#but I might draw dimitri

[wild-moss-art]

Petra in repose

[umbra-borealis]

Beach Bastard.

Just a quick colored sketch thingie for practice because I barely draw lizards and Marine Iguanas are a whole different can of beans to draw because of how funni their faces are. This will have to do for now.

(Also why did they make him so wrinkly in canon have you SEEN Marine Iguanas??? They're fucking JACKED)

[mixed-up-metaphors]

weird practice doodle comic thing idk 2/2

(first one is over here)

in case you are bamboozled and missed the first post this is just me ranting/rambling abt dimitri and ashe and ghosts in comic form

huzzah, the rest of the first one featuring uhhhhhhh idk lol its like the first one. But Now With A Brief Appearance From Our Special Guest, Dedue!!!!!!!!

[srapsodia]

byleth doodles ⚔🦴🌟

[lidensword]

So... A while ago I created a fictional historical character mainly for the fun of his name - Jean Héras Lebol (which, in French, is nothing more than a pun: you pronounce it almost like "j'en ai ras-le-bol", which is an expression used to say you're fed up). And now he has completely consumed my mind and thoughts.

He's a French WWI infantry soldier who took part in the Great War from beginning to end.

Those are some drawings I made of him a while ago. Later I'll share more.

Additional info below the cut:

The scar on the right side of his face is the result of hand-to-hand combat in which a bayonet ripped through his cheek.

When someone talks to him, he often turns his face to the left side, not to hide the scar, but because his right ear is deaf. His partial deafness is due to the explosion of a shell very close to him during trench warfare.

He's now part of my sister's story "Fruits de Coincidence" (my sister kindly adopted him and gave him a family and two nephews and their friends to look after, namely Célestin and Freddy).

[edns]

It's Cyrus's birthday <3 So here's a little treat for him that I don't think I can post uncropped lol. You can see the full image on my bsky (edns.bsky.social) :P

[quibbs126]

So after drawing fancy Clive, I decided to just go all in and draw the others as well

I’d say Descole was the one I had the easiest time with, but maybe that’s because I draw him so much. Also, I figured out how to draw frills! Ironically, for a character who isn’t an Ace Attorney character, considering they’re the ones with the jabots. Also, I noticed after coloring that Descole’s new color scheme looks more similar to Layton.

Next was Dimitri, who I sort of just gave his Evil Layton outfit, but with his own design mixed in. To be honest, I feel like I didn’t do him that good, but I already think his normal design is nice enough, so it was a challenge

Anton I was definitely struggling with, considering he probably dresses the most fancy out of any characters, and trying to find a new look for him was difficult. Then, I was struck with the idea to use Van Zieks as an inspiration, specifically his casual outfit we see in the art book. So Anton got a top hat, which from what I can gather, would still be considered normal wear back in his time

Then we get to Don Paolo. To be perfectly honest, I was debating just not having him there, because I couldn’t figure out what to do with him. Also I had never drawn him so I thought I would botch it. But then I found an outfit that could work with him, and to be honest, I think I did pretty good

But yeah, these are my ideas for what the villains could have worn in the cafe art, hope you like them!

[numelfanclub]

glenn :] i'm sad he doesn't have a canon design so i doodled one yesterday!!

bonus magma drawings with my friend ray 🫶 there's a lot of inside jokes here so that's what the wack stuff is about

[mikiruma]

7 11 23

*dj khaled voice* ANOTHER ONE

[gloomwitchwrites]

Captain John Price x Female Reader Dark Romance

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, fake kissing, real kissing, suggestive themes, teasing

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Eight of Dangerous Pursuit (for @glitterypirateduck)

Price takes you to the first safehouse.

Chapter Seven // Chapter Nine

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dangerous pursuit masterlist

Dead people pale rather quickly.

Price is sensitive about it, shielding you from the two motionless men as he helps you toward the door.

“Don’t look,” he murmurs.

But you do.

Sick curiosity is like a sponge absorbing a spill. Even with Price’s arm around your waist and his verbal instruction prompting you not to, you still glance down, still gaze into milky, soulless eyes. It’s such a human thing to go against the grain, to do the opposite of a given warning when you know that it’s best to do as you’re told.

Blank expressions and sagging skin. Bloodless.

Why is it such a shock? Why do you gasp, stepping to the side as if the dead man will reach out to snag your ankle?

“I said to not look,” chastises Price, but there is no irritation in it. There is sadness, and a defeated sort of tone that draws up memory.

A memory of rattling pops. Drops of red on concrete. A splintered, downed door. Unmoving limbs all piled together. Reaching. Reaching and clawing toward the exit.

“You’re fine,” continues Price, squeezing your hand. “You’re safe.”

Are you? Are you safe?

Shakings hands indicate otherwise. A tremble in your lip and the stinging burn of tears are a story all its own.

It is betrayal. A sharpened axe of the executioner.

The bucket is full, contains a head, and it is this man’s face staring back at you.

It could have been you.

It likely would have if Price hadn’t been lurking nearby. That is an issue all its own. One you want an answer for but won’t ask. Not now. It isn’t the time.

You cling to your savior because it’s the only security you have. Who can you turn to? Not Alex. These are his men on the floor. It is his text you saw. Alex’s friends can’t be trusted, and even the few friends you did manage to make might just be Alex’s pawns. It’s possible that you have no one.

Only Price.

But even that is rocky.

Three years and no contact. Did he come on his own? Did someone send him? Does any of that even matter?

Price herds you around the unmoving figure, opening the apartment door, and poking his into the hall. “Clear.” He glances back. Grimaces. “Sorry.”

“For what?” you whisper.

Price shakes his head, gaze momentarily dropping to the floor before returning to your face. “Nothing.”

The hand grasping yours tightens, fingers intertwining as he tugs you out into the empty hall. Price’s warmth is refreshing yet so familiar. You remember him—at least your body does—because it instinctually sinks closer to him, keeping pace without effort.

And Price doesn’t let go of your hand, and you do not dare break the connection. Walking hand-in-hand down the hallway like a couple on their way to the grocery store, you briefly forget where you are and what has happened. That is what you tell yourself, what you picture in your mind. If you don’t, you might burst into tears.

This is Thirst all over again.

This is Dimitri. Nikola. The safehouse.

All of it.

Didn’t Laswell say that this move, that this “fresh start,” is a chance to forget and begin again with no shadow hanging over your shoulder? Where is she? Why is she not keeping tabs? Or maybe she did and Price is the one sent to deal with you like he did three years ago.

Price comes to a stop at the elevators and glances around. Frowning, he twists to look over his shoulder.

“What are you looking for?” you ask softly.

“Stairs.”

“They’re at the opposite end.”

“Fuck,” mutters Price. Still, he doesn’t release your hand.

Pressing the down arrow, Price slides a little closer to you, shoulders nearly touching. When the doors open, revealing a few people inside, his fingers stiffen. The pause lasts only a second before he steps on, tugging you along with him.

Using his height and large, muscular upper body to his advantage, Price guides you to the very back of the elevator. Instead of leaving the two of you to loiter at the back, Price pins you into one of the corners, creating a cocoon with his body. Moving in close like a lover, Price places one large hand above and to the right of your head. He leans in, lips dangerously close to yours.

“Play along,” he murmurs, almost inaudibly, before closing the distance.

Price’s lips play a dangerous game. There is no stagnant gentleness but full pursuit. There is no reason for Price to be kissing you like this, for his tongue to slip inside, or for him to lightly suck and nip at your bottom lip.

Everything in you responds, coiling tight, hands reaching to grasp the front of his jacket, to pull him closer until his need rubs against your lower belly. That one touch is enough to break the kiss, for you to pull back and inhale.

Price’s hand not on the elevator wall comes to rest at the left-side of your throat. His fingers turn inward to grasp, to pull you back to his mouth. You open for him in the quiet. You open for him as the elevator stops and dings. You open for him as the doors surrender to passenger demands and more people pile in.

“Giggle.” Price is nearly voiceless. In sudden embarrassment, you do giggle. Once it’s out of your mouth, Price is on you again. Tasting. Tasting so much more than he’s ever taken.

You shift to the left, glancing over his shoulder, questioning whether anyone is looking. Everyone else in the elevator is purposefully keeping their gaze averted.

“Eyes on me.”

Your gaze snaps back to Price, and you’re met with a heated stare. The space between your legs immediately warms and you squeeze your thighs together instantly, silently denying the connection.

The elevator dings, and the people standing just beyond Price’s back begin to exit. He waits until they’re all off before grabbing your hand and guiding you away from the wall of the elevator. Rushing toward the entrance to the parking garage, Price keeps you hidden from view, his massive shoulders and upper torso a shield from outside eyes.

Near a dark corner of the second level of the parking garage, Price approaches a black SUV with tinted windows. The sight of it there instantly draws forth the need to escape. It is a biting dog that won’t quit. Digging your feet into the concrete does nothing. Price drags you along without even glancing back.

Approaching the front passenger door, Price opens it, pulling you in front of him. With one hand on your waist, Price helps you slide into the seat. His fingers linger too long, and when he finally removes them, their phantoms remain. Hopping in the driver’s seat, Price starts the vehicle, backing out of the parking spot quickly, and heading for the exit.

Briefly, just before the two of you turn onto the street, the voice inside your head tells you to open the car door and toss yourself onto the pavement. It insists that you should run and run and run until everything is behind you again.

With the thought comes an itch in the tips of your fingers, a sudden internal jolt to do as it says.

But where would you go? What would you do?

Someone will come after you. Someone will find you.

Might be Alex. Might be Price. Or someone far worse.

“You did that on purpose.”

Price turns a corner. “Did what on purpose?”

You turn your head in his direction, frowning. “In the elevator.”

Price’s mouth is still a brand on your lips. They’re slightly tender, perhaps even a bit swollen, and there is no doubt that Price meant every kiss. People pretending don’t come together like that. They don’t engage with such passionate need.

Price stares out the windshield, but you catch the smug smile. “Was I better than your boyfriend?”

Yes, is what you want to say. Because it’s true. Alex never kissed you the way Price did.

“That’s not the point,” you snap.

“Lying to me about liking it?” Price tilts his head enough for his gaze to momentarily sweep in your direction.

“Eyes on the road,” you mutter, deliberately staring out the windshield.

Price makes several more turns before turning onto a highway. “I’m taking you to a transfer location before we move on to a safehouse.”

“The same one?” you ask, unsure of how that would work exactly. That safehouse is on the other side of the country.

“No,” answers Price. “Different.”

You lick your lips. Swallow. Saliva sticks in your throat. “What if I don’t want to go?”

Price laughs in disbelief. “You’d rather face Obolensky?”

“Alex,” you correct, automatically,

“Still sweet on him after all that, love?”

“John. Stop.” This time you turn to him, redness coiling between your ribs.

There is no denying the connection you and Price have. Three years later and it’s still fucking there. It’s still sitting in the crevices like seeds in the concrete seeking the sun.

“No ‘Captain’ this time? When you’re mad with me, you usually call me by my title.” Price says it with a bit of rough sweetness. He’s teasing but he’s also pushing like a disgruntled boyfriend.

“You’re changing the subject.”

Price shrugs and signals, taking an exit ramp into one of the nearby neighborhoods. When he doesn’t answer right away, you give up, leaning back in the chair to watch the houses go by. Some of them are clearly well loved and looked after while others have boarded up windows and overgrown lawns.

“Laswell wanted to send someone else,” says Price, cutting through the silence. “I told her that would scare you. Volunteered to do it myself.”

“Is that the only reason?” you ask, hoping that he’ll answer truthfully.

“No,” is all he says, leaving it at that.

Price pulls up to a house at the end of a street. The white paint on the side of the house is starting to peel and there are bars over the windows on the first level. He turns onto the long driveway that ropes to the back and ends at a carport. Price comes to a stop beneath it. The enclosed side faces the other houses and the open side faces the house itself.

The car is off and Price is at your door before you even have a chance to place your hand on the interior handle. There isn’t any conversation. Price offers you his hand and you take it, sliding your fingers over his palm. As he helps you out of the SUV, his other hand lightly hovers on your waist.

He’s the one who shuts the SUV door. He’s the one who walk with you up the small steps. He’s the one who punches in a keycode (not a key) and brings you inside into a kitchen. It’s plain. Simple. Minimalist. But clean.

Price heads down the short hallway into what you guess is the living room. You follow, find only a sofa sitting in the empty space. Standing in front of a thermostat, Price makes a few adjustments before turning to you.

“Hungry?”

You shake your head. “No. Thank you.”

“Coffee? Tea?”

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

Price nods and heads into the kitchen. Retrieving an electric kettle from one of the cabinets, Price fills it up with water before plugging it in and hitting the tab. Heading for a different cabinet, Price removes two mugs. You said you didn’t want anything and yet he’s making you some anyway.

“Shower is upstairs,” he says, digging around in the pantry for bagged tea. “Up the stairs. Second to the right. First is the bedroom.”

You nod, tugging on the sleeves of your shirt. Price glances in your direction and frowns. “Something wrong?”

Everything, John.

“No,” you shake your head, stepping out into the hall.

On soft feet, you enter the living room and head for the stairs. Pausing at the base, you glance over your shoulder at the front door. The voice telling you to run comes again, but you squash it, knowing this isn’t the time.

“There are extra clothes in the bedroom,” calls out Price from the kitchen.

You don’t answer him. Instead, you head upstairs, stopping at the first door.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, staring down at the lone mattress on the floor and the worn dresser pushed up against the wall.

It is a “transfer location” so it’s understandable that the amenities of a safehouse might not be extended to a place like this. Sighing, you yank open the dresser. Digging around, you find some black sweatpants that will fit and an oversized Harvard sweatshirt.

Taking them into the bathroom with you, you explore all the cabinets. There is shampoo and conditioner along with razors and body wash. The towels have seen better days but they’re clean and smell fresh.

You don’t need to shower. Price dragged you into the one in your apartment, but you didn’t really bathe. You just stood under the hot water until you couldn’t stand it anymore and your legs didn’t shake. But taking another one is just an excuse to put some distance between the two of you.

It isn’t until you start peeling off your clothes that you notice the blood. Not everything came off. There is blood in places you didn’t notice before. The mirror isn’t much help. It’s old and your reflection is slightly blurry. You check everything. There is dried blood under your nails and on the back of your neck. It’s in your hair too.

Turning on the water, you stand under its spray until it grows cold and runs clear. You take your time removing yourself from the steamy room. You take even longer drying your body and hair, putting on the clothes you picked out.

It isn’t until you open the bathroom door that connects directly with the bedroom that the world suddenly comes to a halt.

Price is standing next to the mattress. It’s no longer bare but covered in multiple blankets and a small pile of pillows. Next to the bed is a small folding table no taller than your knee. On it is a steaming mug of tea. There is another mug of tea but it is in Price’s fist as he brings it up to his mouth to take a sip.

All of this is true, but that isn’t what’s stopped you.

Price is…hardly wearing anything. It’s just a pair of grey sweatpants. No socks. No shirt. No hat. Just an expanse of bare skin and brown tufts of hair across his broad chest that trickle downward to disappear below the band of his pants. Your eyes follow it down, and when you glance back up, Price is staring at you with a knowing smile.

“That’s what we have to sleep on?” you blurt to try and cover up the heat rising in your cheeks.

“There a problem?” asks Price with such casualness it’s maddening.

“Yes,” you reply instantly.

Price shrugs. “It’ll be a tight fit but we’ll both fit.”

We. Both.

“What?” you stammer.

“Don’t want to sleep with me, love?” Price takes a drink. “It’s just tonight.” The cocky swagger in the way Price says it causes your stomach to flip.

“It’s fine,” you reply sharply, making sure to go to the opposite side of the bed.

Once there, you ease down on it. Price doesn’t hesitate. He moves as you do, grabbing the other mug of tea and presenting it to you.

“Just in case,” he says softly.

You gently take it, making sure not to accidentally burn yourself or Price. Bringing the mug to your mouth, you inhale the rich scents descending upward with the steam.

“Thank you.” You take a sip and your body instantly warms everywhere, the heat of the tea quickly moving through your body.

Price sinks down onto the mattress. Leaning back, all the muscles in his stomach and chest flex and lengthen. You try not to look, to keep your gaze averted, but you completely fail. Price is doing this on purpose, and that is entirely clear when he absently rubs his hand over his stomach muscles. Physically, Price is the epitome of a Greek god who’s never said no to a donut. Muscles mixed with a bit of softness.

It's mouth-watering, and it takes everything in you not to scoot a bit closer.

“Do you always sleep with your captives?”

Price laughs. “You’re not my captive.”

“But I can’t leave,” you counter.

“You want to leave me?” Price’s voice drops. It’s low. Husky. Not a threat but a questioning of intention.

“I enjoy my solitude.”

Price nods. “I know you do.” Stretching, Price sets his mug on the little table and pushes up from the mattress. He switches off the light, returning to the makeshift bed moments later.

“Give it here.” Price goes onto his knees and leans over your body, taking the mug you placed next to the bed from off the floor.

He sets it aside and then holds back the covers. “Get in.”

You do so instantly, not caring that you’re submitting to his command. Maybe it’s how the bit of moonlight cuts through the blinds that do it. The way it shines across Price’s body, highlighting the best bits. He’s careful, keeping some space between, easing in beside you but not grabbing or pulling you close.

Knowing that you’re too weak to fight off your desire for him, you turn over onto your side, silently telling yourself off for even taking this line of thought. The heat under the covers is stifling. It’s warm under all these blankets and Price’s natural body temperature is only making it worse. You keep fidgeting, keep shifting, hating that you can’t really leave but wanting to do so anyway.

Price is silent beside you and you have no idea if he’s asleep or awake. If he’s watching you or if he’s annoyed by your constant twitching. And the heat is only growing worse. Maybe you can convince him to turn the thermostat down or even crack a fucking window.

But if you turn toward him, are you admitting that you want him? If you move toward him in the dark, will he take that as invitation?

Fuck it. You need to get this over with. Sweat is already collecting under your breasts.

Flipping over, you turn your resolve to steel. Pushing up onto your elbow, you reach out with one hand, resting it on his shoulder. Price is turned away from you, and when your hand makes contact, Price turns into the touch, rolling onto his back. The hand on your shoulder slides with him, gliding over his chest to rest near the other shoulder.

“John,” you breathe, suddenly losing your words.

Moonlight from the window slices down his face, highlighting his eyes and full lips. They’re slightly parted and his eyes are half lidded. The look on his face isn’t one you’d give to a good friend. He reaches across his body and wraps his hand around your wrist, resting his forearm against yours. His thumb hovers over your pulse point. You know its pounding because every thought in your head is consumed by the mere idea of Price rolling over to trap you under him.

“It’s—you’re—”

No. No no no no. You’re losing your nerve.

You lick your lips. “You’re…hot.”

Confusion, then surprise drifts across his features before shifting into something sultry. His thumb runs over your pulse point and his mouth curves into a smile.

“Not upset with sleeping with me?”

Price’s hand slides down your arm in a caress. It’s wonderful. Every nerve ending is firing. Singing. It’s the truest intimacy you’ve had in years. Alex is—was—thoughtful and caring in the way he handled you, but it also felt a little hollow, like he never fully wanted it.

And Price is right there. Warm and close and moving closer.

“Like a fire,” you blurt. “Or an oven. I’m overheated.”

Price pauses, immediately pulls back. “Apologies,” he coughs. “I—misunderstood.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “Could you open the window? Just a bit?”

Price rolls out of bed and you instantly feel the cold. You want to call him back, to recall the words you spoke and shove them down your throat. With a little bit of pressure, Price opens the window slightly. The breeze is lovely. Soothing.

Price slides back under the covers but he keeps his back to you. You do the same, pretending that everything is fine. That everything is okay even as your heart thunders in your chest. You stay like that until you hear Price’s soft snoring. Counting the seconds and minutes is agonizing, but you do it for your safety.

This is your chance to leave.

With extreme slowness, you place one hand flat on the mattress, pushing yourself up to a seated position. Price doesn’t stir. You attune to the silence, waiting until you hear Price’s gentle snore. Shifting your weight away from him is the hardest part. Any sudden movement might startle him awake. You can’t have that.

You are on your knees on the floor and then your feet. Moving. You are moving silently toward the door. So close.

Everything is fine. Everything is good.

Until it’s not.

“What are you doing?” Price’s sleep-laced voice travels across the room.

“I—”

He sighs heavily. “Get away from the door.”

“I’m thirsty,” you say over your shoulder.

“Then I’ll grab you a water.”

In moments, Price is right there, standing behind you, his chest pressed to your back. One hand is on your waist and the other is on your hand that clings to the doorknob.

“Let go,” whispers Price.

“You can’t keep me here,” you murmur, wanting to leave but wanting to stay.

“I am keeping you here. Obolensky can’t have you. Not when you’re under my protection.”

You turn to the left, shoulder bumping into Price’s bare chest as you address him. “Is it only him I need protection from?”

“You think I’d hurt you?”

No. Never. Price has never hurt you.

You glance away, staring at the far wall, not wanting to admit the truth.

“Tell me,” he prompts. “You think I’d hurt you?”

“No.” Your gaze returns to his face. “But I’m not an animal. I don’t belong in a cage.”

Price’s hand on your waist tightens. The force of it is enough to draw your bodies together entirely. “This is not a cage.”

“It feels like one.” You lick your lips. His gaze follows the movement. “Last time you gave me a choice. Why not now?”

“Because no one knew about you then,” answers Price immediately. “Now they do.”

You twist in his grip, facing him fully. You’re pinned between his large, broad chest and the door. “Who is they, Price? Is it Alex? Dimitri?”

“Dimitri is dead,” he growls. “And Obolensky is a pawn.”

“For who?” Price’s jaw clenches but he doesn’t answer. “Who, John?”

He shakes his head. “Dimitri answered to Damien and Damien answered to someone else.”

You scoff. “Yet you won’t say who.”

“Do you understand how much was lost?” asks Price. “Damien’s behavior that afternoon wasn’t over a few guns or a couple hundred dollars. He lost a nuclear arsenal. One that he promised to deliver on.”

“What?”

Price keeps his hand on your waist but the other rests beside your head, trapping you further. “Dimitri is rotting in the dirt and Damien is fish food. Their boss saw to that. He is the target. Has been for years.”

All the pieces are falling into place like raindrops from crying clouds.

“But I never said anything,” you choke out. “You were there, John. You talked with Dimitri. Why didn’t they come after you?”

“We staged it to look like I was taken out. The only possible connection they had was that someone talked at the club.” Price sighs heavily. “How they even found out about the club is up in the air. Never figured that out.”

You sniffle, holding back the phlegm but not the tears. “I was collateral.”

“No—”

“Stop, John. Don’t lie.”

The hand on your waist squeezes before sliding to your back. Price yanks against him, dragging you away from the door. “Nothing was supposed to happen to you. Nothing.”

“Stop,” you murmur, suddenly reading how hard he is and how soft you are. There is nowhere for your hands to go but his bare chest. They rest there, palms flat, fingers sliding through his chest hair as they splay wide.

“I’m sorry,” murmurs Price, and the slight rasp in it melts your resolve. His head lowers, the tip of his nose brushing against the side of your face.

You start to turn into it, to meet him, but pause at the last second. There is a roaring in your ears. A bright light behind the eyes. You are a torn piece of paper. Two sides that cannot come together again unless glued.

You believe him. And it’s not because of his words but because of his actions.

Price rushed to you when Damien had everyone gathered in Thirst’s main room. He didn’t hesitate. He got you out, had you taken care of, only to slip right back in when you needed it the most. Without Price where would you be right now?

Dead, perhaps. Or worse off, lingering in a place where you wish for endless sleep.

“Let me protect you.”

You swallow, lips parting slightly. Price’s gaze is focused in on your lips, missing nothing.

“Alex won’t give up. He’ll look for me.”

“He’ll fucking regret it,” growls Price. “If he touches you, he’s dead. But he won’t even have the chance.”

“You don’t understand. He’s…”

You trail off, unsure of how to proceed. Alex is sweet on you, but there has always been a slight separation, a detachedness you couldn’t quite place. Now you know, but it doesn’t explain everything. There were times when Alex seemed a bit possessive around other men you interacted with. He didn’t like it when they talked to you for too long or showed more interest than he cared for.

But that might not explain that Alex cared for you. He did try to have you killed. He is working for someone who wanted to clean up their loose ends. But why all this work? Did he simply put it off? Why play the long game? Was Alex or anyone else involved sure you were who they thought you were?

“He’s what?” asks Price softly, his tone encouraging you to continue.

“I’m not sure, John. I—I just know he won’t stop looking for me.”

Price nods. “I agree. He has a job to do. But I also think he felt something toward you.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Think I wasn’t watching the two of you in that restaurant?” he laughs. “I saw all of it. Maybe Alex is a good actor but his behavior toward you seemed genuine.”

“And yet he tried to kill me,” you reply dryly.

“He ordered his men to kill you,” corrects Price. “From what I understand, Obolensky likes to do it himself. Thorough. Clean. Doesn’t make sense, unless he couldn’t look you in the face as he did it.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, John.”

“No,” he says softly. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Price’s hand on your back rubs gentle circles. It’s a soothing touch and this intimacy is different from all the other times you and Price have been this close. His head is still tilted forward but he’s not as near as before. The two of you can look at each other without brushing noses.

“Still want that water?”

“I wasn’t getting water.”

Price chuckles. “I know.”

“I’d like to go back to bed,” you say.

“And sleep this time? Not wait for me to fall asleep so you can make your escape?”

You smack his chest. “Fuck you.”

Price smiles, and it drips with mischievousness. “Fuck me? Is that right?”

“Control yourself, Captain,” you tease.

His smile widens. “There it is. Knew you’d say it.”

Your head turns upward. This time, your lips align with his. Maybe it’s sleep drawing you to do this, or maybe it’s your heart which won’t slow its rapid beating. Could be the twisty coil in your stomach that is rapidly moving downward, heating the space between your legs, making you ache for him.

You are open for him, presenting yourself, giving Price your lips like an offering. He knows this, because Price’s gaze tracks the movement and his own lips part slightly like he’s just as desperate to form the connection.

“Back to bed,” he rasps, and you hate that he says it.

Price pushes off from the door, his hands falling to his sides. Before you is a rugged man. Bare chested. Running his fingers through his hair absently as he watches you. It’s unfair how close he is, how easy it would be to fall into him, but the distant is a canyon.

You need to accept this. Survival is at stake.

Do you want him? Yes. You’ve wanted him for a while, and this reunion is only drawing up all those old thoughts and feelings. They are being crushed and stretched like damp clothes. You’re hanging on the clothes line, swaying in the breeze.

Stepping away from the door, you follow Price back to the blanket covered mattress. He doesn’t slide beneath until you do. There is hesitation in the way he waits, like he wants to draw you close but is desperately needing your signal.

Sighing slightly, you melt into the worn mattress, turning on your side, facing him. Price fully inserts himself beneath the blankets, shifting across the makeshift bed until he’s nearly on top of you. You reach for him the moment he reaches for you.

Hand on chest, arm draped over your shoulders, a closeness of warmth that doesn’t seem to bother you now. Every breath is a number, and you count them until the room dims and you slip into dreamless sleep.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @tapioca-marzipan @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @kittytiddywinks @berarenado @daemondoll @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @darling006 @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi

[dvrtrblhr]

omg hiii your Dimiclaudes are gorgeous and I adore the snippets of writing you add to the pieces 💛💙

aaa thanks a lot! i love drawing them forever, so i'm happy others also enjoy it lol

anyway, i searched my folders for a sketch i hadn't posted and i found this one:

and the scene that comes with it below:

As if to prove that point, while they followed the locals through the tunnels that would lead them to Abyss, Claude noticed that Dimitri was throwing glances at him and looking sulky.

“What is it?” Claude asked in a whisper. Dimitri glanced at him and sulked some more. It was starting to get annoying.

“You don’t think I can take him,” he answered finally. Claude couldn’t help the way his mouth fell open in disbelief. Out of all things, that was what bothered him. It was that kind of moment that made Claude very aware of how different they really were. “Honestly, he’s not even that big. He’s shorter than Dedue, I think.”

“Dedue, who is probably the tallest, biggest person in the whole monastery,” Claude rebutted mostly because Dimitri’s remark was so absurd. “Anyway, did I say that you couldn’t take him? I don’t think so.” They walked in silence for a while longer before Claude continued, “I don’t see why you would want to risk getting hurt because of something so silly. It’s not even your specialty. Or did you forget that you excel in sparring with a lance? That long pole with a sharp tip that keeps the enemy at a safe distance, remember?”

“Why are you so sure I’m going to lose though?” Dimitri asked, still looking offended.

“I’m not! In this stupid thing called fist fighting even the winner gets hurt. Now, if brawling is what you want, then go ahead! Just don’t expect me to cheer for you or kiss your bruises better, all right?” he replied, equally perplexed and irritated, then noticed what he had just said and looked around to see that they had, fortunately or not, fell behind the rest of their group so he continued, “What were you expecting, Dimitri? Did you think I would swoon at your manliness? I’m sorry, but that… doesn’t really impress me. Now, you want to know what impresses me? Your kindness, passion and sincerity.”

It was Dimitri’s turn to be speechless, it seemed. Claude immediately thought he had said too much and felt his face flush at his own corniness. Then Dimitri's hands were caressing his cheeks softly, tilting his head upwards so he could kiss his lips gently. It was the kind of touch that made Claude forget why doing that at such time and place was a really bad idea.

“You are right, I’m sorry,” Dimitri said quietly, still cradling his face in his hands, “There’s one thing, though. You are too kind, Claude. Kinder than I could ever hope to be. And kinder than I deserve.”

Claude wanted to protest about such a useless comparison and about Dimitri’s supposed unworthiness. It was something that had crept into their conversations from time to time, how Dimitri seemed to think he was somehow a bad person. It made no sense considering the effort he put into being as good and helpful as he could, sometimes to the point of exhaustion. He didn’t say anything, though, it was such a pleasant moment… He really didn’t want to ruin it with an argument, not even an important one he had been procrastinating for a while. And Dimitri was kissing him again, his lips, his cheeks, his neck. He might really turn to mush if that continued.

Then they heard the sound of footsteps and they were quickly pulling away from each other. Edelgard appeared by the corner looking sour.

"What are you two doing?" she asked irritably.

Golden Dawn, Chapter 20, Wind - Underground

[kynimdraws]

INFO POST

Name: Kylee (they/them). 30+

A totally normal Korean American mostly known for my drawings, specifically my Pokemon nuzlocke comics. But I will talk about other things on occasion because I do have periods of being fixated on certain topics. I also am a doctor!

Interests: Pokemon, League of Legends (everything except the game lmao), Fire Emblem, Advance Wars, Animal Crossing, Mother series, Korean history/culture, character design

General FYIs: 

General inquiries/commission work/etc should be sent thru kynimdraws [at] gmail [dot] com! Tumblr messaging/asks/etc is not 100% reliable

I will not follow NSFW accounts but I am fine talking/interacting with them. There may be suggestive shitposting but I like keeping my content on the SFW side

I am VERY picky about who I follow/interact with online. Fandom content in particular is a minefield for me aka I have many things I dislike and don’t want to see, even if it might be a popular thing in media that I otherwise enjoy. Therefore, I will unfollow/block/mute liberally. There are times I accidentally block a blog bc I mistake them for bots. So if you got hit with that, just send me an ask or email me

I am very open about what I like and dislike, and none of those things are a direct attack on your sensibilities. I have never gone out of my way to directly send hate or whatever have you if I end up seeing shit I don’t like. My complaints in my little online space ain't a personal attack on you.

My ask/submission box/DMs  are open for criticisms if you have any issues you want to resolve in private. No one is perfect and I may have done ignorant shit that needs to be pointed out. I have deleted or edited posts in the past if people tell me what I did wrong. PS I get that some of my stuff may upset you, but try to act civil when pointing shit out please.

I try to tag all my things whenever I can. Again, send me a message if anything bothers you. I am all for good debate but if you send me excessive hate or threats bc I have different opinions about matters that are trivial, I will block/delete them.

If you wish to use any of my hcs, please credit me. And if you are comfortable with it, send me the works so I can check them out! Or @ me if that is easier.

---

FIRE EMBLEM FYI: Specifically for 3Houses/3Hopes because I need a separate one for this franchise specificially given how many crazy things I got due to being involved in this fanbase via my fanworks:

DO NOT try to convince me to like or tolerate Byleth/student ships, ESPECIALLY the ones with the lords (aka CIaude, Dimitri, EdeIgard). I already summarized why I don’t like FE3H Byleth ships with student chars here. While the spinoff game FEW3H has now removed that teacher/student problematic situation, the fandom keeps putting the FE3H elements into the FEW3H fanworks (i.e. remembering Byleth from “another life” trope)...so no thanks!! DO NOT SHOW ME IT!!!

As for the Byleth ships with faculty members, my response is here so don’t try to bait me about that topic either thanks.

I do not care whom you ingame S-support. 3Houses limits the dating-sim part of the game to that character, so I cannot care less about how you play the game. The main issue I have is when people treat Byleth the “character” as a legit ship material when I personally think they are a cool character ruined by fans who are too obsessed with badly executed self insert otome tropes bc they self-project super hard onto them. Just to be clear, any FE3H or FEW3H OC/Canon >>>>>>Byleth ships personally. Even Byleth-sonas that remove the teacher/student aspects are better than canon FE3H!Byleth

Please don't drag FE VA statements as some sort of “gotcha” on my opinions like this post here. IDC what other people prefer with ship shit, that’s their problem and not mine. I am not gonna bother them about it. So don’t bother ME about it.

---

Links to check out:

Myths of Unova + Episode Grey (Pkmn White/White2 Comic)

Tales of Sinnoh (Pkmn Diamond Comic)

Art Site (Portfolio)

Twitter 

Instagram 

[silverware-is-interesting]

um. billy is breaking it down?

...what? what do you mean that's not what it's called??

i realized that i don't draw things related to bbu NEARLY enough knowing that I've Had Enough of You was my number 1 song on spotify last year. 417 times just in half a year on JUST spotify, if you were wondering. that's a bit over 23 hours.

i think i'm gonna try to do little simplifications to dimitri because; despite how much i like him its hell to draw. why is it the only character with gradients (that i can think of off the top of my head)? i get the chimera would be more complicated, but does he need gradients? (not intended to be an insult to the design btw; i just feel having that much going on might be a bit jarring visually, and hell to replicate)

[eveistdiepommes]

Classes Start ! SideTrack A !

Hellloooooo everyone! I’m back with more college au! Omg omg, okay, I had so much fun with these designs and coming up with the majors! So! Welcome to SideTrack A! SideTrack drawings and chapters will be sprinkled in amongst the main character art and chapters! This is the first SideTrack, but I have a couple others in mind (Mostly the Nordics, which I hint at :3) Welcome our newest additions!

(Character bios and info below, as usual! :D)

Who has time for gender when you’re this smart? Feliks Łukasiewicz is a bonafide genius, their pink, glittery clothes might just distract you from that fact! Feliks is beyond talkative, they love chatting about anything and everything and anyone and everyone! They basically got this friend group together, albeit very pushy-ily and stubbornly. They can be pretty demanding, pretty bossy, and maybe even pretty arrogant, but that’s mostly for show! Their brain is constantly moving, constantly thinking, and if they had to be left alone with ruminating thoughts, they’d surely get overwhelmed! Feliks is incredibly kind at their core, they’ve just built up a lot of layers of self importance for safety.

And Toris didn’t even mean to break through those layers! Toris is a straight A, top of the top student! He keeps to himself, he greets people with a polite smile and tilt of the head, he is mild and generally unnoticed. Well… he was… Feliks attached themself to Toris. They share many classes together, and one day, in a whirlwind of pink hoodie and fragrant body spray, Feliks declared they were friends! Neither of them expected to actually develop feelings for each other. Feliks had initially approached Toris because he seemed lonely (and he needed to loosen up) and Toris stuck around because, well, he was lonely. But, the closer they got, the closer Toris got to Feliks’ core, Toris felt bubbling adoration. And to Feliks’ surprise, Toris was the one who confessed first, which really really really meant a lot to Feliks!

The two are a couple, one people wouldn’t expect! Feliks is loud and flashy, Toris is introverted and seemingly always nervous. But they both swell with pride knowing they know each other’s true colors. Toris hushes Feliks’ anxious and fearful thoughts, Feliks cherishes Toris’ strength and secretly fiery nature. Together, they are an odd display of opposites attract!

Dimitri is used to just getting by in life. He doesn’t ask for much, and he doesn’t want to! He’s a sweet guy who just wants to do his best and expects nothing in return! Okay well… maybe he wants a little something in return! But not much! Dimitri has dreams of attending the World Academy, but thanks to his financial and family background, he isn’t exactly an immediate candidate. So! He works at the frozen yogurt place in the mall to raise money! He and his coworker, Natalya have grown quite close, and thanks to her help, he gets to understand what to expect from the world academy! The only thing about being so close, however… is that Natalya is quite involved with Dimitri’s interest in a frequent customer…

Mihai frequents the mall constantly! He loves anything dark and gloomy, which explains why he’s friends with Natalya! Mihai, like his best friend, has a very eccentric fashion sense, 2000s scene and emo inspired! Despite his dark looks, however, he is the brightest and warmest person! He’s always smiling, always so happy looking! He honestly didn’t even want frozen yogurt the first day he went up to the counter, he just figured he’d get something since Natalya could give him a discount! But… when he got up to the counter and saw an incredibly handsome guy with dark hair and pretty eyes ready to take his order, it was hard to contain his excitement! Ever since then, whenever he’s at the mall, he gets frozen yogurt! And he’ll never get sick of it!!

Little do both of these dorks know, Natalya is playing matchmaker behind the scenes. She purposely goes on break when she sees Mihai approaching (and Dimitri is starting to catch on), she drops hints that Dimitri is interested in Mihai when they are in class together, and she might perform a spell or two just to make sure her efforts are not wasted. She had frequently spent her life worrying about love for herself, but once she met her… everything fell into place. Natalya is devoted to both her girlfriend and her friends, hoping to bring them all happiness in her own, eccentric way. Many are scared of Natalya, rumors surround her because of her dark and off color remarks, but she is the sweetest and most thoughtful person. Just don’t end up on her bad side. She could get away with murder!

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

i assume you'll be coming for blood (that makes two of us)

Chapter 6

Ao3 | 3.1k Words | Sweetheart's POV

The consequences, physical, emotional, mental, ect.

TW: blood and injury, eye injury, disembowlment, throat injury, trance, panic, referenced blood lust, the aftermath of injury, reveal of disability.

You didn’t know how he found you, but the next time you opened your eyes, Milo was crouched over you, his face drawn and silver eyes nearly red in the low light. 

“There you are,” he breathed. One of his cold hands was pressed around your neck as though to choke you. The pain was dull and distant in a way that concerned you. “You keep those eyes open, you hear me, Sweetheart? You stay with me. Fuck me , fuck, fuck, fuck!”

You opened your mouth to respond, to spit back some snappy retort about him calling you sweet nicknames, but you sputtered around another mouthful of blood. Your body jerked and twitched, desperate for air and unable to draw any. 

“Fuck,” Milo breathed like it was the only word he knew. You tried to gasp, your hand twitching to try and reach for him. You needed to tell him. You needed to tell him that you were sorry, that you had been such an idiot, that it was all your fault. You didn’t have the strength. “Fuck. God, Dimitri… no he won’t… he wouldn’t let me.” Milo was flicking his eyes, blown wide with panic, over your body. His free hand fluttered over you helplessly, unsure where to apply pressure. He eyed the slash wound over your stomach with something between horror and hunger. This much blood, especially blood he wanted, blood he said he craved when you went too long between sessions, must have been difficult for him. Your throat closed and opened uselessly around itself.  You jolted as the hand around your throat shifted and another caressed your face, covering your right eye and spanning from your hairline to the middle of your cheek. His fingers were so long. You wanted him to thread them through your hair, to caress them gently across your lips, to force them into your mouth and down your fluttering throat. You wanted him to never stop touching you. 

An impression of healing magic whispered against you; the warmth, the sting. It brushed over you like hot breath, barely there at all. A whimper of exertion left Milo as he forced his magic into you. You felt the wound on your neck try to close, the sinew of your torn skin try to tighten, and then fail and all flat again. 

“ Fuck!” Milo spat. You thought he was crying. As he lost his grip on his magic, he crumpled, bending at his waist to rest his head against your still bleeding stomach. You felt him shake with sobs. “What do I do? Ma, what do I do?” 

You must have blacked out, because the next thing you knew, you were moving and fast. Milo had used his speed while holding you before, but the head rush of it was made even more intense by the blood kiss. You gasped and choked, twitching in his arms. “I know,” he huffed, coming to a sudden halt. I know, Sweetheart, stay with me.” 

You cracked an eye open and found yourself out of the heart of Dahlia, in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. Milo was stood on the porch of a beautifully maintained, two story brick house. You were bleeding all over the pretty welcome mat. He used his foot to knock so he didn’t have to set you down. 

After a tense few seconds, while Milo muttered those stupid, sweet things into your ear, the door creaked open. 

“Milo?” A deep voice cut through the fog in your brain. It sounded strained, close to heart broken. Milo didn’t wait to be invited in, just pushed past a hulking figure and into the quiet of a darkened living room. “What happened?” 

“Deep lacerations to the face and neck, I think the right leg is broken, bruising, blood loss- I don’t even know how long they were out there before I found them. Davey, it’s bad.” Milo’s voice was high with panic, and this seemed to shut down any questions the other man might have had. 

“Couch,” the deep voice, Davey, ordered. “Angel, please call Asher.” 

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Milo admitted, sounding more like a lost little kid than you’d ever heard him. You felt gutted. He seemed surprisingly vulnerable, surprisingly open. Old friend, he’d said of Davey from that phone call. Pack. You could feel Davey’s aura, so strong it strangled yours out. Shifter. 

“You did good, Milo.” Davey said softly. “You can always come here. Always.” You groaned as you were laid out on an unfairly plush couch. You were going to bleed all over the delicate throw pillows and knitted blankets. You were going to ruin it. “Let me take a look.” 

Hands were on you suddenly, big and hot and prodding at your wounds. You cried out, your voice gurgled by the blood in your throat. You thrashed violently and found the strength to fight back. You didn’t know those hands. You couldn’t stand the feeling of them on your skin. 

You swung out an arm and clawed at the figure over you, cutting into the skin of his forearm with your blunt nails. You didn’t want anybody to touch you, to explore your wounds, to dissect your weakness with your guts open like this. 

“Fuck, hold them-” 

“Shit! Sweetheart-”

Desperate cries cut together as Milo and Davey tried to contain you, tried to pin your down. Your magic, what was left of it, tried to defend you. You phased in and out, your arms passing through them as they tried to keep you still. 

“Milo, they’re bleeding, you need to-” 

“-gotta calm down, Baby, fuck-” 

“Milo, now!” 

Hands framed your face, cold and long and familiar. You gasped at the feeling of them. 

“Sweetness, look at me.” Milo’s voice sliced through your panic and drew your focus. Those hot, unfamiliar hands captured your own and pinned you down, held you in place. You managed to pry your right eye open. The left must have been caked dry with blood. When you met Milo’s eyes, they were glazed over black. You wondered if he was frightened or angry. 

The trance fell over you like a blanket. Immediately, your muscles loosened and your mind slowed. All thoughts of fighting dissipated into nothing, Milo’s face twisted painfully as he spoke. 

“I’m so sorry, Sweetheart. Please, just calm down. Let Davey work. Just keep looking at me and rest, okay?” You found yourself nodding dreamily, disturbing the wounds on your neck and face. One big hand came up to rest on your forehead, the other barely bruised over your throat. With a grunt and a pulse of magic, the cuts closed over. You felt your skin stitching back together, but the pain was far, far away. All you could focus on was Milo’s wide, black eyes, brimming with tears. 

A sharp fist dug into your sternum and rubbed. You coughed once, blood flooding your mouth. Air rushed into you all at once. 

“Okay,” Davey breathed, “that’s the worst of that. Stomach now. I’m gonna lift your shirt, is that okay?” Your mind twitched to respond, but your body refused, laying limply, mouth slack as you stared at Milo. 

“You can answer.” Milo instructed. “Honestly, please.” 

“Yeah,” you croaked.

Davey thanked you softly and peeled back your coat and shirt, leaving as much of your torso covered as he could. He hissed as he got a look at you. 

“Jesus fuck,” he breathed. Milo’s gaze flicked away from yours to Davey, down to your stomach. He swallowed harshly. “Do what you need to do.” He instructed, one hand floating up to card through your hair. “Sweetness, you just focus on me. Don’t pay any attention to what he’s doing. Don’t feel a bit of it. Just keep those-” he stumbled over his words, but recovered quickly, “-those pretty eyes on me, understand?” 

“Yeah,” you replied. 

Time passed slowly, but you could only focus on Milo, on his severe face, on the crease of stress between his eyebrows. He had positioned himself over the arm of the couch, probably kneeling painfully on the hardwood floors so he could support your head and hold your gaze. He was tense, every muscle in his body taught and not letting up. He looked to be in a considerable amount of pain. You wanted to reach out to him, to run your hand along his neck, to knead your fingers into his shoulders and chase away the stress. But your body didn’t have permission to move, so it didn’t. 

You didn’t become aware of yourself again until Davey shifted the bones in your leg back into place. It seemed that that particular pain was enough to break through even the trance. You cried out, gripping at Milo’s waiting hands, and arched your back against the heat in your thigh. Davey’s big hands circled it easily and poured magic into it. You felt every shift of your bones, and most likely woke the neighbors making it known. 

“ Please!” You cried out, scrambling for purchase against the pain and confusion. 

Milo turned your head forcefully and caught your eye again.

“ Sleep!” He ordered. With a simple word, your body stuttered to a stop. Darkness encroached on your vision as you were plunged into an uneasy, dreamless sleep. 

__

“-it off. You know him. He pushes himself too hard. He should have done triage and then come back to heal more of the damage later.” 

“I was worried he was gonna keel over or something.” 

“His mate has a good read on him. They know when to pull him away.”

“Thank God for that.” 

The conversation filtered into your awareness slowly, words merging together and pulling apart until they formed something resembling sentences. You scrunched up your brow and tried to tune in, to place the voices, to place yourself . Where the fuck were you?

“Milo, what have you gotten into?” 

You knew that voice. You’d heard it before. You tried to dredge up any memory from the past few weeks. Everything melted together into a mess of sleepless nights and stupid ideas made manifest. 

“There’s something about them, Ash,” the other voice, Milo, replied, “I just… I can’t stay away.” A pause, a deep breath. This Ash seemed to be the sort of man who chose his words carefully. 

“I know you’re not a shifter anymore, Milo.” He said. Definitive, a statement of fact. “But every indication you’re giving me-” 

“They don’t want me, Ash.” Milo snapped, all respect that the Alpha garnered absent from his voice. Alpha. Talbot. Asher, he had insisted. Your brain started turning again, started moving. “They’ve made that abundantly clear.” 

Footsteps echoed through the quiet house. With gargantuan effort, you opened your eyes- eye, something was keeping your left eye shut with gentle pressure- and found yourself in a dim living room. Soft yellow curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out the sunlight that blushed the thin fabric. You managed a twitch out of your fingers but nothing more. 

“You’re awake.” Milo’s voice caught your attention. You craned your neck to peek over the side of the couch. He was wearing someone else’s clothes. His tight fitting, silken button up was replaced with an oversized, soft blue tee-shirt. He wore too-big sweatpants and socks with little cats on them. He looked younger somehow, despite the ageless quality of his face. You couldn’t help but smile. 

“I am.” You said, blurted. You shook your head lightly, trying to find your words. “Interested. In you.” 

Milo was quiet. He crossed his arms over his chest and cast his eyes down. They were silver again. He must have fed. 

“Is that so?” He huffed. “You have a very unique way of showing it.” 

“I’m just…” you considered wrapping yourself up in the comfort of a lie. You considered throwing something cutting at him, something to send him running, sunlight be damned. But you didn’t. You opened your mouth, and the truth came out, no matter how much it made your insides squirm. “I’m scared.” 

Milo’s eyes flicked to yours, held your gaze hostage. You didn’t flinch away. 

“Okay.” He said. 

“Okay? What… what does ‘ okay’ mean?” 

“It means ‘ okay!’” A hollow imitation of a laugh left him as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “It means we’ll see. It means I don’t trust you, not as far as I can throw you. But I can throw pretty far, so…” he shrugged. “I want you. I have wanted you since the second I saw you. But you’ve got some shit to dig through before you’re ready for that.”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I… I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I said… Milo, if I could- ”

“Stop.” He waved his hand and stepped towards you. He surveyed your body quickly before plucking your hand from where it rested against your stomach. He pressed a chaste kiss against your knuckles “I think you’ve suffered enough, huh?” 

You groaned and tried to shift, tried to assess your body. 

“What all…” you pursed your lips as Milo helped you sit up. The muscles in your stomach creaked and protested, but he took your weight effortlessly. “What’s the damage?” 

“You’ve got some scars.” Milo reported. “From your stomach up to your face. Davey did what he could, but most healers would have struggled with this sort of damage. You were…” his face went sour, like he might be sick, “you were about half a minute from being a memory, Sweetness. We still haven’t figured out how you survived so long. Davey’s guess is sheer force of will.”

“ Fuck.” You breathed. 

“Yeah.” Milo agreed. He pushed your hair back from your forehead gently. “What… just- how much do you want me to tell you? Because it wasn’t a pretty experience.” 

“All of it.” You replied immediately. “I know why you tranced me, I’m grateful for it.” You gripped his arm in your shaking hand before he could pull away. “But I want to know what happened to me while I was out.” 

“I get it, Sweetheart.” Milo nodded. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled your back to rest against his chest. He was cool and plush, and you melted into him. One of his hands trailed down your torso and pressed against your stomach. Somebody had changed you too. You were clad in a light tee-shirt, so big on you it hung from one shoulder. Milo lifted the bottom of it to reveal deep, craterous scars cutting through your skin. They looked painful, even if you didn’t feel it. Milo trailed one finger over the first of four, one for each of the shade’s long fingers. “Your large intestine and stomach were falling out of this one. Davey was… he was wrist deep getting everything back into you. He said that he would usually take the time to sorta… lay everything back where it’s supposed to go, but you were likely to bleed out if he took too long. So… yeah. Everything’s inside of you, but it’ll take a while to get back to where it’s supposed to go. He said you’d feel… weird. Like your insides are shaking.”

You swallowed the nausea that threatened to overtake you. After a few deep breaths, you nodded for Milo to continue. His hand trailed up to the second cut, right above your heart. 

“This one breached your chest wall. Your left lung collapsed twice because of the air that managed to get past your ribs. You’ve got some nasty needle marks where he drained the air." He pulled down the collar of your shirt to reveal two large pricks surrounded by angry bruising just under your third rib. “Davey said chests are complicated. Lots of muscle and bone and important organs and shit. If you’re gonna have a complication in the next forty-eight hours or so, it’ll be here. He wants to keep you here until then just to be sure, or ship you off to another healer.” 

“Okay.” You said. You weren’t exactly comfortable here, but you could at least hide from the consequences you were sure were awaiting you at D.U.M.P.. If Milo’s former pack would have you, you would gladly use them as a shield. “What else?” 

Milo’s hand trailed up to your throat and face. 

“Two of the cuts made it to the throat. One nicked your trachea and started flooding your airway with blood. You swallowed a lot of it, which Davey had to pump from your stomach before… putting it back in you. When I got to you, your throat had only just collapsed. You were without adequate oxygen for around four minutes before Davey got it healed. That’s right on the edge of brain damage territory, so he wants to keep an eye on that too. He might send you out for an MRI.” 

“Well, I’m about to be fired, so I hope he’s paying for it.” 

“What?” Milo balked. 

“Nothing.” You waved a lazy hand. “Keep going.”

“Oh…kay. Um. Your face. It’s… Sweetness, I’m really sorry.” 

“My eye.” You said softly. 

“Yeah.” He muttered. “It was necrotic by the time we got here. He took it out as safely as he could with what he had in his medical pack. We might be able to see about the optic nerve-”

“It’s fine.” You shook your head. “It’s fine. What else?” 

“Sweetheart-”

“What else, Milo?” 

He paused, took a steadying breath. 

“Your femur was broken. Badly. I don’t know how long you were out there before I found you. Judging by the blood loss… a while. Davey was functioning without an x-ray. He set it and healed it, but it's… he says that it’s crooked. It would take several re-breaks and surgeries to get it aligned again. And even then, you’re… Sweets, you might not walk again. And if you do, it’s gonna hurt. Forever.” 

You closed your eyes- your eye- and rested your head back on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you, pulled you closer. The muscles in your abdomen shook as the tears came. You fought to keep them in, to shut them down. 

“I know.” Milo whispered into the crown of your head. “I know, Baby. Let it out. You let it out. I’ve got you.” He said it over and over again as the shakes and cries overwhelmed you. He didn’t stop as you sobbed into him, as you wailed like your father in that hospital a million years ago. You doubted anyone in this house, on this block, in Dahlia, in the world, was spared from your sobs. He didn’t stop until your throat cracked and gave out, until your tears slowed, until your body pulled you back towards sleep. He didn’t stop as you drifted away again, pressed into his firm, unyielding chest. 

“I know. I know. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Sweetheart.” Milo chanted like a promise, like a prayer.

[blacktycoon]

ok so pnat theory: the "power" that's "sleeping" in mayview is or was literally BL/sandman, and the true nature of her dream-manipulation power is full-on godlike reality warping that just so happens to be localized to dreams as long as she's by herself w/o a "host", because she's literally sleeping at the bottom of the lake in the waking world. the entire consortium is a cover she's created to try and prevent people from claiming her power bc she clearly feels awful about the incident (i think it's pretty safe to assume she's being genuine there- it wouldn't make sense to apologize to gwen after everybody else vamoosed otherwise, i don't think), and the incident 13 years ago was the result of the closest anyone ever got and may or may not have been some sort of Harmonic Convergence-esque event

...what i'm trying to piece together is if "13 years ago" lines up with when davy might have gained his own reality warping powers, and also when dimitri met peekaboo, bc i'd bet that the could both be "fragments" of BL/Sandman since they deal in such pure reality-warping and peekaboo is so weirdly mysterious

dimitri says he remembers meeting peekaboo right after preschool

preschool is around ages, like... 3-5, right? ten years ago, ed was 3, so he would have been just born when the incident happened

is dimitri the same age as max/ed/isabel? or isaac? idk if we know, but... its, like, a couple years off >:/c

i guess there's no reason to say that peekaboo couldn't have floated around for a while before finding a medium... or, well, hang on, maybe peekaboo was possessing dimitri for some time without dimitri awakening, like forge in johnny rn. i could see that, especially if dimitri was, like. an infant.

ooh, y'know, maybe that's why VP was so outraged that she didn't get a name from the sphinx of truth-- she needs to figure out who's holding the fragments in order to piece them together to claim the power

(maybe the freaky shadow spirit could be another fragment too? idk, shadow manipulation... it seems like kind of a stretch but it definitely appeared around the same time)

CH. 8 PG. 61 EDIT: OKAy okay the LOCKER.

"Indeed, he was drawing more and more power from it with each passing day" that's GOTTA be the source of his reality warping ability as seen in his encounter with Hijack

"Davy sympathized with the poor thing, really, having sprung free from a prison they once shared", also:

OKay okay OKAY, so. Sealed away to rot? The [grudge] that let him go? Like... "this grudge" that Gwen and BL have "nursed" for years? "Locked" it in nighmares? The locker has a sticky note with "ZZZ" on it. Sleeping.

Davy was part of the Consortium. He was trapped, the same way as Gwen. He escaped by cutting off part of the spirit that was holding him there... and the piece came with him.

Is it possible... hmm. Is it possible that the power might turn humans into Monsters? I wouldn't be that surprised honestly, like... we see with Isaac that mediums tend to take after their sprits physically in some manner. Prolonged contact with a (Great?) Wight might have even more dire consequences.

Also the locker's got vampire and werewolf stickers on it. So. Also a ghost! And... a bur--? WAIT A BURGER

THE LOCKER HAS A *B U R G E R* ON IT