw a silhouette by the fence of my home. Her long dark hair was blowing in the wind and it took me a moment to recognize Suzanne, whom I had last seen months ago. Now she was pale and wide-eyed, frightened by something I did not yet know about.

"Suzanne? What brings you here?"

"Oh, Doctor, I'm sorry to bother you at such a time, but the Sir has fallen down the stairs!", she stammered. "We came as fast as we could, he is almost unresponsive!"

I woke up from the trance the deer's sudden appearance had put me in. Within moments I was at the front door and helped Suzanne and the terrified lad that was with her bring the gentleman inside. Everything passed by in a rush but at the same time, my mind was crystal clear. In an ice cold frenzy I called for Rebecca's assistance, though the old man was remarkably slight, and warm air streamed out into the black night when we brought him inside. The lad closed the door behind us and everything fell silent as all eyes landed on my countenance. Now it was up to me to play God and see if I could bargain with fate over a few years more life for the old man.

Just had a dream that a novel exists which is written from the POV of an old man dying in the 1920s in the form of diary entries and bit by bit it's revealed it's actually a closeted trans woman who was out during her youth and forced to recloset and now I desperately want to read it

[autisticlancemcclain]

There’s an unfamiliar Blade staring at him. And yeah, that’s a pretty hard case to make with the masks and uniforms and everything. How do you know they’re unfamiliar? How do you know they’re staring at you?

Well, Keith knows they’re staring at him because they’re not even attempting to hide it and it’s been something like ten minutes, and they’re unfamiliar because — well. By Galran standards, they’re short as shit, and Keith makes a point of being familiar with every other short Blade on this base, because of Short King Solidarity.

Shut up. It’s important.

Point is that there is a random stranger staring at him for no reason in the barracks, and it is annoying. Finally, Keith decides that if they’re not going to say something, he is, so he holds his hands up in the universal ‘what the shit do you want, pal?’ position.

It works. The unfamiliar Blade beckons him forward. As soon as Keith gets close to them, they turn and start striding out of the room, and Keith has to jog to keep up (because even though they’re short, for a Galra, the have legs for days, Jesus).

They lead him around dozens of twisting hallways, speeding up whenever Keith gets close. It does not occur to Keith that they might be a murderer until about 10 minutes into their chase. But by then he’s put too much effort into the whole ordeal to just walk away, so he keeps one hand on his blade and mostly just hopes for the best.

They’re pretty lanky, anyway. Keith could probably take them.

Finally, the Blade stops in front of one of the small hangar doors, slapping their palm to the lockpad. This gives Keith just enough time to catch up, so he reaches out to stop them with a hand on the elbow.

“Dude, where are you taking me —”

The Blade makes a frantic cutting motion at their neck, clearly telling him to shut the fuck up. Keith raises his eyebrows.

Well, now. Colour him intrigued.

They duck into the hangar as soon as the doors open, leading him by the hand to a small pod. They key in the code to open the door, and attempt to tug Keith inside.

That’s when Keith decides enough is enough.

“Yeah, no, man. I’m not getting into a tiny pod with someone who’s been nothing but suspicious since I saw them. Sure, I was being a bit of a dumbass when I decided to follow you, but I think this is a great place to draw the line.”

The Blade makes a pleading face. Well, as pleading as they can be with their mask on.

Keith shakes his head, crossing his arms stubbornly.

The Blade sighs, hanging their head in resignation. They peek out of the pod, checking the area — for what? Other Blades? Cameras? Monsters? — and then take a deep breath, before pressing the button on their neck for deactivating their mask.

And, well. Keith can safely say this is not what he expected.

“Lan —”

“Will you shut the fuck up,” Lance hisses, grabbing Keith by the arm and yanking him in the pod, shutting the door behind him. Keith doesn’t put up a fight, too busy staring at Lance with his jaw dropped to the floor.

The longer Keith stares, the more nervous Lance gets. The previous annoyance vanishes from his expression, leaving him biting his lip with his brow furrowed.

“Please say something,” he begs.

Keith snaps his jaw shut. “Okay. I’ll start simple.” He clasps his hands together and presses them to his lips, inhaling sharply. “What the fresh, genuine, actual fuck are you doing here? In a Blade uniform? Acting suspicious as hell?”

“You know the security breach?” Lance blurts.

“Yeah,” Keith says slowly, trying to figure out how that has anything to do with this. “What about it?”

“I am the security breach.”

Once, when he was very young, Keith was fucking around in the desert and he came across what he was sure was a chicken egg, sitting randomly under a bush. Since he was literally eight years old, his brilliant idea had been to bring the chicken egg home, incubate it, and have his very own pet chicken. Since his Pa was not one to stop his brilliant ideas, this was allowed, so Keith nurtured that egg with all the concentration his tiny self could produce. Several months later, it hatched.

It was a snake.

The level of shocked bewilderment Keith felt then is about equivalent to what he’s feeling right now.

“I’m sorry. I think I just hallucinated. Try again?”

“I’m serious,” Lance insists. “I’m Akira Romanoff. I’m the security breach.”

Bizarrely, in between the panicked shouts of ‘oh my god I’m going to have to become the red paladin again because Voltron is going to be down a man after Lance is executed’ in his head, Keith has the thought that Lance looks exactly like Flynn Rider did when Rapunzel healed his hand — same freaked-out expression, down to the slightly puffed cheeks. He wonders vaguely if that’s a practiced expression.

“Okay,” Keith says slowly. “I have no idea how to respond to that. Please start from the beginning.”

“It was never meant to go this far,” Lance says instead, because he’s apparently incapable of following instructions. “I just meant to do small missions, you know? Tiny things. Unnoticed things. But then it spiralled and I panicked and —”

“Lance,” Keith interrupts, putting firm hands on the paladin’s shoulders. “Shut the fuck up and start from the actual beginning.”

“Those are very contradicting instructions,” Lance says faintly.

“Jesus H Christ,” Keith says.

“Okay!” Lance says. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Shiro’s been — weird.” He side eyes Keith as he says it, as if he’s afraid Keith’s going to get mad at him.

“Go on,” Keith says, and reassuringly as he can.

“Right. He’s been kind of horrible, actually. He gets a lot of mood swings, which I understand, but he sort of takes them out on me? And only me? Like, he screams at me, Keith. All the time. Proper screaming, too, in my face and everything. It’s pretty awful.”

Keith blinks. “Shiro? Yelling?”

“I know it’s hard to believe and it sounds like I’m lying but I’m not I promise I’m telling you the truth, and I know I deserve it and say stupid things sometimes but not everything I say is stupid but he yells at me anyway and I know I shouldn’t complain because I never had to go through what he went through but it is kind of unbearable and it also feels pretty targeted which sucks and I know he was never my biggest fan but it sucks knowing that he hates me now and I don’t know what I did and —”

“Breathe, Lance,” Keith says, squeezing his shoulders. “Holy shit.”

Lance takes a huge, gasping breath. Once the air has returned to his lungs, he looks back at Keith, brown eyes wide and imploring. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” he insists again. “But — Shiro kept excluding me from missions. I just wanted to be useful again. And the Blade uniform is so easy to replicate, and I already knew all the passwords and stuff —”

“You infiltrated the Blade to do missions?”

Lance bites his lip. “Yeah. It’s — I like it. It’s kind of fun. And validating.”

Keith gets the validating part. There’s a deep sense of satisfaction that blooms in his chest every time he comes back from a successful mission, almost deep enough that it hides the loneliness. Blade missions definitely make you feel like you’re making a difference.

But fun?

“How the hell are you having fun?”

A leering smirk spreads across Lance’s face — finally, a familiar expression. Keith has seen that dumbass face right before Lance spills the cheesiest line ever to be uttered to some poor, unsuspecting attractive person, or right before he makes a ‘that’s what she said’ joke. God, Keith fucking hates that dumbass face.

He’s never been happier to see it.

“You wanna know why I chose Romanoff as my fake last name?” Lance asks, voice pitched low.

Keith would love to say no, just to throw him off his game. But he’s curious, unfortunately.

“Why?”

“Because I’m the Black Widow now, baby. I get my targets, I seduce ‘em, I handle ‘em, and I’m out before they see me. And that is fun.”

Keith flushes slightly, rolling his eyes and shoving Lance’s face away. “Okay, okay, Casanova. Cool it.”

Lance, unaffected, snickers. But quickly the mirth fades from his expression, and fades back into something worried, fearful.

“If the Blade thinks Voltron is spying on them it will crack the Coalition in half,” he says quietly. He chews his lip, staring at the floor. “I didn’t — I wasn’t thinking that far ahead, I guess. Or maybe I didn’t think I would get caught. I didn’t mean to do any big missions. I didn’t mean to be some big — thing.”

Keith swallows. “I know.”

He wonders whose side he would be expected to stand on, if it came to that. If the tentative trust between the Blades and Voltron cracked forever, if Voltron wasn’t the way he left it, if Shiro wasn’t there to call him home. He meets Lance’s eyes again and his dark eyes are watery, torn and guilty and sad. Keith’s heart lurches with his own guilt, and something heavy and fierce like longing, like I-missed-you and I’m-sorry-I-wasn’t-there all at once.

“I didn’t know who else to turn to,” he admits, softer. “I trust you. I’m sorry.”

He looks hunched and unsure of himself and he says I didn’t know who else to turn to I’m sorry and Keith hears There are five lions and six paladins, you do the math. And he knows he ran then and it fixed things but this time Lance is doing the running, this time Lance is the one who is looking between Voltron and other and doesn’t know what to do, and suddenly Keith’s choice is clear as day and the words come to him easily, without struggle.

“Alright, Sharpshooter,” he says, spine straight and voice firm. “Let’s go. Tell me the plan on the way out.”

Lance grins, wide and bright and beautiful, and the loneliness and fear evaporates in Keith’s chest.

———

part one

[onyourhyuck]

His Princess | n.jm 18+

synopsis; “do you like it? i put it on just for you.” where y/n puts on something sexy for her boyfriend jaemin and he no longer has the will to control himself.

warning; this is smut but wholesome too, mention of sensual sex, riding, sucking boobs, hugging position, jaemin praises and compliments y/n so much. y/n’s pet name is Princess. mention of aftercare!

♚ ♚ ♚

“do you like it? i put it on just for you.” you said with a cheerful tone, revealing the lingerie you bought recently for jaemin to see. the man in front of you had his jaw dropped to the floor, eyes could not be taken off your beautiful body, how it looked. your boobs peeking through the bra that had such pretty designs, the colour suiting the complexion of your skin.

jaemin’s lips went into a thin line, hands sneaking up from your legs to your asscheeks, cupping them. the panties felt soft, their designs were laced keeping it tidy and neat at the same time unable to look away from how amazing it looked on you.

his hands made you giggle at the ticklish sensation. “you look so pretty princess,” he had his face in your chest, smelling the scent of your fresh skin out of shower. your hair was still wet slightly curling around due to the effect of the shower.

jaemin lifts you on the bed having you on top of him, kissing your neck, instantly having a hold of your sweet spot on the soft milky skin of yours. lips leaving a slight whine when jaemin squeezed your breasts with his palm.

“so beautiful, amazing, is there anything you can’t do princess?” jaemin slurred practically, addicted to you. he was long gone in your scent. you slightly chuckle on his words, humbly disagreeing.

he immediately had you under his fingers when y/n helped jaemin undress, he demanded you keep the lingerie on as it was necessary; you were just glad he loved it. the moment he brought you on his straddled lap, he held you into an embrace.

but his large length entered your slit in deep. the embrace both had on each other was never broken and jaemin made sure to fuck you deep in the loving position.

he would feel your body warmth radiant, the moans and your breathe hitch. y/n’s thighs the way they would shake side to side whenever you were close to your high to come. jaemin felt everything and he loved it so much, he didn’t care if he was overstimulated by this— he wanted to be.

jaemin’s eyes stay glued on the bra, he slipped one hand into it, getting out your boob on the side. the way you arched your back moaning into the air as his other hand hugged you deep into his chest, jaemin started to suck on your breast. y/n whines feeling the new sensation hit, and the knot deep into your stomach clenched his tip of the harden length.

he grunts, stuttering his hips forward in, feeling his bulge show into the skin of your stomach area. “i see myself through you, gosh you’re so petite and beautiful.” he stuttered.

“princess you’re clenching me so hard, ah.” he told, pounding into you. y/n bit her lips harshly, “so close..so..cl-ose.”

“me too, come with me.” jaemin said. the moment he did, you came along with him. both of your highs were chased, dripping down your thighs when he pulls out— your arousal was covering his tip as he filled your cervix to a brim.

the moment he caught back his breathe jaemin did not hesitate to murmur praises of how well you done. seeing the tired and fucked out expression on you causing him to immediately smother you into wholesome kisses and achievement praise for you. you just know he’s going to be taking care of you tonight and tomorrow all day.

♚ ♚ ♚

@onyourhyuck please refer from translating, copyrighting and plagiarising my work!

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[write-and-buried]

Celestial Navigation

Part 3 - First Quarter

(gif by the magnificent @pedropascalsx)

Summary; ....well, at least your boss knows your name

Warnings; drug use (marijuana), casual touching - F!Masturbation, the raunchiest nastiest, dirty talk, Dieter being a chaos gremlin, some descriptions of a really terrible workplace environment.

A/N; Once again, the love, support and kindness you all have shown this fic has truly blown me away and I cannot express how much I appreciate all of it. This has been a rough week for me, so thank you for being my safe space <3

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Well… at least she knows your name now.

Leaving the office at 5pm on a Friday is a cardinal sin. The other interns watch you with a curious expression as you gather your wallet and phone, shoving them hastily into your handbag. You hope they aren’t looking close enough at your face to see the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. If you get out of here in under a minute, you can cry safely on the street.

There’s no crying in this office. You made it through the first round of layoffs, the relief an itch in your chest as you watched co-workers pack their desks, move their little succulent plants into cardboard boxes and vanish. All their work was farmed out to all of you, 100 people whittled down to seventy with the same amount of papers. It was inevitable that something would get missed.

And you missed it. A line in one of the thousand spreadsheets, not updated, the formula not copied over. Ones and zeroes that caused the math to implode, for everything to grind to a halt until they found your error, fixed it and resumed the churning pace, each of you glued to screens with headphones and mouths set into a grim line.

She didn’t yell at you. It was in the raise of her eyebrow, the twitch of her finger over her keyboard, the way you watched her manicured nails hover over the “delete” key, as if it would have real world consequences. It was an hour of dressing down, of explaining the mistake in its simplest terms, as though you were an infant, your first class of your first year. No sympathy for the late nights or caffeine fuelled mornings, where you dragged yourself into the office mere hours after leaving it.

“I want you to take the weekend and consider your future with this company.” She sniffed, her eyes narrowing as she looked over your attire. “We certainly will”

There’s nothing waiting for you at your apartment except a Lean Cuisine and a dead plant. The streets are full of people in the same business attire as you, listening to podcasts and talking on headsets, they part around you like a rock in a river, barely noticing the tears that are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Nobody would stop if you were screaming, it doesn’t matter that it’s silent.

You start to walk.

*

Fall meant blankets for Dieter. He pulled them from the linen cupboard in his kitchen with something akin to glee, emptying the shelves of the rainbow of fleece and thick comforters, spreading them around his apartment as he walked in and out of the balcony, breathing in the air that chilled his lungs.

Summer had left without a goodbye, no final send-off of scorching heat or sticky sidewalks. Instead, the sun rose one morning on air that felt crisp, that chilled lungs and demanded steam in a hot shower, for the tea to be steeped a moment longer, the mug to warm your hands. Taking on an orange hue as the stores changed from bright colours to warm earth tones, the occasional pop of Halloween peeking through as hemlines got longer. Dieter reached for sweatpants most mornings.

He called you once a week. He saw you once a week. That was the baseline established. You would come in on a weekend in the mid-morning rush, and he would get a call, Owen, or sometimes Molly letting him know of your arrival. It was his wakeup call some days, just a few steps away from opening his eyes to see you first thing. He fell down the last stair most mornings. You would sit and talk with him, people watch in his carved out corner as you drank your coffee, ate a muffin. You asked him about himself, and he answered you honestly.

You seemed wholly unsurprised about the drugs, the women, the men. He had only made oblique references, a highlight reel of parties and tabs of LSD, you even laughed when he told you about Bertha, the strawberry-banana weed plant growing in the abandoned bathtub on his balcony. You guessed correctly that he preferred to grow his own, no pesticides or interference. He’d used the seeds from his last harvest, grown her again and marvelled at the cycle of life. Owen brought up the used coffee grounds once a week for fertilizer. He got the jars from goodwill.

You admitted your own indulgence was a glass of good Chardonnay. He’d stocked his fridge with Chablis right next to the blueberries, his whiskey remaining on top of the fridge, bottles emptied and repurposed, growing flowers out of makers mark on his nightstand.

The phone calls were his favourite. The shyness about you disappeared, you were more willing to admit things, less willing to suffer the silence as he waited for you to expand on an answer. If you didn’t want to answer something, you told him and he asked a different question. Your favourite colour was of ruby grapefruits.

He smoked and painted while you talked, bowls of fruit and tidily rolled joints accompanying your laughter. He loved to make you laugh. It tugged at his insides when you said you rarely did otherwise. On the weekends you chatted with Owen and Molly, lingering at the counter while Owen ground and pressed, and Molly doodled on your receipt. They knew better than to charge you, so you compromised by buying someone else’s.

You had no tattoos, the only piercings simple studs in your ear. You’d looked interested as he slowly filled in the triangles on his forearms, but didn’t ask him. He was still resisting the urge to push, to unfurl his fingers and reach to touch you in those quiet lulls of conversation. Feel your skin again under his thumbs, as if he could ever forget the sensation.

The scent of melted dark chocolate and cannabutter was thick in his kitchen. He could feel a mild contact high as a fuzz in his limbs as he watched them blend together. A floured pan was waiting for the brownies off to the side, and so far he’d only burned the tip of one finger on the cooktop. His lungs were too old for the crispness of the air, and after a few days of sobriety in the guise of a tolerance break, he found the scribbled brownie recipe in a Julia Child cookbook he had been given more than a decade ago.

He would call you tonight. Your last call had ended with his honesty. You still seemed to hedge whenever he opened, this delicate dance of advance and retreat. Every time you asked a question, you knew the answer, but seemed surprised when he gave it to you anyway. It was well past two am, the streets quiet as he watched the fan spin above him, listened to you talk again about ambitions and goals and plans that had more steps than the recipes he followed.

You hesitated, faltering at the finish. He wanted to ask you “What then?” what happens when you check every item off your list, when you’ve undoubtably achieved everything you want to and there’s no moon left to reach for – which lofty star would gain the focus of your new pursuits. But he let the silence linger, waiting for the question he could taste in the air, smoke curling from the ashtray at his bedside.

“Dieter… do you ever wonder what the rest of your life looks like?”

“No Loulou… this is the rest of my life. Talking on the phone with you.”

*

“Sorry we’re closed”

The bell creaks your arrival, groaning under the pressure of the day as you shove the door open. You don’t know why you’re here, why your feet brought you, protesting the impractical heels that carried you blocks and blocks in the dwindling sunlight. Everything hurts from crying, your face angry hot from the tears. The reasons left you in the smog from screaming cabs, catching in the choking pollution until you were blind with it, left with nothing but a hollow despair.

“Did you hear, I said… oh fuck!” Owen turned and blanched as he looked at you, dropping the rag he was using to polish the gleaming machine.

“I’m ok, everything’s ok, I’m sorry, I just…” you start, shame creeping up your spine as you watch the colour drain from his thin face. He scrambles, beads clinking merrily as he ducks behind the curtain.

“DIETER!” His voice booms, loud and echoing around the empty shop as you jump, holding your elbows as you glance at the door, wanting to run, to go home to your dead plant and sad dinner and pretend you didn’t have a breakdown. To glance nervously at your phone with a glass of chardonnay and hope he calls.

Instead he appears, dishevelled in sweats and a bathrobe that’s at least three sizes too big. He’s wearing sunglasses, there’s a stain that looks like chocolate on his cheek. He carries with him the same frantic energy, spiced this time with fear as he sees you, takes stock of your appearance and points at the chair, the faded mustard yellow that’s unofficially yours.

“Owen, grab one of those veggie pastries, make a hot chocolate and fuck off” he says, his voice stricter than you’ve heard it before, a glint of danger as he watches you, the painful shuffle as you make your way through the mismatched desks and tables.

He crouches rather than sits, close enough that you can smell the air on him, the crispness of fall and spices that cling to his clothing. Close enough you could count the greys in his beard. He watches as you fold in on yourself, shoes dropping to the floor with an echoing thunk as you curl into the familiar softness of his company. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes darting frantically around your features as you hear Owen in the background.

There’s a clink, a steaming cup and a plate placed beside you, as Owen offers you a smile, palms Dieter’s shoulder as he leaves in silence. The lock sounds heavy as it clicks behind him.

“Eat, Loulou” he says, his hands splayed wide on the armrests of the chair. You watch as his thumbs tick like metronomes as he strokes the fabric. This is the closest he’s been, since that first day. He doesn’t touch you, besides the accidental brushing of clothed knees as you sit in the mid mornings. He gestures when he talks, tugging at his clothes or his hair, watching your own limbs as you sit still, pen poised in your grip, hovering over the journal you always intend to write in.

The pastry is good, full of rich vegetables and buttery soft flakes, the hot chocolate steals the heat from your face, distributing it throughout your body as he waits patiently for you to finish. He brings you an extra napkin, you dry your eyes.

“Owen can’t deal with crying women. We had this woman once, who would come in and read these tragic romances, and sob over her latte. He went to this bookstore in Hell’s Kitchen and bought her all these bodice ripping pirate novels and told her she was banned from reading anything without at least two nipples on the front cover.”

You hiccup a laugh.

“Her names Mallory, they trade Kindle recommendations for books with aliens with blue dicks now”

“I’m sorry Dieter, I didn’t mean to… I should just go, this was stupid, I’m sorry, I’ve worried you for nothing and it’s stupid really. Honestly, I’m fine, it was just a bad day, I made this mistake, and it was completely my fault and I should have known better and I shouldn’t be crying, I should have just done it properly the first time”

“Can I give you a hug?” He asks. “Would that be okay?”

He waits. Perched on the balls of his feet as though his knees aren’t screaming in protest, as if his whole body hadn’t been jolted by electricity from the sight of you in pain. The roar of primal rage that flooded every sense the minute he saw the tears glistening on your cheeks brought him back to his youth, to the cocaine fuelled bar brawls and waking up with sticky fists. He gave it up in his twenties, but found he felt the need to scorch the earth to find those that caused you pain. You nod. Just a tiny jerk of your chin, your eyes filling again as he watches your fiddle with the hem of your shirt, looking down to try and blink them away.

He's stronger than he looks. The baggy clothes hiding a thick frame as he lifts you, depositing you back onto the armchair, curled exactly the same with him beneath you. He wraps the bathrobe around you both, bringing his arms around your middle as your head rests on his shoulder. He’s warm. Soft and broad beneath you as you feel his body still when your hair brushes his cheek.

Its easier, to bury the words in his skin. To talk into his shoulder, your eyes on the pulse of his throat as you explain your day. The dressing down from your boss, the judgemental eyes on you as you left the fluorescent lighting of the office, the pain in your feet from walking here. That you weren’t even sure why you were here, just that you didn’t want to go home. His thumb smooths a steady rhythm on your hip, rubbing tiny gentle circles over the robe and your clothing. You can feel him breathing beneath you, his warmth floods your senses.

“You don’t have to go home” he says quietly.

He still thinks you’re soulmates. He still thinks that this friendship you’ve fostered is the kindling to a blazing inferno. You don’t tell him about the coffee dates you sometimes go on throughout the week, about the men you swipe right on Tinder, the hopes you pin to white smiles and JDs.

“I can’t”

“I have a batch of weed brownies cooling on the counter. A stack of movies and very comfy couch. Nothing else.” He says, shrugging so you look at him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes” its an answer without hesitation.

“I’m not going to use your shitty workday as an excuse to tempt you into bed. We can get high and watch movies and fall asleep. That’s it – we’re friends right now Loulou, this is what friends do. Promise”

He hooks his pinkie into yours, nudging his nose against your cheek as he nods, waiting for you to agree. When you do, he lifts you to your feet, grabbing your shoes as you wander slowly behind the beaded curtain.

*

Everything is green. There are plants in every corner of the apartment. Apartment is generous for the room you’re standing in. Shaped in an awkward rectangle with a sliding door, a small kitchen is crammed into a corner, shelves sit uneven, their contents sliding drunk with gravity. A huge deep green couch in front of a large television, looking every bit as soft and comfortable as promised. Hiding behind a wicker screen is his bed, which is when you start laughing.

“Like it?” he asks, grinning as he flicks off light switches, darkening the hallway leading to the stairs. Its round. Huge and sprawling, pillows piled against the wall with crisp sheets tucked awkwardly on the rounded edges. You can see where he sleeps with the comforter, puddled in the middle and your brain provides you with an absurd image of him, a frog on this lily pad, talking on the phone with you as the ceiling fan spins above.

“It’s very you” you shrug, gravitating towards the corner, paint and canvases stacked like pizza boxes, a tower almost as tall as you. The easel is propped on a brick, the work only half finished as you look at it. Its streaks of midnight, deep rich blues as you look closer, the tiny speckles of the universe behind a moon made of spun lace, glued to the canvas. In the foreground, two tiny figures sit hand in hand, as if observing the webbing above them.

“This is beautiful” you say, reaching your hand towards the texture, stopping yourself at the smell of fresh paint. He hasn’t finished it yet, some white canvas peeking through the edges.

“Thank you” he says, grabbing your hand and pressing forward. Your fingerprints are left on the sticky surface, they come away streaked purple. “I’m going to suggest something that’s going to freak you out a little bit. Take a shower. I’m going to give you some of my clothes to change into – you can’t be comfortable all buttoned up like this. Half a brownie and a shower, and then we’ll watch some movies”

He wipes your hand on his shirt, taking most of the pigment with it as he strolls to his cluttered counter, a tray of half cut brownies waiting on the edge, balanced precariously. You can see the jars behind him, half full of buds of weed in mason jars. There’s an orchid growing out of a bottle of Makers Mark.

He grabs dark sweats from a haphazardly folded pile, pulls one shirt, then another, before settling on a third and giving them to you. From his pantry he gives pulls a towel in jewel tones before opening the door to his bathroom, depositing them on a cluttered vanity. You catch a glimpse of more plants before he skitters back to the kitchen, a knife held loosely in his grip as he ponders the slab of brownie.

“Have you…”

“I went to college Dieter” you reply, rolling your eyes.

He cuts two pieces, cutting one in half before offering it to you. The chocolate smells rich and heavenly, decadent in the weight of it as you take a bite, the flavours exploding across your tongue as you taste cinnamon and brown sugar, just a hint of the vegetal weed exploding across your senses.

He eats the other half, and then another piece as you finish yours. You notice the way he lingers on your lips as you suck the chocolate from your thumb. He points to the bathroom; you enter to another jungle. There’s a plant in a terracotta pot in the corner of his shower. All the soap is cluttered on the floor.

But the shower itself is a marvel. You lock the door behind you and stare, the giant square head protruding right from the ceiling, and you know it will rain down on you like that first day you met him, heavy and warm and soothing. You fold your clothes neatly, rolling them to fit in your handbag as you turn the water on, immediately jealous of the hot water streaming from his taps.

It washes down the drain at your feet as you turn under the heavy spray. The tension that had been slowly leaking from your pores turns to a gush as you relax, allowing your eyes to drift shut as the hot water hammers your shoulders, your palms braced on the tile. Idly, you wonder if Dieter had ever placed his hands here, if he stood in this same position.

It was cold enough to stand outside and will himself to calm down. The sound of the shower had his cock perking up with interest. It had been silenced by your tears as you moulded yourself onto his lap, but the idea that you were naked mere feet from him had brought it back to life with a roar. He forced himself into the cold, tucking himself into the waistband of his sweats as he looked over his apartment. He shoved the toys into the bottom drawer, wincing at the stickiness of dried lube as he made note to run them through the dishwasher in the morning. He turned off the overhead lights, grabbing a weighted blanket from the bed and throwing it with a grunt onto the couch.

The lava lamp on the coffee table gave off a blueish softness, making him feel as though he was underwater, his limbs heavy as he loaded up a bowl with salted cashews, grabbing a few sodas from his fridge as he scrolled through the DVD menu, waiting to hear the water stop.

Oh. Oh.

Oh, you look so good in his clothes. Your hair is still damp as you exit, clouds of steam billowing with you as if you’re a goddess come to earth, shoving your handbag into a corner with his laundry. His brain is static, all white noise and lust as he watches the way his shirt stretches across your tits. You’re wearing fabric that has touched his skin, that smells like him. You’re going to smell like him. His cock twitches dangerously at his hip.

“Dracula first” he says, amazed he found words other than begging you to let him taste what you taste like mixed together.

*

Everything is so deliciously warm. You’re under a blanket that presses on your thighs, the weight making you feel heavy. Everything is clouds and deep breaths, blurry and hazy, a film left too long exposed. Your fingers are salty from cashews, the texture on your skin making a pleasant hum as you shift closer to Dieter again. He’s blurry too, as though you’re looking at him underwater, and your palm, swimming in and out of focus makes you giggle, as you trace the lines he did, trying to recreate his steps.

“Mount of Venus” you say, your tongue thick and warbling as you press into the padded flesh.

“Mhm” he replies, deep and rumbling, an ancient carving next to you. You rest your head on his shoulder, your palm in his lap and wait.

“Pleasure” he says, his fingers twitching across the blanket. “Love of beauty, and expression. Warm and open, giving to others. Intimacy, sexual expression”

“You said mine was pronounced.” You grab his hand, flipping it in the mirror of your first meeting, trailing your fingers across his palm. You feel him shiver next to you. “Yours is too”

“Mhm” he repeats, his head lolling to look at you. He’s beautiful really. The blue shadows dancing across his features. His skin is soft, the lines deep in his face. There are mismatched patches on his beard, he’s greying around the jaw. You want to scrape a finger across it, but your arms feel too heavy to lift.

“I’m not going to kiss you Bette” he says, flipping his hand onto yours, matching those movements with a delicate touch. It races up your spine, flames licking at your senses as you sigh, shift even closer to him.

“Why not?”

“We’re high. And I made a promise. And I haven’t gotten tested, and you haven’t gotten tested, so even if I was going to kiss you, I’d have to deny myself everything else. And if I did kiss you, you’d vanish so fast in the morning, and it would take months to get back here. And if I want you like this by the New Year, it’s better to be patient”

He sounds sober in the moment. A determination in his voice as he presses his thumb into your pulse. You know he’s right. The tiny voice that’s drowned by weed shouts agreement. You would run from him in the morning – you’d know immediately it was a mistake.

“And if we weren’t?” you ask, edging yourself over the flame.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, nodding to the TV, where Boris Karloff follows the Ave Maria to find a friend.

“Tell me what I’m missing”

“Have you ever been properly fucked beautiful girl?”

He watches the way your pupils’ contract. The tremble in your lip at the hitch in your breath. He feels your pulse jump beneath his fingers, feels the twin twitch beneath his own sweats. He’s thought about nothing but properly fucking you, of taking apart every put together piece of you and rearranging them between his sheets. Of finding every spot that makes you giggle, squirm, moan. Of what you look like covered in a thin film of sweat, of the way you swallow when you cum.

“Yes” you whisper.

“Liar” he accuses. “You’d be thinking of them right now, not wondering what I mean. Do you know what I mean Loulou? When I say I want to properly fuck you?”

“No” its breathy and soft, and he knows that’s exactly what you’ll sound like when he finally buries himself to the hilt inside you.

“I’ve thought about it a lot.”

He’s throbbing, thankful and mournful for the weighted blanket not betraying the weight of his cock pressed into his hip. He can feel it, the first sticky bead as it seeps into the waistband. You’re watching his mouth, your eyes focused on his tongue over teeth as he sucks in a breath, tries to calm himself.

“I’d start at your neck. I know someone in college probably got it right on accident. Found the spot where if you scrape their teeth just right, you’d whimper. That spot, and then the others, under your jaw, right down the middle of your throat. I’m going to mark you; my beard alone will leave you red. But I want my teeth as well, I want to brand it right over your pulse, watch it bloom like an opening flower. I want you weak kneed, grinding up against me because you’re already soaking wet.”

“Do you think you’re that good?”

“I know I’m that good. It’s the getting you naked part that will be a problem the first time. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself. I think I’m going to destroy a bit of your clothing, my clothing, to begin with. I’m a fan of a good striptease, but I think that will have to wait until later. Once the ravenous hunger has died down a bit.”

You squirm. Just enough that he knows you’re pressing your thighs together, that some of the lazy warmth has concentrated right between your legs.

“I have to taste you. I’m desperate to taste you. Some days I lay on that bed and think about all the different ways I want to. I want to have you spread open on that armchair downstairs so I can see just how wet you are – I want you on my face, I want to pull all your weight on me, so I can feel how your whole body twitches when you cum. I want to watch you open for me, watch the way your clit swells every time I wrap my lips around it, the throbbing of your cunt before I even work my fingers inside.”

You whimper. Its enough to make him hiss. A strain against his muscles as he grinds his hips into nothing. You’re both unsettled now, shifting to find comfort against your own skin. His cock hurts, and you’re right here and you smell like him, and all he’s touching is your palm.

“You’d take one finger for me, easy. Two and three might take more coaxing, but I know you’ll take them for me. You’ll be so out of it by the first time I make you cum that the second and third will feel like a wave, crashing and breaking and not stopping. I think three might make you squirt; I hope it does. I want to be drenched in you, drink it down. I think you’re going to taste like blueberries, sugared and sweet and dripping. I want my palm soaked in you; this mount of Venus pressed right up against your clit. If you’re good for me, if you do what I want, I’ll share. I’ll gather all of you onto my tongue and spit it right in your mouth. Ill make you cum again with my tongue halfway down your throat.”

“Jesus…”

“You need stretching Loulou. I need to take my time, even though I’ll be fucking the sheets like a wild animal, getting them sticky and wet with how much I want you. If you’re sitting on my face, you might see me fuck my fist to take the edge off – a poor substitute as I’ve discovered”

“Why?”

“You know why” he replies, flipping your wrist to press against him over the blankets. He watches as your eyes widen, the thickness of him matching the delicate bones in your wrist. He pulls your hand away before you can curl your fingers in the fabric. He watches your free hand disappear beneath the blankets, the way your eyes glaze over as you press your fingers between your thighs.

“Once you’re ready, you’ll have to get used to it. It’s going to take time, for me to cram my cock inside you. You’re going to feel like heaven, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to hold off from pounding your slick little cunt. I’ll need you to help me, rake your nails through my hair, down my back, mark me up like I’ve marked you. If you need toys, I have them. If you want to watch the way you fit me I’ll film it.”

“Then what” he can see your hips rocking beneath the blankets. The lazy slow fucking of your own hand over his clothing makes him groan. He’s dangerously close himself, the weight of the elastic on the head of his cock enough to have him dribbling, he can feel it sliding over his skin, seeping into his shirt as he closes his eyes, willing himself not to cum.

“You’ll get fucked properly beautiful. I’ll fuck you until you can’t form words, until you’re drooling from my fingers in your mouth, until you can’t hold yourself upright. Until all your body knows how to do is submit to it. To give in and sink under and cum again, so hard you squeeze my fat cock out, so I can run it across that swollen berry of a clit and make you scream. Wherever I cum, you’re sharing. If its in your pretty little mouth you can’t swallow, I want to kiss you till its dripping all over your tits. If its inside you I’m going to fuck a dildo into you and lick it off. I want it on your skin, I want it on my skin. I want every time to be so fucking filthy we need to change the sheets. I want you as ruined as I am, for anybody else but me.”

“Dieter…” you whimper, your nails digging into his palm as he watches you stiffen, the little shudders across your skin as it breaks out in goosebumps, your mouth falling open in a moan. The bite of pain across his hand strikes the match and he cums, panting and untouched into his own skin, threading his fingers through yours to hold your hand, both of you squeezing in time.

He shifts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he drags you to lay in the deep couch, curled up against his chest. You can smell the mingled scent of your release in the air as you press your face into his shirt, suddenly embarrassed as his hand rests between your shoulder blades.

“Then… we do this. You lay in my arms, or I lay in yours and we catch our breath together. There will be some differences, if you’re wearing a shirt, my hand will be up it, I can already tell I’m going to be obsessed with your tits”

You smile, some of the embarrassment shrinking at the matter-of-factness in his tone.

“And then we fall asleep, and when we wake up, we do it all again. That is the rest of my life Loulou.”

You can’t think of what to say. Shifting to place your hands on his hips you allow yourself the luxury of relaxing into his arms, his thumb stroking the same metronome on your spine as you close your eyes and let the exhaustion pull you under, a deep and dreamless sleep.

You wake before him in the morning. The sobering light coming from his balcony makes you stiffen. Fear boils like filtered water through your blood as you taste salt on your lips. His hold on you has slackened in sleep, allowing you to slip free without waking him, searching for your shoes, grabbing your handbag from the corner. Processing the night before isn’t an option. You need some distance to put it in a box, and label it as something other than the emotion coiling in your belly like an angry viper. You find your shoes on his counter.

As you walk past the couch he grabs your hand. You look down at him, his eyes bleary with sleep as he smiles at you. He says nothing, hooking his pinkie into yours and nodding. He lets you go, closing his eyes as you stand like a statue in front of him.

You don’t give yourself time to second guess the decision before you crawl back under the blanket. He reaches over you and presses play.

[vanderbrook]

His mouth remained agape as angry, wet eyes looked around at his sickening expression, his chest heaved with anxious breaths, shaking his head slowly "You... You're not my fucking boyfriend, I don't have a fucking boyfriend!" he mumbled into his palms as they slipped over his face to wipe away any tears, fingers sliding back into his hair as his nails raked across his scalp, shifting to rest his palms on to the floor, rolling on to his stomach. Swallowing down the slimy lump in his throat, the blonde shoved himself onto his feet, hands holding on to his knees as they dared to buckle under him.

Peeking through the loose strands that covered his face, shaking his head once more, a confused scowl forming deep lines of dissatisfaction on his nose and cheeks, all airways begging for air from his breakdown "You sound fucking... No, you're fucking insane, I don't even fucking know who you are!" He shouted, lunging himself and his right arm as best he could in a poor attempt to grab at him, body pivoting with the chains force, coming just feet with horrors beyond his comprehension. He felt his face drain of all colour, his voice cutting short with silent terror, pressing a loosely closed his over his mouth as he looked over months...? No, years worth of photos.

A zoomed-in photo, so blurry and shitty lay dead smack in the middle of the web - his first lacrosse game in high school. He still had black hair back then. His eyes couldn't focus, there was so much to take in - there was everything in here. Photos of him sitting in class, hanging out with friends, sneaky angles of him walking through his apartment, going on his morning jog, a few photos of him with hookups he never heard back from, there was even the odd photo of Shane sitting behind him in fast food joints or standing behind him in line, the one that stood out to him the most was a photo taken from inside of the truck. His body felt hot as beads of sweat rolled down his back, chills ripping through him in the cold room as his head slowly turned. It was him, it was always him. Taking a few steps back with hesitance till the back of his knees hit the bedframe knocking him back, the fear in his sinking heart overwhelming the pain of whacking his skull off the wall as a whimpering cry of disgust laced the tone of his voice "Y..You..." The same red truck around the corner of his apartment that he ran by every morning, the other man in the gym late at night who never seemed interested in working out, the man he cracked jokes of being the 'boogeyman' from what he chalked up to be a surreal dream, the ghostly feeling of his hand being held in the dead of night sending electricity through his arm. "I don't..." His breath quickened as his loud shouting echoed off the cold walls buried under the earth as he tugged against the chain till the delicate skin around his nailbeds began to bleed against the chaffing and rubbing of the chain tied to his fate. Coming to a halt, he looked over his shoulder with reddened puffy eyes, like a feral animal locked in a cage.

Shane sat at the booth alone, his hands anxiously tapping at the table as he waited, picking up his phone from the table to check the time. 8:10. He set it down and glanced towards the door, still closed, no one new in the bar. Riley was supposed to be here for 8:00, he was here at 7:30 ashamedly. Panicking and leaving early once the date was set into motion, unable to contain his excitement, it had to be perfect for him. He hadn't been to this bar before, and he knew Riley hadn't either, it was more of a quiet place that you had to know, to know, but a perfect medium distance for Riley to drive to, not to far for him to offer another bar, not too close for him to know it well.

His Cranberry Vodka sat in front of him half gone already from anxiously sipping it, the minutes eating away at him waiting for him to walk through the door. He had to pace himself with the drinking, he couldn't get to many drinks in before he got here, that could ruin things, remember it has to be perfect. His hand reached into the pocket of his pants, feeling the loose pills sitting in them, running over the plan in his head, once more as his mind raced, it was finally time to actually speak to him, face to face! He almost still couldn't believe Riley agreed to meet up with him, he had been so worried he wouldn't like how he looked, or just flat out reject him, but he actually said yes! It felt like fate to him. His eyes shifted to the full glass of Cranberry Vodka in front of the booth where he would hopefully soon be sitting, close enough for him to see every little detail about him, see his individual strands of hair and even maybe smell him a little, he absolutely couldn't wait, he felt like a kid the night before Christmas, patiently waiting for his present to arrive wrapped in a neat and tidy little bow.

@vanderbrook

[lisa-is-writing]

inspired by @awesomestarker 's post

Peter sincerely believed that he would outgrow this "collecting-everything-possible-from-comics-to-socks" phase. When you're sixteen, assembling a construction kit and reading comics doesn't seem like something childish. When you're nineteen, it's a little weird, but sidelong glances can be avoided if you just don't talk about it with someone other than friends. When you're twenty-three, your business starts to go up, and you have a healthy long-term relationship with Tony Stark, also known as a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and who proposed to move in together three days ago, it's a tragedy.

All of Peter's former partners viewed his hobby as something insignificant, stupid, and pointless. They laughed every time he brought a new Lego set or a fresh issue of a long-awaited Captain America comic, and indulgently ruffled his hair. They considered his bright eyes and the expression of absolute delight on his face as a sign of immaturity. So when Peter met Tony, he swore to keep his mouth shut and not even mention his strange collections. As soon as they started visiting each other, Peter scooped up all the construction kits, comics, postcards, mugs, more than thirty pairs of brand-new socks with labels, and other stuff in boxes and hid them in a far corner of the pantry. Without shelves and cabinets filled with all sorts of small things, the apartment seemed empty, it became uncomfortable for him to be at home. But this incredible relationship with Tony was worth it. He was happier with him than with anyone else.

Moving in together was only a matter of time. They had a great time together, and Peter knew that sooner or later Tony would suggest moving his things to the huge dwelling in his tower. The most important thing was that Peter wanted to live with Tony, but deliberately slowed down the process of taking their relationships to a whole new level. But after weeks of uncertainty, Tony couldn't stand it and put the question squarely, after which Peter had no choice but to agree, so as not to fuck up everything. He had hoped to just leave the boxes in the pantry and pick up the rest of his things, but he had miscalculated. He didn't think Tony would pay the movers to clean his apartment and move everything to the Tower. And when he said “clean”, he meant that only the walls, floor, ceiling and basic furniture had remained in the apartment.

In panic, he basically not came, but flew to the Tower. The penthouse met him with the living room littered with boxes and piles of things. Tony's tousled head poked out from behind the further stuff. He was smiling from ear to ear, waving his hand unusually actively at him in greeting.

"Hey, Pete!" he exclaimed happily, and got to his feet with the intention of approaching his boyfriend. Peter's heart skipped a beat when he saw one of his collectible mugs in his hands. And a little trouble if it wasn't for a mug in the shape of an ass. "I found something here-"

He didn't have time to finish. Peter flew over to Tony in a second, snatched the mug from his hands, and threw it into the nearest open box. There was the sound of broken ceramics, to which Peter grimaced – he paid five dollars for this mug. Tony froze in shock, turning his head toward the box where the piece of kitchen utensils that had been in his hands a moment ago had disappeared. Peter was clearly panicking. He left his coat and a folder of documents and ran between the dumps of boxes, checking where Tony had already looked. To his horror, the ones with Lego sets were open, and nearby he saw a package of collectible Kinder Surprise figurines. Carefully wrapped in newspapers, the mugs peeked out from under the lines of ink everywhere uneven paper breaks. Comics stood in neat columns on the floor, next to socks of all possible colours. His hands began to shake. Peter breathed nervously through his nose, closing the boxes with ragged movements, but the first try he could barely do anything. Things just flew in different directions, the cardboard was torn and crumpled in weak fingers.

"Pete," Tony called, but got was no answer. Peter was so ashamed that he kept his eyes on the floor and could barely hold back tears. "Pete, look at me." Tony sat down beside him and gently stroked his cheek with a warm hand, turning his face toward him. "What happened? Talk to me."

"I- I'll throw all this stuff away, I promise," Peter said, nodding his head in acknowledgment, then went back to putting his collections back into boxes, as far away from his eyes as possible. "Don't kick me out. I know it's stupid and childish, just let me…

"Peter!" Tony's voice was stunned. "I… w-why throw it all away? What for?"

"Because it's rubbish," Peter said impatiently, pausing for a moment; the shame slowly receded, leaving anger and annoyance after itself. He rubbed his unhealthy red cheeks with the cuff of his white shirt and shook his head. "This is complete shit and doesn't suit a grown man like me. I don't know why I didn't throw it all away sooner."

"Is this really what you think, or did someone tell you that?"

There was silence, and Peter froze in fright. His tense shoulders shook slightly, his fingers tugging at the fabric of his formal trousers. Tony was patiently silent, looking at his boyfriend with piercing eyes.

"Did you see me angry because of it," Tony said softly, "or noticed any sign of disgust?"

"No," Peter muttered under his breath, though he suspected the question was rhetorical.

"I love you," Tony's hands gently settled on his shoulders, squeezing them palpably, "and I want you to be happy. If this junk, as you say, is what it takes to bring you joy, then I'm more than willing to fill our entire apartment with it. I love you just for who you are, and these collections are a part of you. I already like them, no matter what you think of them."

Peter didn't say anything, just put his arm around Tony's neck and buried his face in the shoulder, sobbing briefly. Tony held him close and kissed the top of his head, his broad, warm hands stroking his back.

"I'm lucky to have you," Peter said, his voice muffled but not so heartbreaking anymore. "I love you so much."

"I know," Tony said, his smile palpable. "I love you, too. But you better wipe your little tears," he smiled at the bewildered look in Peter's reddened eyes and winked playfully, "we still have a lot of work to do."

And while Peter wasn't immediately convinced when most of the shelves and cabinets in their house were filled with his collections, Tony's habit of drinking coffee exclusively from an ass-shaped mug glued together from the wreckage at least made him stop considering them meaningless. And that would be enough for a while.

[loneworldgazer]

boo boos

about: where bonten gets patched up by you.. eh except for a minoorrr error

a/n: i hate writing bonten because it's so damn cliche and "you're the only one i love" type of bs but it's addicting🔫🔫

warnings: mentions of blood and violence, chapter 189-206 spoilers‼️‼️, kissing in kakucho's part

tag tag: @rindousarus, @lucylikesbluehairedmen

(lucy idk who you like in bonten but here you go😭😭)

sanzu

obviously sanzu is the type to be careless and he sometimes would scratch his face whenever a bastard had a chance to touch him but he easily kills them off

most of the times (would say 3 times), he would be high and it's a completely wrong time for him to be sent off to a mission but he lives the risks of being high so he'll just take whatever the hell mikey gave him

it would be a lot more messier execution and blood would stick and drip down his face while rindou and ran asked him to wash off the stains of his face (no sanzu, doesn't matter if it's the results of your hardwork after pill popping and killing idc)

he eventually does clean off the grime on his face and felt a stinging sensation on his cheek, he touched up everywhere on his face and the scar was lined on the left of his cheek

he sighs with a grin and pressed the wound again and again, feeling the burn of the scar opening and closing

he hums as he slid into your private room to find anything to patch him up or maybe you.. if you could

he peeked from the door way and you were writing down.. who knows? whatever you were writing down was long forgotten when you looked up cause you felt a precense and immediately rushed to sanzu

"cmere you idiot" it's the shocking way to find out, you the partner of sanzu being the bigger person than him. the other members of bonten just watches sanzu being nagged by you like a mother a lot of times when his wild ass doesn't do things right and perhaps one of them let a snicker escape.

you grabbed onto his face gently but quickly pushing him onto a chair and he whistles like a tease to your concerned actions and you grumbled under your breath because of your wreck of a husband. you stopped going through the medkit and paused to look at him, he knows you wanted to pop a question so he tilted his head yo let him know what is it.

"um.. are you okay with hello kitty bandaids?" it was reasonable for him to laugh very loudly because you looked so nervous when you couldn't find any normal bandaids and you didn't say anything when you wiped a clean rag over him. well until he stopped laughing.

"i don't want to make you look like a fool infront of the other members, you clown"

"what are you a kid, why do you even have hello kitty bandaids in the first place hm~?" you told him with a smile threatening to grow on your lips that it was ridiculously cute that you had to buy it. don't waste your chance before it's out of stock <33

so he agrees,

one of the many things that his sweet partner can intoduce him is wearing hello kitty bandaids that fits his hair colour

he DOES NOT give two shits if any of bonten were to make fun of him, he doesn't care if he had to be called preschooler or that you were sending him to school but all that matters is to be showy with his glamarous bandaids that he had so he could remember that sweet expression on your face when he decides to wear them

it's completely okay if you called him extra because you know this man has the audacity to ask if you had hello kitty bandages if his arms bled

extra!!:

"sanzu, do you think this is a fashion show" you deadpanned at him when you see him sneaking on bandaids on his face, to what show you? because you know damn we this fool is wasting precious stuff during the time he won't need it.

he slowly starts peeling off another one when you start scolding him, giving empty threats on how you'll wrap him up in bandages to bury him later and the time you turn around again is where he quickly pushed the sticky bandaid on you.

"there, we're matching!" he points at the mirror or better he shifts you towards the mirror by grabbing your waist and loosely hugging it when you look at the glass when both you and sanzu had the cute bandaid on both your noses.

perhaps you shouldn't rub your temples and stress about this a lot because your husband will not take this seriously.

mikey

this was a boss we're talking about so mikey had to intervine because this smart group of asses are actually breaking into bonten's bank, carefully taken care by the haitani brothers

the boss got held at gun point before the last few seconds of his breath to get him to spill but mikey got impatient and accidently killed him too soon

mikey gripped the gun in frustration that his fingers could form a bruise with how hard he's holding it, an unfortunate turn of events had happened when the windows in all the rooms got smashed in by the other members of the sleaze he killed and managed to land a kick on his head

sanzu dealt with the problem quickly, blocking mikey from the enemies slinging the katana he had lazily on his side with a crazed glint in his eyes threatening the other members from getting way too close

the kick was unnessarily strong for no reason that mikey wobbled to his knees to the sheer impact the feet of the slain man (sanzu specially killed) could effect him so much

kakucho swiftly lead mikey out of the room whilst shooting down any person running in

mikey settled in your shared bedroom as he informed sanzu and kakucho to put him in the room whenever anything serious occured because he atleast wanted to see his beloved when he wakes up

the soft plush pilliows greeted his head as his half unconscious form laid on the bed before his eyes gave up and met darkness (like his impulses‼️‼️)

the taps of a wet cloth made him jolt out of his slumber and you panicked, telling him it's just you and you were just taking care of him while he's asleep. his head hurted when he shifted to look at you and you gently told him to rest when he feels bandages wrapped around his head.

he sensed your worry when your lips trembled on the face of his skin when you pecked kisses all over him and he couldn't help pulling you over into a hug which you squeled when you stumbled out of your chair.

"sleep with me love" he kissed you back on all the places you touched him with your lips to calm down the hurting beats of your heart when you see him writhing from the danger he put himself in, you held his face which he tiredly nodded to your thoughts which were all concerned for him.

you're worried if the head injury's bad, nah don't he shakes his head if you ever think that, he just needs to bask in the comfort of his love.

hours passed as mikey fell asleep in your arms, relaxed by your side when he wakes up but eventually he had to talk to the other bonten members for them to fill him in on any news

he reluctantly gets up because he wanted to still admire your sleeping face, the serene peace you were in as your chest slowly bumps on his arm when you breathe in and out when he shifts away made him feel bad but he had no choice

this was sonething he worried about and he didn't want to happen but he felt your fingertips on his back when you reached for him to stay

"mm.. mikey, your face.."

he touches his face feeling baindaids on it and he got on his knees to stare at your lips and to hear what you wanted to say

"um.. we ran out of actual bandaids from the last time you got hurt but i found my rabbit bandaids but i don't know if you want to go out to the others like.."

you stopped rambling when he puts his head down to laugh quietly to how worried you got, he shushed you to not get so concerned and he looks in the mirror to see the bandaids plastered on his cheek. he waved at you before going and shut the door noiselessly.

there's no need to be scared of his public image or whatever, mikey nonchalantly wore it around the members, he didn't mind if they let out an amused sound of them when the feared leader of bonten walks around with cute rabbits plastered on his face.

even he couldn't keep a grin from slipping out.

kakucho

they had divisions and they were given to kakucho and sanzu, mikey's trusted men

they supervised their own divisions and trained them with the basics they need to know in bonten, also giving the excuse to watch out for any spies or 'traitors'

with that the two had the time of their lives.. minus kakucho, sanzu was going crazy on his men and if you glanced quickly, you wouldn't notice how hard sanzu was on his men

there were times that sanzu might've just played all of them and kick their teeth out instead of doing warmups with them but kakucho's a lot more responsible while sanzu was respected in fear, everyone respected kakucho because of his strength and level headed behaviour

the division each took turn with kakucho, sparring with one another eventhough it might've taken a whole day because he wanted to see how capable they are without dreading that their lives would be in danger if he took his eyes off one of his men

let's just say some of them were really aggresive

while kakucho would applaud them for this to be absolute beasts in beating the hell of out of him in the session, he still tasted spite from getting pushed back and forth but he kept cool and thought this as a process for his patience

by the end of the day, everything's dismissed and sanzu would look at him with a toothy smirk because of how much damage he endured

sanzu calls kakucho reckless as he spits at him to clamp his mouth shut before a gun goes in it as bruises and scratches were on his face, the same with sanzu who liked the pain and took a while to patch up

kakucho looks in the mirror to see how bad it is and to how bad he flinched, he gets twitchy

he thought of you, he didn't want to hurt your feelings and see you glare at him in sadness on how rough things were at the headquarters when he trained so he tried his best to get rid off any visible marks on his face

it was time for him to go back so he bowed to mikey, a sign for him to leave and trudged home to see you again

it was at dead of night, clock nearing 1am when he greets the safe home an "i'm home" and he hears the television on, he slowly walks into the living room and placed a hand on the couch to pull himself to it to see you wrapped up like a burrito and snoring a little.

he smiled to himself, his lover leaving the movie they loved playing and accidently falling asleep which made him frown a bit when he realizes that you were probably waiting for him to reach.

he patted your shoulder and whisperes that he's home and asked for you to hold on when he carried you in his arms and hugged you tighter when you were all warm but your hands cold when he felt it sting against the back of his neck. he planted you on the cold sheets of the bed which you stretched like a cat to look up at him and he hisses at you not to get up so quickly when you held his face.

you smashed your lips on him which he didn't expect and he felt himself heating up to how straightforward you are, you missed him so much although it's been a day. you cursed at him for being an idiot for hurting himself all over and rested your forehead on his and he feebly says his apologies.

"but you're my idiot, c'mere" his ears red when you got off the bed to open up a medkit and he tells to stop and you were not having it and you grabbed his chin for him to look at you while he squirms a little when you also have to observe his face to look at his state.

you dragged to the shower and though he hates how troubled you were when he's hurt, he finds it endearing when you start bossing him around. he really needed someone to pull him out of his roughed up state with a little scolding.

also a bonus that he's also a simp for you so it's two good things in one to obey.

extra!!:

after the warm shower and the scrubs you did to each other, he felt relaxed while you threw yourself on the bed in sleepiness but you had to deal with some things first.

you straddled his lap while applying the bandaids on his face and he squints and looks closely at it, they were small [animal/s] dancing around on the bandaid and he left out a soft chuckle that made your heart leap.

"these [animal/s] are like you" you lift an eyebrow while pressing it down on his jaw and he explained on how you were the bigger person than anyone and 'ferocious' you were but he knew that you cared deeply about the people you love.

you lightly smacked on his cheek which made him yelp, if that wasn't the cheesiest bullshit he spewed then you didn't know anymore, kakucho has his face recognized as the respectable bonten 3 but he still had the heart of a boy holding his gifted new puppy.

[sky-berrie]

Stitch - Damian

Summary: Another favorite trope - reader patches up a wound. Warning: mentions of blood. 

The window opened behind you and you felt a cool summer night breeze brush against your neck. You didn’t bother to give the intruder any attention because you knew that Damian was the only person who could disarm the alarm and crack lock mechanism with ease. You thought the whole system was overkill but it pleased Damian to have it installed so you didn’t complain.

“Hey, Damian,” you greeted him robotically with your gaze still transfixed to your laptop screen and your back to the window. You were watching the events of the latest episode of your favorite show unfold.

You heard Damian land in your room with a grunt. He was usually quite graceful, however you guessed that his ribs and hip were still sore from the last sparing session he had with his brothers and sisters. That family took everything to a whole other level.

You heard Damian shut the window after himself. The sound of the latch being secured came next. Then you heard electronic beeps as he reactivated the alarm. “You –” he let out a sharp exhale. “You took home economics, right?”

“Yeah,” you replied, nonchalantly with a mouthful of popcorn. You didn’t take your eyes off the screen, but you heard the sound of his heavy boots carry him across your room.

“Good,” he said. A shaky breath infiltrated his normally self-assured voice. “And you remember most of it?” The bed springs creaked under his weight.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“Great,” he said. “What grade did you receive?” This wasn’t all that out of character for him. Damian was competitive in all aspects of his life. You wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to compare home economics grades just so he could vaunt his skills.

“I don’t know, Damian,” you said honestly. You turned up the volume, hoping that Damian would get the hint that you wanted to watch your show in peace and quiet. “I think it was a good mark.”

Damian let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Excellent.” His voice sounded less troubled than before.

“Jon did most of my assignments,” you admitted unapologetically.

Damian was quiet for a moment. “Okay, but you attended the classes, correct?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too focused on the climax of the episode. “Oh my goodness,” you muttered under your breath to yourself as the plot twist unveiled. “Um,” you said, remembering that Damian had asked you something. “Yeah, yeah, more or less.”

“Do you remember how to sew?”

“Sort of,” you told him. You had sewn on a button once. It didn’t look great, but it definitely wasn’t going anywhere.

“Well enough,” he said. “I need you to suture a laceration.”

“What?” you choked out. He said it so nonchalantly that you weren’t sure if he was serious or not, because a sane person would not be so stoic. You whipped around to find Damian lying on your bed in his Robin uniform. It was soiled with a layer of black, like he had been charred. It was so dark that it masked the staining of his blood and you wouldn’t have known he was bleeding if it weren’t for the pool of red soaking through your white comforter. He was holding his side with his hands at an awkward angle.

You had seen him with cuts and bruises and even broken bones, but never with the life bleeding out of him. “Oh my goodness!” you shrieked as panic filled your lungs. Your face contorted into a horrified grimace as you tried to stifle an expression of disgust. The strong stench of metal made your stomach churn and your head woozy.

You immediately felt horrible for not paying attention to him sooner. “Damian, why didn’t you say something? Holy crap! What the hell happened? You need an ambulance!” You turned around to reach for your phone.

“No,” Damian choked out. “Secret… identity,” he said with his eyes squeezed shut.

“What about your brothers and sisters? Your dad? Alfred?”

“On their way. No time to wait. First aid kit,” he implored weakly.

You ran for the bathroom and tore into the cabinet to find the massive first aid kit that Damian insisted you store. You had opened it once or twice to grab a bandage for a paper cut but you never touched the majority of the contents. You didn’t even know what half of the kit was for. You guessed that you might find out today.

When you returned to your room, Damian was moving slowly to unbutton his uniform. You helped him with the rest, trying to do it quickly without jostling anything. You tried to ignore the squishy wetness of the uniform, but your hands came away covered in a layer of crimson blood. Beneath the outer coat, his white undershirt was seeping with blood. There was a large tear in the fabric and a bit of the raw wound peeked through.  

You didn’t have a fear of blood, really. You had no qualms about donating blood or seeing it on TV. This, however, was completely different. You were more terrified than you had ever been in your entire life. You had no idea what to do - everything you knew about CPR and standard first aid had inexplicably disappeared from your brain. Silent tears began to spill from your eyes as your breaths tore in and out of your throat, ragged and shallow.

“Y/N,” said Damian, firmly. Through your blurry, wet vision, you could see him straining to make eye contact with you. “Breathe. Everything is going to be fine. Just follow my instructions.”

Normally you trusted Damian, but this time his reassuring words didn’t have any kind of soothing effect on you. Your whole body was shaking now. You couldn’t find your voice. Instead, you shook your head.

“Yes, Y/N. It is going to be fine, but you must listen to me. Do you understand?”

You tried to take a deep breath, but an uncontrollable sob cut it short. If Damian could lie there halfway to death and still be composed, then you could at least pretend to be calm for his sake. You nodded your head this time, trying your best to even out your breathing. It was no use though. You couldn’t remember how to breathe.

“Thank you. Cut it,” he said, motioning to his undershirt.

You did as he ordered and cut a line right down the centre of his shirt. It was warm and wet and clung to his skin, so you peeled it off to reveal the full extent of a nasty looking wound. Even through your distorted, teary vision, you saw enough to know it was not good.

You felt faint at the sight of his insides. Or maybe it was your hyperventilating making you dizzy.  

“Breathe, Y/N. Breathe and then get the sterile solution to irrigate it.”

You returned with freshly washed hands, a pair of gloves and a jug of irrigation solution. Following his instructions, you squeezed the syringe and expelled the liquid over his wound. It ran down his side and carried even more blood into your comforter.

“Okay,” he breathed out. “There should be a small white packet with a curved need and thread and a pair of suture holders. They look like scissors but without the blades.”

Your trembling hands had a difficult time picking out the items. Once you collected the materials, you looked at Damian for further directions.

“It’s a bit deep so you’ll need to close the layer under the skin first. Can you see it?”

You shook your head. His side was a giant red mess. You couldn’t make out anything except for blood and jagged skin. It was nothing like the clean and clear-cut diagrams you’d seen in class. “This is crazy! I can’t do this,” you cried. People spent years studying and training to do procedures like this. Stitching up a body was not something that a person should wing, and definitely not on their best friend, lying in an unsterile room.

“You can,” he assured you. “Pretend like you’re sewing some fabric. Start with this layer here.” Damian pulled at his skin and pointed to the inside with a pair of suture forceps. You couldn’t help but turn away and shut your eyes as he prodded himself. “Y/N,” he called your attention back. “Make sure the needle goes in like this and comes out like this,” said Damian as he demonstrated.

You were shaking your head. “You are absolutely insane! Sewing fabric is nothing like sewing a wound! Can’t we just wait for your dad or someone?”

“No time,” he said.

“Please, Damian,” you begged. “Let me call EMS.”

“No,” he asserted with what little strength he had.

“Please! I…”

“No,” he repeated. You could tell his patience was wearing thin.

“I understand you have to protect your secret identity, but Damian, come on. There won’t be an identity to protect if you die.”

“Batman…Nightwing…” he said weakly.

“They’ll understand!” you argued with desperation.

“No,” he mumbled. He shook his head.

Without any thought, your next words came flooding out straight from your heart. “Damian, I love you and I don’t want you to die!” Oh. That came as a shock to you. You’d never said anything like that before. In fact, you’d never even had a thought like that, but you knew it was the truth. Your hands almost flew to cover your mouth in regret, but the blood dripping from your hands stopped you.

Damian didn’t seem to notice your confession, or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge it. Had you not been utterly distracted by the emergency before you, you might have run away with embarrassment from your sudden proclamation.

“Please try for me, okay?” His eyes were starting to close, but you could see him struggle to keep them open.

You searched his eyes, to see that his once vibrant green eyes had a dull, hazy colour to them. Seeming to find what you were looking for, you conceded. You swallowed a lump in your throat. “Okay.”

It was the worst experience of your life. Damian walked you through the process, but nothing could prepare you for the nauseating feeling of piercing his skin and pulling the nylon thread through the thickness of the tissue. Seeing the inside of his body made you want to vomit but his life was at stake, and you had to be brave for him. Besides, he was the one who should be worried, not you. Your technique was obviously non-existent and you were certain that you were hurting him a hell of a lot more than he was letting on. He hissed and groaned and you apologized profusely but he insisted that you continue.

“Thank you,” said Damian after you tied the last knot. His eyes were heavy and lidded and you could tell he was barely hanging on to consciousness. “Knew you could do it.”

You had no response. Now that the worst part was over, the adrenaline had left your system and you were in shock. His hand lolled out in an attempt to offer you comfort, or maybe to seek comfort for himself. You weren’t certain which is was, but nevertheless, you instinctively clasped his hand in yours.

Then he said something that caught you off guard. His voice was so faint that you barely heard him. “For the record, I love you, as well.”

You weren’t sure if he really meant it. Maybe he was delirious. He did lose a lot of blood. You pondered it for a moment and wondered if you should feel mortally embarrassed when he was fully lucid, but just then, a gentle squeeze on your hand told you that you didn’t have to worry.