#hot tools curling iron

[geminiwritten]

game night ; bones

fandom: star trek

pairing: bones x reader

summary: after accidentally injuring yourself, you refuse to go to MedBay before attending a games night with the crew and your favourite grumpy (and very jealous) doctor

notes: this is bad!!! i am very sorry!!! i didn’t want to abandon it, so i forced myself to finish and it took several days, it is very disjointed, but i hope readable? let me know what you think!

important -

in this fic, the crew play pool (or billiard) but i am australian and to avoid confusion (because we probably play it differently / wrong, and i am not a professional lol) here are some notes:

the balls with the band of colour (more white) are called ‘bigs’ and the full colour balls are called ‘smalls’

you get a second shot if you sink one of your own balls

your opponent gets two shots if you sink the white ball

word count: 5363 (oops)

“Shit,” you snatch your hand away from the machinery in front of you, shaking it as if the movement would rid you of the hot stinging sensation spreading through your fingers. You look at your gloves and curse again, finding all four of the material fingertips burnt through.

“Are you okay?” Clarke, one of the newer lieutenants on board, asks as he approaches your workbench. He’s very handsome, with sandy blond hair and bright green eyes, there were five people in this room alone that would sell a kidney for just one date with him. You, on the other hand, had forgotten about his existence less than ten seconds after he handed you the tool you’d asked for this morning.

You snatch the gloves off and stare at the hot pink flesh of your fingers, “Fine, just frustrated.”

He gingerly grabs your hand, turning it toward himself, “come over here, you need cold water.”

He tows you toward the large trough across the lab, where a spread of tools and parts were waiting to be washed or drying out on the nearby benchtops. You spot a small square contained with several labels reading ‘KEENSER’S LUNCH – DO NOT EAT’ in a variety of languages, and you can’t help but giggle. The little alien was yet to find out that it was best friend Mr. Scott always stealing his food.

Clarke turns on the faucet and checks that the water is cool before pulling your hand under it. You only realise then how close you are to him, and that his eyes aren’t just green but have little flecks of gold in them, and that there are several sets of eyes glaring at you from across the room.

“Thanks,” you say, though you can’t help acknowledging the fact that you were more than capable of doing this by yourself.

“I’m no doctor,” he chuckles softly, “but you should probably go to MedBay.”

Your heart feels like it flips in your chest, sending a woozy amount of blood to your head and undoubtedly turning your cheeks pink. “I-I think I’m good, but thanks again.” You pull your hand away and dry it gently on the front of your uniform.

“What’ve ya done now’?” Scotty asks, walking toward you with a comical amount of greasy fluid smeared across his face.

“Nothing, just accidentally-”

“Touched a soldering iron,” Clarke interrupts, and though you know it’s out of concern you can’t help the indignant scowl that settles between your brows.

“I’m fine,” you say.

Scotty glances at your hand, and instead of expressing concern his lips curl into a cheeky grin, “think ya need to go to MedBay, angel.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Clarke do double-take at the affectionate nickname.

“No, I’m fine,” you repeat.

“I can take her?” the lieutenant offers, at which your frown deepens.

“Can I just go back to my quarters?” you ask Scotty, “I just need a plaster.”

Scotty nods, “it’s well past ya finish time anyway.”

You smile politely at Clarke before turning back to your workstation and haphazardly untying your apron with one hand. Scotty begins packing up your tools before you can, and you know it’s his way of showing concern, but you still frown.

“I’ll see ya later, then?” he says as you turn to exit.

“Tonight?”

“Game night,” he replies, “the capt’n got that old pool table in workin’ order, remember?”

You vaguely remember being cornered by Jim yesterday afternoon after yet another lengthy shift, and being ordered to attend a night of drinks and shenanigans since the ship was going to be in friendly space for the next few days.

“Right, uh, do you know who else is coming?” you ask.

Scotty’s grin returns, “the usual.”

You narrow your eyes and open your mouth to demand he elaborate when Clarke cuts you off, “did you say a pool table? I love that game, my dad had one when I was little.”

“Oh, then you should come along lieutenant,” Scotty says, “the more the merrier.”

Your head aches with the effort that it takes not to roll your eyes. “Great,” you say, “then I’ll see you both later, now if you’ll excuse me, I need to shower.”

You reach the turbolift and step inside, thanking the universe for its speed when you arrive on the upper-most floor containing crew quarters in less than a few seconds. The familiar corridor leads you to your room, where you sigh dramatically as you kick off your shoes and wrestle out of your red shirt. Your hand stings when you step under the hot water of the shower, so you have to hold it out while you awkwardly wash your hair and body. Sitting on your bed in only a towel, you rummage through your personal medical kit for some plasters to wrap your fingers. You try desperately to recall even an ounce of your first aid training but unfortunately, there was always one huge distraction that prevented you from ever learning anything when it came to medical training. A distraction that happened to be the very doctor who was attempting to teach you.

You lay in your towel for longer than necessary, flipping through data on your PADD and absently watching the time until you decide to get dressed. Eventually you pull on a pair of denim shorts and an old Starfleet Academy shirt before snatching a hair tie from the table beside your bed and slipping into your sneakers. The crew commons are located only two floors above you, where the rec rooms resides behind the huge cafeteria and kitchen. You can hear the sounds of laughter and conversation before you even reach the end of the corridor.

“Look who finally decided to join us!” Jim exclaims the second he spots you; his steps are unsteady and his grin is wide, he’s already very tipsy.

“Hey Captain,” you giggle, “you look merry.”

Nyota bounds toward you and wraps her arms around your neck, “oh, thank goodness you’re here, I’m losing.”

Behind her you can see the pool table situated between the bar and a cluster of low, blue sofas. “Nyota Uhura losing a game? That’s unheard of.”

“I know,” she gasps, handing you a drink, “now catch up and let’s kick some butt.”

Before you can take a sip, Jim hands you a small glass of clear liquid, “first, you have to do a shot, it’s a rule.”

You roll your eyes before swigging from the little glass. It burns your tongue and the back of your throat, spreading a fire through your chest as it descends to your stomach. “Holy shit, what is that?”

He chuckles, “no idea, something Chekov picked up a few planets ago.”

You cringe and down half the bottle of your drink in an attempt to quell the burn.

“Y/N!”

You tip the bottle back down and find Clarke standing right where Nyota had been. “Hey,” your voice is raspy, still recovering from the shot.

He chuckles, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, that was just-”

“I know, the captain made us all do one when we got here.”

Jim grins and smacks a hand on Clarke’s shoulder, “you didn’t tell me you were making friends down in the engine room, angel.”

You roll your eyes once again and swap your now empty bottle with the full one in Jim’s hand, “maybe you should stop talking before I stick a pool cue up your ass, Captain.”

His eyes narrow at your sweet smile, “we’ll see who ends up with a pool cue up their ass tonight.”

“Gross,” you giggle as he turns around, and you follow him toward the pool table with Clarke in tow.

Sulu, Scotty, and Keenser are surrounding the table, arguing about whether or not Keenser was cheating while a couple of Nyota’s friends watch in amusement. Chekov is seated on one of the low sofas along with three other young lieutenants you’d only met once or twice, and Spock is standing alone by the back wall, no doubt assessing the physics of the game in front of him. Your heart practically leaps into your throat when you spot the doctor, sat on a barstool beside Spock with his arms crossed over his chest and the usual frown set between his brows.

Your feet forget how to move in coordination and you stumble forward, but Clarke is quick to catch you. His arms wrap around your shoulders and steady you before helping you upright. “Thanks,” you say, as you look up to find his green eyes much too close for the second time today.

He smiles boyishly, “you’re a little accident prone, aren’t you?”

You nod and brush yourself off, glancing over his shoulder at the stool beside Spock, now empty.

“Come on, angel, stop flirting and let’s play,” Jim calls, now in possession of the pool cue Sulu had been holding.

Keenser hands you the other cue when you reach the table, before turning back to Scotty and launching right back into their argument.

“Hey,” Clarke says, still beside you, “I’ve been meaning to ask, why does everyone keep calling you angel?”

Sulu stops in his pursuit to the bar, with a wide grin stretched across his lips “because have you ever seen anyone who looks more like they fell from heaven? She’s gorgeous.” He stops to kiss your cheek and take the empty bottle from your hand. “Another?”

You nod, “thanks, Sulu.”

“Well, that is true,” Clarke’s cheeks turn a pale shade of pink, “you are gorgeous.”

Unsure of what to say you simply smile and step up to the table, watching Jim arrange the balls inside the plastic triangle. “Are you sure you know how to play, angel?” he smirks.

“Are you sure you know how to play, Captain?”

He lines the white ball up with the chalk marker and gestures to you, “ladies first.”

You poke your tongue out at him before taking your stance and leaning over the table. As you place your hand on the felt to line up the cue, pain ripples through your fingers and you can’t help but cringe.

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks again, and you begin to wonder if those were his first words.

“I’m fine.” You regain your focus and bite your cheek to ignore the pain in your fingers, and when you draw the cue back to take the shot, you notice blood seeping through the plasters. Oops.

Despite your injury, you break the triangle perfectly and the balls scatter across the table. One finds its way into the corner pocket, eliciting a cheer from your audience of crewmates and a little squeal from yourself.

“Suck it, Kirk,” you move around the table, “smalls are mine.”

You position yourself for the next shot, stretching onto your toes and leaning halfway across the table in order to properly reach the white ball. You draw the cue back just as a figure steps into view on the other side of the table, your heart leaps once again and your aim falters. The cue hits the ball way off centre and sends it wobbling across the green felt. “Damn it.”

Jim chuckles, “what happened, angel? Your first shot was so good!” His eyes dart from you, to the doctor, and back.

“You suck,” you say, stepping back and holding the cue upright.

With everyone watching Jim’s move intently, you take the chance to glance at your fingers. Pain is pulsing steadily through your hand, nothing excruciating but certainly uncomfortable, and blood blots the white plasters.

Clarke moves to your side once again, “do you need to go to MedBay, or we can ask Dr-”

“Seriously, Clarke, I’m fine,” you say, “I don’t want to bug Dr. McCoy on his night off.” You look over at the man in question, his expression grumpier than usual as his eyes bore into you, but the moment you meet his gaze he looks away. In fact, he turns his entire body and moves toward Spock, who is standing quietly beside Nyota.

“You’re up,” Jim says, drawing your attention back to the game.

You struggle to focus on your shot, your mind replaying the doctor’s face over and over, and wondering why he could possibly be angry with you. It was strange that he hadn’t come to see you yet, to talk to you, it has been a while since you’ve all hung out together like this and you miss him.

You take your shot and somehow sink a ball, and on your second shot you manage to position the white ball in the most inconvenient place for Jim. “I think I may have underestimated you,” he says as he steps forward, wearing a smirk.

After offering Jim a brief but cheeky grin, you decide to make the first move with Leonard. Not in that way, though you did wish you could, but you decide to approach him first and find out if he really is angry with you and if so, what the hell did you do.

You first retrieve two drinks from the bar before sliding up beside him, once again seated in the bar stool beside Spock. “Hey McCoy, thirsty?”

Relief washes over you in a big hot wave when he looks up and his expression breaks into a grin. You’re positive your cheeks have turned beet red, but you don’t care, Leonard McCoy is grinning at you as if you’re the sole reason for his happiness and that’s enough to make you dizzy. Could you imagine if you actually did kiss this man, or sleep with him? You’d probably going into cardiac arrest. Good thing he’s a doctor.

“Hey, angel,” the nickname from his lips is so different than from anyone else’s, and it makes your heart thump even louder in your ears. He takes the drink from your hand and his fingers brush yours, making you wince. His face falls, immediately wondering if he had done something more than take an offered drink or if you were just uncomfortable with his touch – which hurts to think –, but then he notices your plaster-wrapped fingers.

“Y/N,” his voice is a warning, and the fact that he’s using your real name is enough to make you cower... and turn you on a little bit, but that’s something to unpack later.

You hide your injured hand behind your back, “Doctor.”

He stands from the stool and easily towers over you as you begin retreating toward the pool table. “What did you do to your hand?”

At that moment you hear your name called from behind and thank the universe for its timing. “Nothing, Doctor,” you reply, “now if you’ll excuse me.”

You turn quickly and begin hurriedly assessing the arrangement on the table before electing to stay on the side of the table with your back to the grumpy doctor. You bend over and try not to cringe when you position your injured hand on the felt, but the pain is only brief before you realise that you’re fully bent over right in front of Leonard. You’ve dreamt about this more times than you care to admit.

Deciding that you’ve already dug your grave, you might as well lie in it too, you arch your back and stretch a little further, feeling your shorts ride up your thighs. You draw the cue back and take the shot, sending one of your balls and one of Jim’s sailing into opposite corner pockets.

Jim chuckles, “thanks for that, angel.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, as you step around the table.

You can see Leonard now, and his face is a mask of practiced calm, but you know him too well to believe it. That man is undoubtedly flustered. You try not to giggle audibly as you lean down to take your second shot, but the distracting doctor clouds your mind and your aim is completely ruined. The white ball sails across the table without hitting a single other ball.

“Fuck!” you exclaim, at which everyone laughs.

Jim smirks, “what’s wrong, Y/N? Distracted?”

It takes all of your self-control not to throw the pool cue javelin-style across the table. “Get on with it, Kirk.”

You want to talk to Leonard again, but you can feel the plasters on your fingers growing damp with blood.  He was always weird when you got injured, almost panicky despite being a doctor who deals with literal catastrophes on almost a daily basis. You didn’t doubt he would shred you for hurting yourself and not going straight to MedBay, though in your defence you definitely didn’t think the burns were bad enough to blister and bleed.

“Did you want a few pointers?” Clarke asks, almost startling you with how suddenly he’d appeared beside you.

You frown, “with what?”

“The game,” he gestures toward the pool table.

“Oh, uh,” the lieutenant looks like a puppy dog, with wide eyes and a small pout, practically begging you to find him attractive. There are two women across the room wearing matching piercing glares, and you can’t help feeling obliged to accept his help. “Sure.”

He beams with self-confidence and follows you around the table as Jim announces that it’s once again your turn. Thankfully, most of the group has begun to lose interest in the game, settling back into the sofas or going to retrieve more drinks. You can even see Chekov and Sulu playing an intense game of Jenga at the bar.

“Okay, so you want to get a little lower, get your eyes in line with the shot,” Clarke says in your ear, and you start to wonder if this man has any sense of personal space. “Relax a little, you shouldn’t have to arch your back so much.”

You can’t stop yourself from giggling as it bubbles up, but Clarke pays no mind as he practically smothers you with his body to ‘help’ your game.

“Come on, angel,” Jim chuckles, “stop flirting and get on with it.”

Your head snaps toward him and if looks could kill, Jim would be a pile of ash on the ground. At the same time you look toward your captain, Clarke moves your arm to take the shot, since he’s practically controlling your body right now. The aim is way off with you once again distracted, and the white ball haphazardly knocks into a few other balls before sinking into a pocket itself.

You stand abruptly and take several steps away from Clarke. “Damn you, Jim, that’s completely your fault,” you say, pointing at the table.

“Hey,” he puts one hand up in surrender while the other holds his drink, “there were two people controlling that shot and neither of them were me.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Clarke says, “I didn’t realise you weren’t ready, that’s totally my fault.”

You wave a hand, “don’t worry about it.”

Eager to shake the lieutenant you rush to the bar to get another drink, where you coincidentally find your favourite doctor. “Bones,” you greet him again, holding your injured hand behind your back.

He nods, handing you a bottle before taking an unnecessarily large step back, “so- uh, you and that lieutenant, huh? Jim didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

You begin shaking your head before he’s even finished his sentence, “no, no, I- um, I’m not dating that guy, at all. Actually, I barely know him, he just started kind of following me around today, and it’s really weird but I’m too polite to tell him to leave me alone, that’s it.”

Bones frowns, “oh, well- I mean, it’s not really any of my business, so you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“Oh,” you nod once, “noted, sorry.”

His words weren’t cruel but you couldn’t help from hearing a bitter undertone. Something about the way he spoke made you feel stupid, and almost irrelevant, like he asked you a question just to be polite and there you were ranting and raving like an oversharing child.

“Wait, Y/N, I didn’t-” his words are cut short, but by what you don’t know as you were already halfway back to the pool table and halfway through the drink you’d only just received.

Jim quickly notices your frown and stops you before you can get to where the white ball is. “Are you okay? What did he say to you?” he asks.

“Nothing, I was just rambling,” you reply, “and I could tell he was getting annoyed so I left him alone.” You wave your hand dismissively, which somehow actually gets Jim to shut up, because he freezes mid-thought and doesn’t move to stop you from walking past.

You drain the rest of the bottle in your hand and discard it on a nearby table before getting ready for your shot. You lean over the table and rest the cue on your hand, the slight amount of alcohol you’ve consumed is only making your aim a little wonky, but you confidently draw the cue and strike the white ball. Shockingly, two of your own balls manage to find the same pocket and sink with a satisfying clunk.

“Did you see that?” you exclaim, turning to Jim only to find him staring blankly at the tabletop. “Are you absolutely stunned at my incredibly skills?”

“Damnit, Y/N,” Leonard says, startling you as he appears beside you and grabs your hand.

You wince as the sting from the pressure and movement ripples up your arm, and only then do you notice that the plasters are completely soaked with blood. “Oh,” you frown and inspect your hand, “that’s weird.”

“What the hell have you done?” he pulls your hand closer to his face and gently prods your middle finger.

You gasp, “ouch!”

The doctor’s frown deepens, and he turns to his best friend, “game’s over, she’s coming with me.”

Despite the situation, Jim still smirks, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He winks as Bones rolls his eyes and tows you out of the room.

You’re a little too scared to speak as he rushes you down the hall and into the turbolift, but as the doors slide closed you realise that he’s basically been holding your hand this whole time. You try desperately to rationalise with yourself and remind yourself that he’s a doctor and your friend, and he’s just doing his job, but the stupid butterflies in your stomach continue to flutter restlessly.

“How did you do it?” he asks, his frown finally softening.

He’s standing right beside you, touching you in several places and your brain struggles to function. “When I fell from heaven?” you ask, and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or nerves, but you start giggling.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, but you can still see a tiny smirk underneath his hand. “No, angel, I’m not hitting on you right now, I need to know how you hurt your hand.”

“You’re not hitting on me right now, but you will later?”

Bones freezes, his expression torn between frustration and amusement as he considers whether or not the alcohol is influencing your words or not. “If you tell me how you hurt yourself,” he says, “I’ll flirt with you later.”

You grin, and it almost knocks all the air out of his lungs, “promise?”

“I promise.”

The lift’s doors ease open and you recognise the familiar MedBay as Doctor McCoy leads you toward it. It’s quieter than usual and you realise then that it’s actually been a while since anything had gone wrong or blown up. Jim really is getting good and being captain.

Leonard sits you on an empty bed, a hand on each shoulder, as he drags one of the medical carts over with his foot. “Do you want anaesthetic?” he asks.

You scoff, “it’s just a burn, Doctor, I’m not going into labour.”

He chuckles as he begins to unwrap the blood soaked plasters, “so it’s a burn?”

“Yep, soldering iron.”

“Why weren’t you wearing gloves?” his frown returns, “I’m going to kill Scotty, if he-”

In your lightheaded stupor, you press your free hand to his cheek and whisper, “I was wearing gloves.”

“What? Then how did you-”

“Don’t know,” you shrug, “this stupid part has been breaking every a week for almost three months, and every time I have to fix it, it just gets more and more stubborn. It doesn’t want to fuse together.”

“What part?” he asks as he sets the bloody wraps aside.

You glance down at your hand and see nothing but swollen pink flesh and blood; if you were sober, you’d probably have passed out by now. “One of the little filtering chambers from the main deuterium pipeline.”

“Deuterium?” he repeats, angrier than before, “Damnit, Y/N.”

The next thing you know, he’s pressing you back until you’re lying on the bed. A nurse hurries over at his call and then there’s a hypo in your neck. The room starts to blur, but the doctor remains in perfect focus as you fight your heavy eyelids, willing yourself to stay awake.

“It’s okay, angel, you’ll only be out for a minute,” he brushes your hair off your face as you finally lose the fight with the anaesthesia.

Your hand still hurts when you wake up, and you have to blink a few times to get your eyes to focus. The spinning in your head hasn’t stopped and when you sit up to see the grumpy doctor, you still want to giggle. “Hey Bones,” you emphasise his nickname, and you can swear you saw his scowl falter.

“You practically poisoned yourself,” he shakes his head as he carefully packs his equipment away, “deuterium is deadly in the best of cases, but in the bloodstream? You’d have been dead in a day if you didn’t bleed out first. Did it not concern you that the blisters were bleeding? I mean, sure blisters bleed occasionally but not that much, angel.”

Your desire to giggle is dampened and you swing your legs over the side of the bed so you can shuffle closer to the doctor. “I’m sorry,” you say, “I honestly didn’t think about the deuterium contamination, which makes a lot of sense because the filtering chambers are usually one solid piece, not two halves, so whoever installed that is going to get their asshole rip-”

Bones’ laughter stops your rant, and you’re forced to marvel at just how gorgeous this man really is.

“If I knew it was serious, I would have come straight to you,” you say as he helps you off the bed. Your feet are only a little unsteady and your head still dizzy, but that you blame on the ridiculously handsome man in front of you.

“I told you it was serious,” a voice calls from the corridor, and you turn to find Clarke entering the MedBay.

“Great,” Bones mutters, dropping something metal onto the metal tray and making a loud clang before wheeling the cart away.

Clarke walks right up to you and grabs your hand, “how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” you pull your hand back, “like I’ve been telling you all night.”

He chuckles, but it’s awkward, “you’re lucky Dr. McCoy is so good at his job.”

You don’t see it, but you hear Bones scoff, and that’s when your foggy brain finally manages to put two and two together. You almost gasp, but quickly mask it with a deep breath. He’s… jealous.

“He is the single best person aboard this ship,” you say, trying to ignore the warmth pooling in your cheeks. If it wasn’t for the alcohol still coursing through your blood and probably a little of the anaesthetic, you know you’d never have the guts to be so forward.

“The single best?” Clarke asks. You almost feel sorry for the guy, attempting to remain light-hearted as if he could convince himself that the way he saw you looking at the doctor was something platonic.

“Single best,” you repeat, at which Bones can’t help but smirk.

Clarke chuckles awkwardly again before gesturing toward the turbolift, “did you want to go back? The others are still playing and I’m sure they’ll be excited to see you’ve survived.”

“I guess,” you look back at Bones, “are you coming?”

He nods, “yeah, I’ll just finish packing up here. You two go ahead.”

Clarke tugs on your hand and you reluctantly follow him into the corridor and toward the lift. The doors open and you step inside, subtly pulling your hand out of his and trying to create more of a distance between the two of you.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

You sigh, “yes, I am. I just-” he looks like a puppy dog, and you almost feel ungrateful for what you’re about to say. “Clarke, you’re really cool, and I’m sorry if I have completely misread the situation and if what I’m about to say is totally wrong, but I’m just not into you the way you want me to be.”

His face falls, and guilt washes over you, but then the doors of the lift begin to beep angrily as you stand between them preventing them from closing.

“Y/N, I-”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt him and step back into the corridor, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The doors close and the lift begins its ascent. You take half a second to swallow your guilt before turning around and practically running back to the MedBay. Bones is almost exactly where you left him, though instead of cleaning up the mess he’d made while helping you, he was leaning against the bench with his face in his hands and letting out a long sigh.

“Am I that exhausting?” you ask.

He startles, but a smile quickly breaks across his face when he sees you, “you scared me, angel.”

“Sorry,” you cross the room as you speak, “I just couldn’t leave you to clean up after me, it didn’t seem fair.”

He chuckles, but its short, “what about your boyfriend? I don’t want to ruin-”

“Gross, no.”

“No?” he frowns.

You shake your head, “seriously, no, he’s not my type.”

“You have a type?” his lips quirk into a smirk.

“Yep,” you’re standing beside him now, facing him and leaning your hip on the bench, “I prefer brunettes.”

He rubs a hand down his face, as if trying to wipe away his grin, “well, I’m sure there are plenty of willing brunette lieutenants down in engineering.”

“Not my type either,” you say, unabashedly studying the doctor’s profile as you stand so close.

He chuckles, properly, and it makes your stomach flip, “so lieutenants aren’t your type?”

“Not that part,” you reply, “you said ‘willing’ but my type is more unwilling. You know, the avoidant, sarcastic, grumpy type.”

He sighs again, as if it’s taking all of his strength to remain composed, but he finally turns to you and you can feel his breath on your neck as he speaks. “Is that so?”

You nod, “yep, and you know what else?”

You’re both leaning in, and the air between you is electric. “What else, angel?”

“I’m a sucker for doctors.”

That’s enough for Leonard. He closes the distance before you can take a breath and presses his mouth against yours. It’s rushed, but sweet, and your bodies snap together like two magnets. Your arms wrap around his neck as his circle your waist and squeeze, making your heart race impossibly fast. When you pull apart, reluctantly, your vision blurs and your head spins, and you realise that the only reason your still standing is thanks to Leonard.

“I’m a sucker for accident prone engineers,” he whispers.

You giggle, “is that so?”

He kisses you again, several times, before kissing each of your cheeks and moving your bodies so that he is trapping you against the bench, turning your giggles into almost uncontrollable laughter.

“Did you still want to go back to the others?” he asks, pressing his body against yours in the most delicious way.

“I can think of about ten other things we could do,” you bite your lip.

“Really?” he kisses you again, “because I can think of about a hundred.”

END.

[risnabeaute]

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• Avoid using really hot water to wash your hair. Because hot water can seriously harm your hair, set your shower temperature as low as you can. You don't need to comprehend particle physics to have curly, bouncy hair, and you also don't need the graces of the hair gods. Just remember to heed these hair-nourishing tips.

2. Choose your comfy iron

One of the most adaptable hot tools available is the curling iron. With careful deception, they can curl, wave, and even straighten your hair. However, not every curling iron is made equally. There are several things you should be aware of if you're looking for a curling iron just to, well, curl your hair. Your purchase may be influenced by factors such as your hair type, texture, length, health, and aspirations. To assist you in selecting the iron that will give you the dream-like big, bouncy, tight, or mermaid-like curls. Avoid Using a Curling Iron Most often The heat produced by curling irons, hair dryers, and other hot appliances dehydrates hair and increases its vulnerability to breakage and damage. Try to restrict how often you use heat tools to a few times a week at most.

3. Prepare and shield your hair For the greatest results and to prevent damage, the hair must be prepped and protected before styling. Use a wide-tooth comb and our Honey Infused Leave-In Conditioner to make sure your hair is devoid of tangles if you're beginning this process with freshly washed but still damp hair. Apply a dime-sized amount of Propolis Infused Polishing Primer evenly throughout your hair, starting at the root and working your way up to the tip. With the addition of hydration, volume, and gloss, our hair primer shortens the drying time. It's perfect for keeping your curls hydrated, reducing frizz, and giving them a manageable hold.

[bolithesenate]

@charmwasjess consider yourself warned, this is a fic that, if/when i post it on ao3, it will need so many warnings

i don't even know where this all came from because i sure was in a MOOD when i started writing this and it is VERY different from basically all my other stuff.

putting it under the cut because neither Dooku nor Sy are having a happy fun time right now and that stays the same for most of the fic (i have not yet decided how it will end)

premise of it all is that Sifo didn't fully die after being shot down and Dooku still does the Dooku thing of keeping him in a cryopod in his basement, only Sy eventually wakes up and well... is confronted with his best friend, his dear heart, his secret love having Fallen so far from the path.

And Dooku is confronted with Sifo returned from the grave and he's had him killed him already once (for all that it was worth), there is no way he can do it a second time

or is there?

Dooku lay before him on the floor, face warped in pain and clutching one hand over the large electrical burn spidering over the side of his neck and jaw where Sifo had hit him. 

Oh.

Not a droid.

No wonder that one had lasted so long.

Sifo stepped above him, loosely pointing the crackling end of the electrostaff right at Doo's jugular. It would be so tremendously easy to just… push down, push out. 

The warping purple electricity reflected off Dooku's dark eyes, like fireworks in the night. That was one thing Sifo had noticed. Dark eyes, never Sith-yellow. He wondered why that was. Probably some sort of Sith-alchemy, or even just lenses (it wasn't, they were Doo's eyes, the same eyes he'd been staring into ever since he'd been a Youngling in the Crèches).

There was no contempt in those eyes, no struggle. Just acceptance and relief.

Relief.

Laughter didn't as much tear itself from but through Sy's throat.

Relief? Dooku wanted relief? Through death?

Not by his hand.

Disgusted, he threw the staff to the ground, where it clattered lifelessly to the side as Sy let himself fall down right over Dooku's midsection, straddling him once more in a by that point well-rehearsed motion. They were both drenched in sweat, an indication that they must have been here fighting longer than he'd thought. 

It was so funny, in an ironic way, how their current predicament perfectly mirrored their nights, just with both of them actually wearing clothes.

"Oh, Doo," Sifo whispered hoarsely and reached out to press the tips of his fingers onto the fresh burn marks, caught somewhere between gentleness and cruelty, "Did you really think that salvation would come that easily?"

"No," Dooku admitted.

"You're right it doesn't." Sifo's voice dropped. Then, he curled his hand into a vicious claw and pressed down. Dooku's scream was just as hot and scalding as the soft skin of his neck that only just was starting to blister. 

Sifo dipped down and licked into his open mouth, swallowing up all the pain and fury the other man let out – pain and fury Sifo was causing. It shouldn’t have been so exhilarating, being the cause of such turmoil in someone so Dark.

And yet…

And yet.

Dooku buckled under him, writhing. He could have thrown him off, Sifo was sure of that. The Sith had twice the strength and triple the motive to just do away with him – that was if he could break the spell Sifo had on his body. He ground down on Dooku’s lap. It was the one weapon he had, the one tool against this fool. The Sith desired him, wished to break him completely, wished for him to break him in return.

He could do that.

They had already proven that they were great at it, even.

No need for a bed when there was the slightly padded floor of the training room.

Sifo moved his face, dragging his lips along Dooku’s jawline until he reached his ear. “You may never accuse me of such infidelity again.” His voice came out strangely sweet, a complete antithesis to the venom he felt boiling in his heart. “We can be monsters, but only for each other.” It was just as much of a statement as it was a promise. He tightened his hand on Dooku’s throat even more and a silent gasp was his reward.

[ponyguru]

The last of the My Little Pony Baby dolls, Baby Alive Sunny Starscout! I really like that each doll gets a different skin tone, and Sunny even gets a little pair of glasses! It’s really cute to see the diversity, and I like to imagine Sunny might wear glasses like I do! I added an extra photo of her teal comb, because I’m wondering if the color changed just slightly between her prototype and the final color, ha! Maybe just a difference in lighting! I’m also not sure why each doll needs a curling iron, but you know, more power to ya, literal baby! 🤣 Go enjoy those dangerous hot styling tools!

[foulbearobservation]

lilith builds the crucifix, going out with ava to pick up the wood & watching her hands ghost over each timber. ava, still overawed by texture, by color, by the scent of formaldehyde and arsenic and all these dangerous preservatives.

lilith leaning into her, pressing her back into the shelves with no need to touch - ava moves for her. it’s gravitational - leaning down to not-quite-capture the edge of ava’s ear between her teeth as she whispers, ‘did you know the smell of formaldehyde can make you hungry?’

ava breathing against lil’s neck, ‘i’m always hungry lily’ and stealing a kiss from the edge of her jaw.

pouring over old documents about roman torture and bea’s soft frown towards ava, ‘that’s what it is, you know. torture.’

ava grinning & playing pokemon on their switch, ‘i know what i’m asking for, bea, and i can always phase out if it’s too much.’

making her charizard use flamethrower as she says, ‘nothing can hold me, right?’

lilith, snorting soft, understanding, ‘yeah, right.’

so bea does her research. about how roman legionnaires were trained to find destot’s space, a secret emptiness in the hand bordered by the hamate, the lunate, the capitate and the triquetrum. listing these off to cam and feeling her thumbs brushing bea’s occipital bone, leaning back into the pressure while cam reads over her shoulder.

they buy nails, long and sturdy and thick. bea sterilizes them even though it doesn’t matter; her ava is all but indestructible, and she knows it.

ava standing in the shadow of the crucifix, listening with her eyes half-shut as cam explains what they’re going to do, her eyes drifting down to the hammer in cam’s hand, feeling heat settling in her stomach, this slow fire of their lives.

formaldehyde in the air, and hunger.

the way they lift her up, all three of them, lilith closest because she’s so strong. the dark shine of her eyes and ava trying to cheat and kiss her but feeling lilith’s fingers curl around her throat and press it back against the wood. bea lining up the nail and nodding to cam.

hot breath against her neck and lilith reaching down, one finger sliding easily into ava as the tip of the iron nail pressed down into her flesh and cam says, ‘you’re doing so well ava.’

the feeling of bea pressing a kiss into her wrist and ava laughing, dropping her head into lilith’s shoulder as lil begins fucking her in earnest.

‘ready?’ cam’s face a little more serious, fingers flexing around the hammer.

and ava letting out a breathless laugh & saying, ‘amen.’ no reverence to her at all.

gasping, bracing against lilith and her clever hand and her teeth on ava’s neck as the nail jolts through her, a sudden astonishing bright burst of pain in time with lilith curling her finger inside of ava, drowning an ‘i love you’ in the hue of ava’s cry, knowing that she’ll hear it.

lilith holds ava as they nail her to the cross, blood whispering down her arms. tears in her eyes but she tells them she’s okay, that it’s something about the sight of them gathered around her, all covered in her blood.

ava having to lift herself up on the nails, feeling the smooth texture of the wood she watched lilith treat and sand for an entire week, sometimes on her knees with the scent of sawdust in the air, licking into lilith as she worked with the hand sander from her & bea’s tool collection (they’re such dads about it, standing all serious in the hardware store comparing various power tools while cam & ava share an ice-cream and try to look useful)

lilith leaving her to hang, feet dangling, blood on her toes as she slowly slips into her harness, running lube along the shaft of her cock. cam doing the same with less drama but watching lilith’s hand as it moves. the asphyxiation that comes with this old roman punishment, ava’s arms trembling as she lifts and settles, blood dribbling from her bitten lip. traceries of red on her thighs and her stomach and her breasts where lilith ran her claws along without breaking the skin. bloody fingerprints on her chest and her cunt and the twitch of her hips seeking the memory of lilith’s hand.

ava lifting herself up to take a breath as gravity bears down on her. ava gasping each time the thrust of lilith’s hips gives her lungs the space to fill. bea taking over, putting ava’s legs over her shoulders to give her some relief (and none), eating her out while lilith slices into her shoulder and runs thin patterned cuts along her neck, her jaw, cutting her lips and kissing her as they heal. cam’s hands on lilith’s hips, cam’s strap brushing the inside of lil’s thighs as she tells her where to cut

lilith building the cross for ava,,, yeah this is the good shit

[whump-in-the-closet]

The Scarred Among the Mundane.

cw: captivity, elf whumpee, magic whump, finn is terrified and tries to use humour to deflect, situation worsens, etc

previous. masterlist. next

— —

Finn watches as Verne enters the cell, letting it slam shut behind her.

He flinches.

Verne sets down a wooden bowl of food and moves back, waving Finn forward. “Are you hungry?”

He curls up tighter, kneading fingers into his shirt to try and stop his stomach from growling. This does little to help. His stomach only growls louder. With longing, he watches the steam rise up from the bowl in ghost-white strands.

Verne toes the bowl, and some of the soup splashes onto the blood-stained floor.

Finn cries out, extending a frantic hand. “Don’t–”

“Then come and eat.”

He looks from Verne’s impassive expression to the wooden bowl. Up. Down. He uncurls slightly. “Is it poisoned?” Under his breath, he adds, “Necromancer.”

“No.” Her voice is tired.

“I don’t believe you,” snarls Finn. He keeps his eyes on the steaming bowl.

Verne lifts her boot to kick over the bowl. “Then don’t eat.” Her tone matches Finn’s.

“Wait!” Finn folds. He pushes himself up on trembling legs. Every limb is watery– disjointed– might as well belong to another body. He swallows hard. In one swift movement, he lunges for the bowl and retreats.

His eyes burn as he eats the steaming soup.

Not crying, not crying, don’t you cry–

He eats quickly, fingers trembling as he holds the spoon. He would lick the bowl if Verne wasn’t watching. As always, she’s looking at him like he’s a fascinating mathematical problem.

Finn licks the spoon one final time, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers are still shaking.

“Now what?” he snaps.

“You’ll have to be brave for this next part,” says Verne and it’s a hot knife in Finn’s lungs.

“W–what?”

But Verne is already opening the cell door and dragging in a table– a table with wheels– and a flat surface.

Finn freezes. Leather restraints line the table. The smile he forces tastes like iron. “Why didn’t you say you wanted to be tied up? I’m more than happy to help with that.” His pitiful attempt at humour is ignored.

Verne drags in a second table, this one lined with tools that glitter in the shadows.

No, no, no, please, no–

Finn’s smile drops. A void opens up inside him and it’s screaming– all that comes out is a ragged, wheezing gasp.

“Get on the table,” says Verne. She lifts her hand in warning, her fingers shifting into jagged rune-shapes.

Finn takes a slow step forward, the floor tilting beneath his feet.

Verne sighs.

Finn takes another, even slower step.

Verne loses her patience. The rune-shapes solidify into reality and Finn loses control of his body.

He might as well be a puppet, limbs connected to strings, pulled this way and that. He ends up lying flat on the table, limbs falling in line with the restraints.

His breathing picks up, burning the inside of his nose.

Verne tightens the restraints around his wrists. Only then does she drop the spell, moving on to tighten the leather around his ankles.

No–

Finn squeezes his eyes shut.

No, no, no–

Quick fingers adjust the strap around his forehead, pulling it tight. The leather is cold against his skin–

–And he can’t move–

“Necromancer?” His voice cracks.

Verne pauses. “I’m not a necromancer. You’re alive still, aren’t you?” She smiles down at him and with a snap of her fingers, a green-yellow light appears to hover over them. “I need you to hold still for this. Don’t worry too much.”

tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast (lmk if you want to be added)

[aurevell]

The Wolf and Flame

Sterek | 1.4k | G AU-gust Prompt 2: Artist’s Muse Summary: The local blacksmith doesn't say much, but he finds a way to get a message to Stiles anyway.

-

They say the shops by the palace walls were hand-selected by the royals themselves, probably to keep the kingdom’s finest merchants within easy reach of the crown. 

But that’s not why Stiles visits.

Well, okay, the goods are part of it. Outside of seasonal market days, you can’t find quality furniture or fabrics within a day’s walk of the castle. And good luck getting your hands on potions that won’t backfire, or talismans that aren’t glittering counterfeits.

Stiles comes for the magic supplies, sure, but he’s most interested in a particular stall tucked away in the north corner: The Wolf and Flame.

And in its shopkeeper.

He steps inside to find the usual crowds present, but it’s not just the body heat and the warm spring day that makes the air feel stifling. 

Like most blacksmith stalls, this one doubles as a workshop. The open-air storefront is laid out with display tables, but even with the light breeze from outside, the heat from the forge is noticeable, its glow spilling out across the iron wares. Customers fan themselves as they walk from table to table, and Derek’s young apprentice is overwarm and yawning at the till.

There’s a distinct lack of hammering from the back of the shop, though. Stiles looks over to find Derek watching him.

“Morning!” Stiles calls, caught off-guard.

Derek offers a small smile and turns quickly back to his work. Or at least, he tries: a pretty dark-haired woman lingers within a safe distance of the forge, waving for his attention. Derek complies with a reluctance he’s getting much better at hiding.

The reticent werewolf’s explosion in popularity is probably as funny to Stiles as it is annoying to Derek himself. Besides producing half of the weapons in the king’s armory, there are sets of horseshoes, household nails and hinges, farming tools, and a thousand other items scattered across the tables. Everyone in town—and probably everyone in the outlying region as well—has to visit The Wolf and Flame if they want premium craftsmanship. 

Which is great for business, but Stiles is pretty sure Derek wishes everyone would leave their orders at the till and leave him alone.

As he idly rifles through a set of daggers, Stiles hears the werewolf mutter some excuse to the woman and step away to tend the forge. Near the heart of the fire, the sweltering air is far too hot for most humans, and the customer must back away. The heat doesn’t seem to bother Derek, though, nor do the bright coals ever seem to sting his eyes. 

As always, Stiles has a hard time dragging his gaze from Derek as he works. It’s some sort of decorative piece today, intricate but compact, and the muscles in the wolf’s arms ripple as he pumps the bellows. His tunic clings to his skin, sweat glistening at his throat.

Despite the heat, Stiles steps a bit closer to see what he’s working on. Held fast in Derek’s clamps is a curling twist of metal in a vine-like design, burning white as a star. Some kind of intricate latch or frame, if Stiles had to guess, the kind that decorate the doors of merchants and nobles far richer than he is.

Though he meant to poke fun at Derek—which is what he always does, poke at things that catch his attention, even things that seem too distracted or uninterested to appreciate his jokes—the only thing he manages to get out is, “Whoa, that’s beautiful.”

He leans against the side of the table, half for a closer look and half to make his attention seem more casual and less adoring, but in doing so he nearly knocks over one of the daggers. It’s a close call, but he manages to catch it by the handle before it clatters onto the floor. Once he sets it back in place, he glances up to find the wolf watching him in amusement.

“What?” Stiles replies slyly. “You know I can’t control myself around your work.”

Derek just snorts. In the months Stiles has known him, the wolf has gotten better at, if not chatter, at least responding with a healthy dose of his own deadpan humor. But today, he again turns back to his work, his face flushed.

Some days, when business is slow, Derek will break his customary silence to chat with Stiles. Despite his reticence, he can often be coaxed into talking about his work, which he seems to genuinely love—how to wield a hammer, or how to read the temperature of a fire. How metals tell you when they’re ready to be worked, or how he treats and cares for his old bellows.

It looks like this isn’t going to be one of those days. Stiles can take some hints. And since he’s not just here for window shopping, he wanders off to find what he came for.

He pretty much knows the shop by heart now. Along the far wall, the shelves hold a mix of household goods and magical items, including the candle holders Stiles needs to stock up on for his next ritual. 

But hung on hooks beneath the shelf are new wares: thin filaments of iron in the familiar shape of a circle, with detailed lines and curls within. 

“Huh. These are new,” Stiles mutters to himself.

“They’re runes,” a voice murmurs, and Stiles jumps, whirling around to find Derek somehow standing right behind him.

He’s close enough that Stiles can smell him, coal and sweat and quenching steel. Close enough that the light from outside catches on the hazel flecks in his eyes. Stiles thinks he should be forgiven for blurting, “What?”

“Those ritual runes you’ve been talking about,” Derek replies, eyebrows drawing together. When Stiles just stares dumbly, he shifts in place and grumbles, “Because iron is best for grounding the ritual.”

“Yeah, I mean—I know that. But how do you know that?”

“Because you said so.” Again, Stiles gapes, and Derek grunts, “It was a long time ago.”

“Oh. Uh, sorry. I babble so much even I forgot what I’ve said…” 

Stiles turns back to the rune circles, gingerly taking one off its hook to tilt it this way and that. It’s practical, sure, but it’s also a beautiful piece of artwork, its weight balanced and every line impeccably smooth, without a single seam to show where the metal was joined. As perfect as if it burst from the flames in this exact shape. 

“How did you even know what they looked like? I don’t think I would’ve forgotten giving you that much detail.”

“When you forgot your notebook here last week,” Derek mutters. His arms are folded, hands tucked into his armpits. Possibly, away from his work at the forge, he doesn’t actually know what to do with his hands. “I went through and copied some of the runes you were talking about.”

“You went through my notes?” Stiles asks, trying frantically to remember whether there’s anything embarrassing written in it. Other than his atrocious handwriting and the occasional drawings of dicks in the margins, there’s not much he can think of. “That’s basically a crime in some circles,” he jokes weakly. “You could sell all of my best spells.”

Even if Stiles thought for a second that Derek had ill intentions, the look on his face—one shade shy of mortified—would have banished that notion. “I just thought it would be better if you started out with iron in the shape you need. Instead of having to scatter filings onto the ground.”

Stiles nods, idly running his fingers over the runic circle. 

And look, this is a very marketable item. It’s not like Stiles is the only magic-user in town who can benefit from a ritual shortcut every now and then. If Derek makes the right runes, even customers who aren’t skilled with magic can grab a protection rune or two for more luck than a horseshoe on the door.

But with the odd way Derek’s very carefully not looking at him, this feels somehow like it’s just for Stiles. And that’s something Stiles is going to try hard not to read too far into, because even shopkeepers have their favorite customers, but…

“Thanks,” Stiles says slowly. “This is—it’s amazing. I can’t believe you made this.”

The for me goes unspoken, but he’s pretty sure the softness of his voice carries the meaning across.

Derek’s face is a little pink, even more than it usually looks around the heat of the forge. He mutters something under his breath and then, to Stiles’s surprise, immediately turns and flees.

Over at the forge, he begins to hammer deliberately at his work, as if to block Stiles from any chance of further conversation.

Stiles can take a hint. This one, he thinks, is the kind he doesn’t mind. 

He pays Derek’s apprentice, who glances between him and Derek in curiosity. When he heads back onto the market street, he’s fighting back a smile.

Read on AO3

[whumpshaped]

You can also use a red hot iron as a beating tool. Arms, legs, torso...just avoid his head.

tw interrogation, burns

You let out a deep sigh. "I suppose you can't reason with stupid."

You're glad you have that electric iron rod. You don't need to bother with fires, long waiting times... it basically works like a curling iron, but a little quicker, and even worse.

You consider swinging at him, but you can't get a good angle with the way he's sitting. You settle for pressing the rod against his arm, letting the metal melt his skin and fuse with it. The cries start up sooner than expected.

"Getting a little tired, huh?" You adjust the position of the rod and press down again. "You had me fooled for a bit, truly. I thought you'd be tougher. But there's no shame in breaking under torture, it's just human nature to want to avoid the pain."

The man really doesn't have any remarks left, not while you're actively burning him. On his arms, on his chest, on his other arm... you raise the rod to be just an inch away from his face. He can probably feel the heat eminating from the metal, and smell the burnt flesh on it.

"Why don't you just make it easier on yourself?"

For a split second, he seems to be considering it. In the end, however, he stays silent. You count that as a win, and you're just a little giddier as you press the rod against his cheek.

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Pygmalion (II)

Pairings: Rook/ (Pygmalion) MC // Idia/MC (Platonic)

Summary: You were frequently told that your career as a renowned sculptor did not match your dull and less than colorful personality. With your cybernetic hands, you carve the lives and deaths of those long gone‒ producing pieces which have been held in both technical and emotional high regard, dubbing you with the title “Pygm.AI.lion” despite your human heart and brain. When you accidentally still the usually flamboyant archer into silence after he comes across you working in your atelier‒ you find that you’ve become a victim to one of his ceaseless stalkings. Though, you’ve been prey long enough to know how hunt the huntsman himself.

Notes: Formatting shit on Tumblr literally makes me want to blow my brains out :)

Anyways here's another chapter, explaining some backstory as well as more interactions and a more internal look into Rook's thoughts. I appreciate the kudos‒ please leave your comments, I love reading and responding to them! I’m very chatty online lol don’t be shy

CW: Slight mentions of self harm in this one? And human experimentation and implied grooming.

Part 1 // Part 2 (Here) // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist

——————————————————

You were back in your old atelier, the one back in your homeland‒ the City of Flowers, before it was given such a name. Head in your hands, you pulled on the root of your hair to put this pain somewhere, anywhere, besides your fragile, human heart.

She‒ now a quiet statue‒ lay still, her face delicately graced with silent death. You transferred your iron grip onto her wrist, shaking, feeling its stillness, the cold, hardened stone. There was no warmth that kissed your flesh, soaking into your body like before‒ when she was moving, alive. You had brought her alive before, why couldn't you bring her alive again? What use did your magic have if it could not sustain life, merely create it? In a fit of violence‒ you threw her body down, watching her through blurry eyes as her form crumbled into a million pieces. You staggered down with it, your fists shaking on the floor. What use did these hands have?

From the corner of your vision, you caught a glimpse of your hammer. Reaching towards it, you steadied your other hand on the floor, feeling the shattered pieces of her digging into your arm like a thousand needles. Hot coppery blood pounded in your eardrums‒ a slow drumming that rumbled louder and louder and louder‒ you were sure it would explode if you didn’t do something, anything‒ to rid yourself of useless parts, dead flesh in your eyes. These hands, once deemed a blessing by many, were now a curse. You didn't ask for it, you didn't ask for any of this.

You swung with all of your mortal might.

"My, my. What a bad child you are, using such tools of creation for destruction." A strong hand snaked around your own, pausing the hammer right above your hand. You glowered through your tangled hair at the figure.

There stood a slender, pale man, leaning against a shepherd's staff decorated with a ram's head, his lips twisted into an impish smile, reaching to his pointed ears. The narrow slits on his face, pushed up by the raised corners of his mouth, bore into you like two crimson crescent moons. His indigo curls bounced as he leaned forward in slurry movements, coiling his fingers up from your arm, into your hand, twisting the hammer out of your grasp. He carelessly threw it behind him, before searching his hip for something. When he found it, he rammed it into the ground, cracking the old wood of the atelier.

"If you're going to dismember your hands, you'd better do so with a knife." He raised himself with the help of his staff, turning away to walk the other direction. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

You blankly stared at Kopis knife*, wedged between the hard wood, barely missing your finger. Briefly, you imagined it slicing skin, tearing muscle, cutting through to the marrow of your bone. Perhaps it's burn would be less painful than the one smothering your heart. But all you could do was stare, squeezing and gasping air into your lungs.

Pausing his feet, he turned his head upwards, and towards you, his sharp teeth gleaming in the lantern light. You caught the scent of his cloak, smelling of bleach and sterile death as he swiveled his feet and crouched down at your level once more. With a sharp smile, he grabbed the knife and intertwined your trembling fingers around the handle. “Here, allow me to help you, my sweet child.”

The knife shook in your hands, as he drew the blade closer and closer to your wrist which he held in his fierce hands with an iron grip. Your skin pursed open at the slight contact of the sharp metal, dripping hot blood onto the floor covered in her remains. The man’s raspy voice rang in your ears. “Go on, or,” He brought his leathery palm up to your cheek, caressing your jaw to bring you closer into his crimson hues. “Shall I do it for you?”

You swallowed thickly, with it the rising bile burning your throat. The bitterness still lurched in your chest, coming out as gasping breaths as he drew the knife closer, and closer into you. Flickering your eyes into his gaze, you were momentarily stuck with a force of pandemonium which roared in your blood, before you ripped your eyes from him and caught glimpse of her head, rolling on the floor with cracked marble falling from her neck. You pushed the man back, stifling your clamoring nausea with a frantic hand over your mouth, mixing cold sweat with coppery saliva.

“I-I merely‒ I c-couldn’t‒ I-I didn’t‒“ you said between shaking fingers, gulping in air with such fervor you were beginning to see purple dots in your vision‒ suddenly‒ clarity within your hoarse voice, “I didn’t ask to be this way.”

The man molded a saccharine smile onto his lips. “No one asks for a curse, child. But,” he cupped his rough hands around your feverish face. “You can certainly ask to be forgiven for it.” He pushed himself up with his horned cane, lifting himself into the moon glow that cast a halo around his sturdy figure.

“Come with me, young one.”

You're still not sure if you regret following Dr.Krios that night, but it was certain that you had replaced a human part of you with something else, something artificial, when something dragged your body up, and walked behind him. He smothered you in his grasp, forming a dark womb in which you emerged when he crouched down to your figure, sinking the sharpness of his eyes into you.

“Your old name is not your god, my child. I rename you‒ our everything. Welcome, (Name) Jupiter.”

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

Your eyes fluttered open, finding yourself to be surrounded by the liquid in your charging pod. The liquid slowly drained, letting out a gust of air from the pressurized container when it's glass doors opened. You had these dreams now and then, it was strange, since your systems had an abolishment protocol to conserve energy during sleep. There was a bit of time before classes were to begin‒ maybe it was time to visit your dorm leader, who had been entrusted with your maintenance as stated in Dr.Krios’ will. It had been so long since you had seen him, you now stood at his door, wondering what he looked like now. Undoubtedly a lot older, though, you were sure Ortho hadn’t changed. Rapping your metal knuckles against the smoothed surface, you hoped it wasn’t too early to intrude.

“Mn…It’s too early in the morning for this…” A disheveled mass of flaming cyan hair framed the tired face of Idia Shroud, who widened his eyes when they focused on your form.

“Who is it, big brother?” Ortho’s voice called behind him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Master Idia, Master Ortho.” A rare smile creeped up on your lips, nodding your head forward in a small, respectful bow.

“(Name)!” The younger Shroud brother leaped into your arms, clinging his mechanical arms to your neck as you spun him around, attempting to displace the force in which he threw his body into yours. The elder stood, face frozen in stunned silence.

“(N-Name)…But, S.T.Y.X…”

“You didn’t really think they could keep the likes of me in that lab forever, did you?” A playful tone bubbling in your voice. You noticed Idia was a lot taller, hair a lot longer since the last time you saw him during his adolescence before the Jupiter Family took you away for their affairs.

“…shut up…don’t call me that name weirdo, we’re friends.” He said with a bashful smile on his lips, covering it poorly with a slender hand. “It’s strange seeing you here of all places…” The door was held open for you, Ortho took your hand excitedly, pulling you inside.

“A carriage arrived after Dr.Krios died, and now I’m here. Honestly I’m just as surprised with the late enrollment as you are.” Idia offered you a seat at his desk, which you took. “But fate, as always, is a sly bastard. I’m just glad you two remember me.” In the face of eternity, you had forgotten what it felt like to leave an imprint on humans, but then again, your relationship with the Shroud brothers was a bit special, resulting from your time with Dr.Krios at the S.T.Y.X labs. A small smile appeared on your face, glad that you were able to revisit a friendship before time had taken them away as it always had.

“Of course we do. You were the only interesting person in that lab after all.” Idia mumbled. “Everyone else was either a weirdo or couldn’t keep up with my speed.” A crooked smile twisted onto his lips, just as you remembered.

——————————————

You trailed behind Dr.Krios, who parted the employees of S.T.Y.X swimming in the hallways with his crippled, but still imposing presence. Though his aging body kept him from his lively energy like when you had first begun to work with him, he still held himself with sprightly footsteps, aided by his bionic organs and enhancements he had implemented centuries ago. Used to the curious glances and whispers directed at your cybernetic forms, you kept your dried gaze forward, boring into the doctor’s white lab coat. Finally reaching the lab you usually reserved, you stood in silence as your superior peaked into the window, groaning a bit when he realized there was a figure already inside.

“I thought I reserved this lab…” He grumbled. “Stay put. I’ll be quick.” The door opened with a swoosh, leaving you outside the hall with nothing to do. You closed your eyes, hoping to conserve some energy for the tests today.

A quiet moment passed, before you felt a tug on your canvas apron. Trailing your eyes to the perpetrator, you were slightly amused at the sight of two children, each with their own set of flaming, cyan hair, their golden eyes looking at you with curiosity. Ah, must be a new addition to the Shroud family, you thought, observing the dancing fire. But even with centuries of observing humans passing through various developmental stages, dealing with children was not one of your fortes. As times changed, so did their interests, you never knew what the latest “thing” was enough to converse with them.

“What are you?” The taller one asked, poking the exposed metallic skeleton of your arm.

“I am a sculptor.” You answered simply.

The younger copied who you assumed was his brother, looking into your eyes with ones gleaming with boyish joy. “Are you a robot sculptor??”

“No Ortho, they’re an A.I. Robots can only do what they’re told, A.I’s replicate the human brain.”

“Eh..? But big brother, they totally look like one of those robots in Rebel Spacefighter…”

“I am not a robot, or an A.I.” The taller one huffs in frustration of your stony tone, the flame on his head flaring slightly in a sunny hue. Hm, cute, you decide.

“Then what are you?”

“I am a cyborg. The most advanced one yet. But I am a sculptor first and foremost.”

“Hm…” The older one inspected your arm with a skeptical gaze. “Prove it. Prove that you’re the most advanced cyborg!”

You paused, thinking, before nodding. “Okay.”

Taking your hand out of his grasp, you raised it to the base of your opposite arm. Getting a good grip on it, you focused all of your energy into that hand. With a deep breath in, your felt your hand burst with energy, digging into your shoulder and tearing your arm off, bits of metal sprinkling the floor below you. You turned slowly to the children, eyes and mouths gaping wide open, before dropping it onto the floor with a heavy thud. Their enlarged eyes followed the severed arm to the floor, which spurt viscous black liquid, twitching slightly with energy. When glassy eyes snapped back at you, the dullness in your eyes blew up into panic.

“I…I-I didn’t..” The elder one spurted, his mouth trembling a bit as he struggled to form a sentence.

“A-ah‒ wait‒ no, no, no. L-look!” You picked up your arm, bringing it back to the nub on your shoulder. The black liquid began to form around it, mending the gap with dark webs. It melted into the metal of your skeleton, leaving the same smoothed surface as before. You chuckled nervously, bringing your arms up and palms forward in a jovial manner to reassure them. “The Orpheus* system is the most advanced bionic program at this current time‒ s-see? Good as new.”

The children let out a sniffle, the taller one carefully examining the surface of your arm. The liquid of his eyes never dried, which worried you, especially since these were children of the Shroud family. No doubt you would be turned to scrap metal if the current head found out, no matter how much Dr.Krios would likely try to convince the esteemed family that this was all for them. There was truth in that statement, you had exchanged the possibility of extinguishing your unique magic, your curse‒ for the advancement of research in blot infused cybernetics to rid the family of their own curse. However, with the encounters you had in the past with the current head of the family, no matter how young, you couldn't shake off the same ravenous glint in his eyes that reminded you of your doctor's crimson hues. You were panicking internally, you weren't allowed any of your materials before the tests were done for the day, so you didn't have any small carvings of anything on hand that you could marvel them with. Oh gods, what do children like again? What do they do for fun? Create wax figures? Go down to the quarry and find the finest marble?? No, that's definitely not it. Maybe you should just start asking random questions adults had always asked you when you were a child. You searched back in your memories centuries before, during your apprenticeship with your master in the city of flowers.

"Ah…so. What…what do you want to be when you grow up?" You punched yourself mentally. How was that supposed to calm them?? That question never ceased to tick you off as a child, toiling long, hard hours at the studio. Such frivolous, wonderful things like dreams had no space within a life you had struggled to survive at first. Even now, you weren’t really sure what you wanted, or if you wanted anything‒ your purpose was chosen at all points of your life‒ apprentice, sculptor, and now a project for Jupiter Enterprises and S.T.Y.X. Did people even have dreams anymore??? Oh gods, help thy stupid soul, you prayed

You let out a relieved sigh when the tears of the younger dried quickly, as he began to shuffle through his clothes for something. The elder seemed a little stunned by your question, before looking at his feet. Ortho revealed a crumpled up drawing, proudly spreading in front of your face as he pointed to two of the figures crudely scribbled onto the worn paper.

"Big brother and I are going to be heroes‒ like in Rebel Spacefighter! Look, like here, big brother is going to make a bunch of robots because he's a genius! And here's the cool armor he made me so I can protect him!"

Your chest tightened, the reminder that most humans begin like this‒ naive, fragile, brimming with the secret colors and beauty of the world‒ solidifying in your chest. It's been so long since you've touched humanity so closely, so purely‒ and it welled a fresh feeling inside you that you dared to delight in. Swallowing the heaviness down, you took the paper preciously into your hands, examining it with a ghostly smile. “Is this true? You’re a genius like your brother claims?“ You looked down at the elder.

He hid his bashful smile behind his sleeve. "I guess…" He mumbled. "...but I won't be able to be a hero like Ortho said."

"Oh?"

"Father says I have to run the company since I'm the eldest. So…I won't be able to be a hero." His solemn, but knowing tone made you raise that pressure in your chest into the creases that formed in your eyes, wincing from the heartache. You leveled your eyes with his.

"No." You took his hands, so, so small, you noted‒ folding the drawing into them. Even without your synthetic skin, you felt a tiny pulse vibrate within small hands, beating into your metallic skeleton, making you yield in his flushed gaze. "You are a human. Death comes quicker than you can ever fathom…keep what’s important to you in your heart. Don’t let people guide your desires, your dreams‒ or you’ll end up living and dying a life that isn’t even your own.” You wove your heavy hand into the flames flickering on his head, giving it a loving ruffle. “You’ll become a hero if you want to, you’re a genius, are you not?”

He beamed, leaning into your touch. “Of course I am!”

“Hm. You must see to it to prove it to me one day.”

The flames on his head arose a bit, as he tipped his head up with a prideful grin. “You’ll see. I’ll even build a better model than you are!”

“I don’t doubt that one bit. Ask Dr.Krios and he’ll probably let you even take a look inside me.”

“Won’t it hurt? To be taken apart like that?” Ortho jumped in, concern adorning his face.

“Being opened up is nothing. I’d be glad to support your brother’s research.”

Idia circled around you in excitement. “You don’t feel pain? You don’t seem to have synthetic skin…hm…”

“No little flame, I am not a robot and I still have my heart and brain‒ so I do still feel pain." You opened the compartment in your chest, revealing your human heart encased in glass, pumping synthetic blood throughout your body. "And the pain of a human heart is greater than anything in this world.”

The door from the lab swiftly opened, revealing Dr.Krios, and another figure that you recognized which made you immediately snap your chest cavity closed. Despite missing the organs to properly feel nausea, you felt yourself spin under his scrutinizing gaze, fearing that you might be devoured by it.

“Father!” Ortho clung onto his knees, stuffing his face in the fabric of his father’s tunic.

“Ah, children.” He briefly flickered his gaze towards the youngest, patting him on the back before returning his spiraling hues on you. “I hope Dr.Krios’ toy here has kept you company?”

“Yeah!” Their father hummed in response.

Dr.Krios spoke up, a crescent moon grin stretching his lips. “You’ll have to excuse us, young masters. The tests are about to begin.”

“Sorry, little flame. You can take me apart another day.”

Idia, you later learned was his name, waved his hand as the door shut behind you. You waved back, hoping to see them again.

——————————————

"Well, you are weird though, no doubt about that." Idia says with a fond smile as he clicks through your body's program. "Traumatizing innocent children by dismembering yourself‒ imagine if our parents found out. I thought I was going to die.”

"I'd reckon I would be taken apart and put back together again, but this time with a smarter, metal brain that didn't go around scaring little flaming children to death."

Ortho chuckled fondly at your words. "I'm so glad you're here though, (Name)."

"Yeah. It's nice to see you out of that lab finally. And without that creepy old doctor stalking you like a hawk."

"I agree." You nodded. "Though, it does seem like I have a stalker here already…" Rook's face appeared in your mind, reminding you of the strange events that happened yesterday, and the fact that you had to see him today. “How is the maintenance coming along?”

Idia’s eyes didn’t leave the computer, as he wore a bored expression on his face that juxtaposed the rapid movements of his fingers gliding across the keyboard. “Huh? Oh yeah‒ this is low level stuff, especially cause I based some of Ortho’s coding from yours. But you know, obviously I made it better.” A lazy grin appeared on his face. ���Alright. Ephesius* protocol is active again. It should be alright but it’s a fickle since it’s connected through carbon neuron implants in your brain, so let me know if I need to tweak it again.”

You hummed in agreement. “The implants are an older model, so that might be why. But thank you.”

“I can give you ones with better stats if you’d like…” Idia let out a yawn, clearly not accustomed to waking up so early in the morning.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, little flame,” you ruffled his mess of cyan inferno, not used to his tall height despite the slouch in his seated form. “But I think I’m getting a bit too old to be taken apart and put back together so often now.”

Idia’s eyes twitched a bit, remembering the tests done back at the S.T.YX lab, before contorting into false annoyance.“U-ugh you’re such an old geezer. It’s a miracle you’re not crumbling to dust as we speak with that clumsy handiwork by that creepy doctor.”

You shrugged. “It’s more of a hassle trying to implant all my human parts back into another body. Besides,” you remembered the months preceding your meeting with Dr.Krios when you had begun to replace parts of your human body. “Transferring the human soul is painful and takes a lot of energy.” You huffed, exhausted by the mere thought of experiencing that again.

“Ugh you artists are too poetic…” The older rolled his eyes, while his younger brother laughed.

“(Name), it’s almost time for class, we should get going soon.” Ortho mentioned. You glanced at the clock.

“Ah, time flies in good company.” Brushing off the creases in your uniform, you stood. “Idia? You’re not joining us?”

“Less stress taking classes online.” He leaned back in his chair.

“The privileges of being a natural-born genius I guess…”

“Says yourself.” The brothers said in unison. A ghostly smile appeared on your lips. It really was good to see them again.

—————————————-

Rook flipped his body over in the bed once more, his satin sheets a mess from turning and twisting himself in his fruitless attempts to drift into blissful sleep. Vil’s voice rang in his head, warning him of the demerits caused by sleep deprivation‒ but how could he, after he had seen that carving of yours? Glancing at the clock reading 6:12, he let out a stifled groan, turning his body again to inspect his wall decorated with photographs of your statues he had taken in various galleries and museums. How different the grand marble and gleaming ivory statues were from that formless, disembodied, fleshy mass he saw last night.

His gaze turned upward, to the various postcards of paintings he had on his wall. He particularly favored Vermeer, for his early prototype of the camera that could be felt in the delicately proportioned composition and detached precision of his paintings. Dutch Golden age painters were his favorite in this way‒ you could clearly observe, touch the beauty through various observable rules like color theory, composition, and form. Rook often delighted in the sensory pleasures and decadence he could taste on his tongue and feel between his fingers upon looking at these paintings‒ it was playful, tricky, exciting in the pleasures of life‒ similar to himself. It could be said with certainty that the meticulous formulation of the paintings not only shined with beauty in their formal qualities, but the time, skill, and passion that could be felt within each invisible brushstroke. Truth, to him, was beauty‒ and this was the truth of life at its finest, full of charm and vigor that catches the eye instantly.

This was the core, the truth to his way of living‒ and to stray from this principle of beauty felt like he was submitting parts of himself that he desperately kept together with practiced spontaneity and comfortable distance. To hunt was his nature, through his narrow, hungry gaze that greedily ravished his prey. He sought to do that with you, carving you open and devouring you until his teeth fell on soft marrow‒ leaving to track the next beautiful creature when his fickle mind smelled the scent of a greater, more inspiring hunt. But for the very first time in his life, he felt like he was the one being hunted. He felt it was unacceptable, even more so when he cherished that feeling in his chest, rolling it around his flesh like a rough pearl, gleaming with unknown colors. He felt bewitched by that ugly beast you had molded into existence, feeling something inside him, which he could hold, but could not truly touch. The feeling was eating away into his mind, like you had released an infestation into his soul that replaced his certainty‒ his truth‒ with something much too grotesque, but shimmered splendidly with all of the colors of the world.

Rook truly didn’t know what he felt, but he felt it deeply. An easier feeling, anger‒ greed perhaps‒ simmered his thrashing blood, trying with all of his might to recluse into the clear picture of beauty he had been painting for the years he had lived dedicated to beauty. He faced the ceiling now, boring his eyes tiredly to the dark wall. The phone on his bedside table vibrated, letting him know it was time to begin his morning routine. He sighed, feeling the heaviness of his body with slight irritation, before walking to his dresser to tidy up. Vil would surely scold him for the bags under his eyes.

—————————————-

You caught up with most of your classes with ease, thanking that your years of living had finally given you a tangible advantage. You lived through the history of magic, have seen mighty sages in action, and science was basically potion making‒ you had never had an issue picking things up quickly, so classes shouldn’t impede on your studio time. Though, it did seem like you were getting quite the attention not only as a honor student, but as Pygm.AI.lion‒ you ignored any calls of students directing that name towards you, differentiating yourself from the version of yourself that had been fabricated into emptiness by the Jupiter businessmen and scientists. Not my name, not my problem, you thought boredly, heading to the art studio for your next class.

When you opened the heavyset doors, you were greeted with stares and whispers‒ nothing unusual, but nonetheless annoying. The teacher looked up from their desk, their face sprouting with excitement when you gazed back with dull eyes. “Ah! Mx.(Name)! Please, have a seat, we’re honored to have the esteemed Pygm.AI.lion in this humble class!” You silently leaned into an empty seat, a bit perturbed to find Rook sitting across from you, sending you a wave with a fox-like grin. Gazing far out the window, you rested your head on your hand, only half listening to the teacher’s instructions for today.

“Since we have such a special guest joining us for their first day‒ I thought I’d propose a critique at the end of class after today’s prompt!” On the board in chalk, the prompt was spelled out in round handwriting: ‘Depict your perception of the world!’

With a huff, you headed towards the corner of the room with marble situated in it. No wax, or plaster in sight‒ you decided you wouldn't be needing it this time. Taking a slab of marble into your hands, you let the charcoal between your fingers glide across the glossy stone‒ entering your body into a deep trance as you traced the divine image in your mind. In practiced movements, your body began to chip away at the stone, carving the vision which descended down to you with musical movements. The splintering by cold metal into the pearly boulder rang like a thundering heartbeat between your metallic hands. Time passed quickly this way, even more so than usual in the face of eternity.

The teacher eventually began to gather the students near a wall, with it their artworks with a label on each. There were a cluster of various paintings, sculptures, photography, and pencil drawings with white title cards on each of them. Your thoughts were interrupted by two claps that echoed from the teacher’s hands, announcing the critique was about to begin. Sitting on a stool near the side of the classroom, you noticed people parted where you stood, giving you a conscious amount of space between themselves and your body‒ better than weird business men and reporters grabbing and prodding your body without your consent, you thought.

“So, let’s begin with our photography pieces.” A hand was pointed towards the top most photo.

Silence ran throughout the room, an invisible pressure staring into your unrelenting gaze shifting to the floor.

“Perhaps our very own Pygm.AI.lion would like to give an example?” That question seemed more like a twist of your hand, which you accepted with an exasperated raise of your eyebrows. How long has it been since you’ve participated in a group critique like this? You gazed at the photo he pointed to‒ slightly amused to find a photo of one of your sculptures‒ a baroque Venus you had carved centuries ago, towards the end of your master’s life when he entrusted you with his studio. The focus was softened to an angelic glow, with splotches of washed out color seeping into the thin material in an airy manner‒ it made you feel like your shoulders were being lifted into their sky like clouds, a floating feeling at the bottom of your feet. However, you grounded yourself with a pointed gaze.

“Though I find the choice in subject…interesting, to say the least‒ I can’t say it’s within the theme of the prompt. Casting someone else’s image as your own is part of photography, but I can’t help to feel a disconnect between the intended essence of this photo, and what I’m seeing in front of me. I’m not versed in the delicate balancing act that is photography, however, I find this angle and effect a little redundant.”

“A-ah. We try to stay as civil and neutral as we can with our critiques in this classroom.”

You made a face. “I am. I am merely stating what I am seeing.”

“Maybe your sensors are a bit too sensitive to the formal intricacies of the photo?” He suggested, opening his palms to gather the agreement of the rest of the class. Some nodded, some looked away. "Try looking it through a more human eye."

“I am." I am human. A pause. "My sensors are still connected to my human brain. Would you like to see?” You would tear yourself apart in a blurry mess right now to prove that your statements are true. His throat bobbed with thick movement. “Besides, how does one stay neutral with a portrait of the artist’s face staring into you when you observe their work? I would love an explanation of how objectivity seems to work in this studio.”

“…Maybe we should just ask the artist for their opinion.” He turned to a feathered head. “Rook?”

A smile bent onto Rook’s lips. “I can’t say I’m disappointed in hearing my work is…redundant. But I take that as inspiration for my next work." A beat of silence. "Thank you."

You nodded. "It is however," the words were paused on your lips, your eyes gazing far beyond the photo. "rather, delightfully human. There's a grotesque beauty in that. Perhaps it's better your way."

Rook felt a ghostly color bloom onto his cheeks. It was as if you were looking right into him with a crystallized gaze, reaching into his heart and squeezing it. He had tried to capture something enchanting on the school grounds today, but his tired mind still gravitated towards the dismembered statue of yours, fogging the usual sharpness of his mind and steady hand. While looking through his portfolio hoping for the divine inspiration that you seemed to bask in, his eyes trailed to that magnificent baroque Venus displayed in a retrospective gallery for you a few years ago. He tried to avoid using any of his photos taken of your sculptures, intending to push that feeling away with his fickle mind‒ but his eyes wandered back to that portrait of your vision. You were, much to his current dismay, a part of the clear picture of beauty he painted in his mind. He felt the glossy paper between his fingers, and he sought to reveal something within it.

Some noise came out of your mouth, but he was too distant to hear. "Pardon?" He asked.

"You used different chemicals when you developed the picture?"

"Ah, no, I used a potion to reverse the development process, then added the effects after it with different chemicals." The smile returned to his lips. "We Pomefiore students pride ourselves in our talents in potion making."

"Hm. Interesting, I've learned something new."

Pride swelled in his chest at that, moistening his palms with salty sweet sweat, erupting into a chuckle that came from deep inside his stomach. "I'm glad." He echoes the voice in his heart, rather than his chest.

The rest of the critique went smoothly, perhaps attributed to the teacher's reluctance to initiate your keen sensibility once more. The last sculpture remained, none other than your own. Clocks of every size, gathered together like a hive to form one larger clock‒ the back of the sculpture revealing intricately carved gears and screws, all made of hard marble. It hung like a lonely chandelier above the wooden studio floors.

"This requires something from me." You pulled the glove between your teeth, infusing your touch into the stone. The clocks began to move in sync. However, a few seconds passed, a few slowed, ticking off beat. "My Aphrodite's Kiss allows me to animate my carvings. The larger the structure, the more time it has."

The professor looked down at his clipboard, through some notes he had been taking during class. "I thought your unique magic allowed you to bring your work to life?"

You watched as the smaller clocks begin to yield to their limits, eventually stopping after a few lethargic ticks at the end. "Something which gives cold flesh purpose is not life?”

“W-well‒ “ The man lowered his clipboard in defeat. "...I'm having trouble interpreting the 'essence' of your sculpture as you criticized Rook for. Can you explain a bit about this work?"

"We all project ourselves onto others and their work when we view them. Interpret however you want."

“But could you explain‒ “

“Art is not knowledge. It’s not as flimsy as that.” You felt like spitting those words out into the teacher's face, eye twitching when you barely withheld from it. “You feel it. Feel it, as it feels you.”

Slowly, quiet claps rang around the room‒ you could hear the hollowness in them, just like the ones ringing in the spacious galleries. Your ears were accustomed to the slight ache that followed after hearing it, clenching it with your porcelain teeth with nearly invisible movement. Though the eyes of many were on you‒ you felt them look through you, onto a reflection of themselves projected onto your metallic body that was more grand, more beautiful than what they were. In all the years you’ve lived, producing such lifeless creations, no one truly loved you for it, or what you made. They just loved the version of themselves that did‒ clapping, crying, hyperventilating at the sight of themselves in you when you clasped their hand back in a diplomatic handshake. The striking of their hand onto their own was truly only for themselves, you were just hearing the echoes of the sound which rang inside their hollow bodies. You yielded to the numbness that ended the feeling‒ closing that feeling inside a tender fist.

However, from the corner of your blurred gaze‒ you caught glimpse of Rook, sitting still with his lips resting delicately on his slender fingers in deep thought while he observed the last ticks on the large clock. Though his green eyes were not on you, you felt his gaze, taking in your words with a welcome embrace, inspecting them with great care. You quickly averted your eyes, a shaky breath squeezing its way out of your lungs. Had you been holding your breath? It felt heavy, deep in the synthetic flesh that trailed from your stomach, deep inside your throat, to the back of your eyes.

"Magnifique. My interpretation of it is only its beauty." He turned his whole body to you, you soaked your eyes in his entire color. "With my human eyes, that's all I can see." Though you had no iron clad blood left in your body, you felt hot blood reach to the metallic taste in your tongue, seeping out from the teeth that bit into it. The class was dismissed a bit early that day, allowing yourself to snake your way out of your classroom, away from the warmth of his eyes.

—————————————-

Notes:

Hey when I promise slowburn I'm going to give you guys slowburn

Designated the City of Flowers (which is likely referring to Paris since it's where Nobel Bell College is, which is based off of the Hunchback of Notre Dame that takes place in Paris) as the reader's hometown since it has a strong connection to Carolingian dynasty which has its roots on Charlemagne, which has its roots on the Roman Empire (Charlemagne), which caused the fall of Ancient Greece. I imagine reader's master fled ancient Greece before it fell and infiltrated into Rome in order to succeed as a carver, passing down both Roman and Greek sculpting techniques. Or I'm overthinking the lore per usual lmao

Heavily implied that Krios is part fae and a descendant close to the Shroud family‒ hence his pointed ears and indigo hair. He also carries a shepherding staff as a self proclaimed symbol of his divine leadership (also reflective of his desire to play god)

I wanted to explore Idia’s and your relationship since I think it’s vital to your connection with STYX and why you were “reborn” into a cyborg in the first place. Definitely just making stuff up as I go lol (also younger Shroud siblings are cute, even when you’re traumatizing them lmao)

Uhh huge disclaimer I have no idea truly if any of the cybernetic information is correct. I did a bit of research but I’m an Art History major and gay lol I am actually genetically incapable of doing math or sciences

Kopis is a ritual slaughter/sacrificial knife from Ancient Greece‒ usually for cutting meat (considered a low-status/impure trade), or for animal sacrifice. Also sort of connects with the whole ram imagery since rams/lambs/goats were often sacrificed in at least Jesus times, I think maybe also in Greek times. Also, would make sense if Krios thought of himself as a god to carry it around since the whole Abraham almost sacrificing his son thing before Christian God was like just like jk lmao! Just kill a ram for me instead. He's twisting that tale of divine sacrifice into one which reclaims power by playing God

The Orpheus system obviously named after Orpheus, who was a renowned poet who was torn to pieces for not honoring Dionysius as a god. However even in his death, his head still sung mournful songs, drifting down the river of Hebrus into the sea, funnily enough to the island of Lesbos. Orphic cult/mysteries also center their rituals around dismemberment and rebirth (as it is connected to Dionysus who originally had a lot of connections to rebirth in his early Mycenaean characterization predating the pantheon we all know that's from the hellenistic period), so I thought it was perfect for a system which could continuously but its body back together, especially for an artist type that carves the lives and deaths of others. Also, I just have an obsession with Dionysus and the cults surrounding his characterization lol

Extra bonus‒ Orpheus also traveled with Jason and the Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece‒ the rams of which have a connection to Ancient Greek’s interpretation of Aries‒ so another cool connection with Dr.Krios since he symbolizes/named after a ram. Wow I really hit the symbolic jackpot with this one

Ephesius (also known as Artemidorus) is an Ancient Greek diviner who wrote about dream interpretation in 2nd century A.D. I originally had the idea of calling it the Baku protocol since Baku is a creature I am familiar with that eats dreams‒ but I decided to keep the Ancient Greek theme since the in game lore does too lol. But if you know an Ancient Greek creature who eats dreams please infodump

I think Rook's perspective of beauty is interesting. The “truth of beauty” for him is something he can see, something he can touch. He seems like someone who systematically disassembles what he considers beautiful (which is why I think he is moving towards the field of archaeologist‒ they're uncovering the truths of civilizations and artifacts) viewing its aesthetics with an objective eye‒ I feel that in his art courses, he’s extremely mathematic with his color theory, composition, and form, and thus I think artists like Vermeer, and any other Dutch Golden Age artists fit him well, especially as the era emphasizes the idea of “looking” and sight, sensory pleasures that can be felt on the tongue, nose, and eyes much more than something that can be felt in your heart. It’s playful, and it delights in the delectable pleasures of life‒ much like how I imagine Rook does (I mean his favorite food is liver pate), and I think that’s very beautiful in it’s own way. But above all it attempts to create truth‒ a lot of sensory components (especially sight) are needed to "evidence" beauty (he probably wouldn't like movements like Dada or Abstract Expressionism). Granted most art does this, however I believe during the Dutch Golden Age it becomes a fixation as the power of the merchant class rises, and people begin to discuss sight and science above Christian/Catholic truth, taking truth into their own hands. The Dutch were also Protestants, which allowed them to dissect human bodies (see The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp by Rembrandt), which furthered scientific pursuits leading into the Enlightenment, the art of the period focusing on technical skill showing the wonders of technology and human achievement much like the Dutch Golden Age. Artists like Vermeer and Rembrandt and other still life artists also valued very technical aspects such as the ability to replicate color and texture, the balance of light, compositional melody, which pulls from the Renaissance and its precision in balance, perspective, etc. I think in a similar way to Rook complimenting the RSA students on the passion he felt during their performance, he would praise artists like Vermeer and Rembrandt for their own passion because of the observable technical skill for them. Passion and love for him breeches on obsession, on perfection. So I do think he may have a hard time understanding movements like say les nabis and Tachisme, which are a lot more abstract and rely on an imperfect, unfinished, or generally distorted and aesthetically “ugly” but are there to elicit a very strong emotional and vestibular response.

In the same sense I also think he’s very good at deciphering observable behavior with his sharp eye, but has trouble identifying internal affairs. He almost reads neurodivergent to me this way?? But maybe I’m projecting lol but I feel like his eccentricity + sharp observation skills (pattern recognition) + trouble identifying internal thoughts and emotions of himself and others + need for spontaneity/stimulation makes sense for some type of neurodivergent (which I’m sure the Pomefiore dorm is full of)

The Pearl bit was inspired by our lord and savior Mitski (once again)

I’m actually so fucking bad at understanding photography on its own. I think photography in the contemporary context sometimes makes us exclusively consume reality through it but I think it can be touching?? Like I understand it's doesn't really "capture reality" rather presents a perfected version of someone's perception of the world just like painting but god it's so hard for me to consider when it's not within a political or sociological context please info dump if you're knowledgeable lol

Your sculpture is based off of Felix Gonzales-Torres' "Untitled" (perfect lovers). Though the sculpture I described depicts a clock made of clocks, which is vastly different from the two analog clocks featured in Gonzales-Torres' installation‒ it came from a similar inspiration. The artist's gay lover had been dying of AIDS when he made this artwork‒ and he had to watch his lover whither away into nothingness as he stood helpless‒ reflected in the fact that eventually, the clocks will fall out of sync (because they are human made) causing one to stop before the other without proper maintenance, alluding to the political as well as physical/personal ramifications of homophobia during the AIDS crisis. I liked this idea of "falling out of sync", eventually realizing you are on a different speed, different point on the timeline of demise despite being made of the same thing. Also though clocks are mechanical (a robot basically, designed to do a task with given instruction), they are a product of a human made concept (time) also another interesting parallel boy am I on a roll

Sorry for the super long notes! Hopefully I can crank this next chapter out quicker

[einsteinsugly]

Fictober 7. That 70s Show. 1977. All My Love.

"Do you recognize this?"

It's his civic duty, to show Jackie Burkhart some good music. Some Zeppelin, and their most iconic tune. Stairway to Heaven.

"No. I told you, I don't listen to rock music," Jackie dismissively declares, "But Donna showed me Fleetwood Mac, and I really like them. Do they count?"

"Yeah." He smirks a little, thinking of the obvious. "Still can't believe you thought Led Zeppelin was a person."

"I can't believe that Donna thinks Steven Tyler is hot. She showed me Aerosmith, and God. Steven Tyler makes Eric look cute. Donna has no taste, and she even has worse taste in guys..."

Once again, Hyde relays the obvious. The elephant in the room, especially after what he heard went down at the ice shack.

Kelso's van sinking should be a fucking sign, man. "You thinkin' about goin' back to Kelso, huh?"

In turn, Jackie is quick to deflect. "Well, he was my first boyfriend. And he's gorgeous."

Hyde's no knight in shining armor, but by comparison, Kelso is an invading army. A pillager, at best. Other terrible things, at fucking worst.

"But he cheated on you with Laurie, Pam, and the girl from Sacred Heart, and he makes Shaggy look like fucking Einstein."

"He smells like dog sometimes, too," Jackie notably adds, hoping for some worthwhile affirmation, "I swear, I think he plays with the neighborhood dogs."

And Hyde is more than willing to provide it. With few stipulations. "He belongs with 'em."

"Yeah..." Jackie happily trails off, as the song devolves into a certain nothingness. Silence, like all that glitters isn't gold. Just some shimmery rust. "He's a dirty, dirty dog. And I'm way smarter than him, even when I play dumb..."

Now, here come the stipulations. The awkward pressing, to get her to think. "Why'd you do that?"

"So I can get what I want. Then I turn the tables." Jackie uncomfortably cackles, nervously taking Hyde's hand. "I do it with my cheerleading friends all the time, and it's fun."

And for once, he doesn't jerk away. "Are they really your friends? You haven't brought 'em 'round here in awhile."

Now, Jackie is forced to think. Beyond the stupid games. Beyond the good grades. "They're tools. Like a curling iron. You know, one time, I tried to buy Donna a curling iron..."

Hyde catches her trying to deflect, once again. "Uh huh."

But Jackie is purposely dense. "I had to teach that moose how to curl her hair."

So, Hyde cuts to the chase. "I still gotta teach you a lot of things, doll. The ways of the world."

"Are you taking me into your stupid dojo of coolness again?"

"You can say that."

*****

Zeppelin is blaring, and they're sitting in a circle. Smoke uncomfortably billows, as they pass the blunt.

Back and forth, back and forth. "You can't let old habits die hard, Jackie. Remember what dumbass Shaggy did to you."

Jackie uncomfortably exhales. "But what if I don't find anyone else?"

He keeps it simple, as he inhales. "You will."

And Jackie, as high as a kite, still catches on. "You didn't say 'not me' this time."

Hyde nods. "Uh huh."

*****

2002.

"He said he didn't feel anything, but he was a big fat liar."

Maybe Jackie glorifies their love story to their kids, providing only some symbolic puzzle pieces. It's a stupid game. And sometimes, Hyde doesn't like it.

"She was singin' the same song." But today, Hyde is more than willing to partake. "Then she still got back with Uncle Kelso, for awhile."

Jackie nods, taking Hyde's waiting hand. "I gave him a marriage ultimatum, so he could run away. And he ran to California."

Hyde looks at Jackie oddly, harkening back to a bygone era, and Jackie groans. "That wasn't the same thing! That was because I love you, I wanted to cement that forever and ever, and you were being stubborn! Big diff."

James opens his mouth to say something, a negative Nancy Drew by trade, but Becca angrily nudges him.

Because Becca doesn't feel like exploring a dusty attic of crap, and releases some sort of rhetorical statement. To cap it off, right then and there.

"What if your plan didn't work, and he didn't run away? That would be weird."

Jackie and Hyde nervously glance at each other, and for once, Jackie is at a loss for words.

So, Hyde picks up the tab. "Yeah, it would."

[tic-of-the-tac]

Because TommyInnit (@tubbosfriend) is now on this platform and I want to give him a proper welcome (which was not on my 2022 bingo card but here we are lmfao), and because I feel most comfortable sharing these here over any other platform at the moment, you guys get to see it first!

I give you…

✨L’Manberg✨

Featuring KentuckyFriedMari as c!Wilbur Soot!

Some fun little behind the scenes details:

Both jackets were designed and crafted by Mari. They spent a lot of their childhood in colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, so they have a lot of knowledge about and experience working with colonial fashion.

As you might notice, I have a red bandana in place of a proper cravat. This was a stylistic choice on my part to make c!Tommy still feel like c!Tommy with his iconic bandana. Considering his age and desire to make c!Wilbur proud at this point in the story, it felt like an appropriate choice.

It took me 2.5 hours to curl my wig. My base wig was from Epic Cosplay Wigs and I curled it using a REALLY mini flat iron and an unholy amount of hairspray.

Strangely enough, this is one of my cheapest cosplays, but only because I got lucky and already owned most of the base materials, including the tricorn hat. (Yes, I had a tricorn hat just laying around. I don’t know why, but it came in handy!) I think it’s a great example of being able to make fantastic looking cosplays for really cheap by utilizing the materials and tools you already own.

We took these photos in Arizona in early September. It was likely around 110 degrees Fahrenheit outside (43 degrees Celsius). Yes, it was very hot. But me and Mari are hotter, and these photos turned out amazing, so it was worth it.

I will be posting the videos we also filmed to TikTok very soon (my user is tictac.cara) in celebration of my birthday coming up, so stay tuned!

[imaginedreamwrite]

ABO Wednesday. Okay I can't remember the name but the pregnant Omega and is it Alphas Curtis and Steve? Or Ari (I have a horrible memory) their bikers and live in her building and they become her Alphas? I could see her making a list of things for her pup she needs/wants for them, but for fun she writes things she'd like to have in the future like perfumes she likes and shoes sweaters and maybe make up or stuff to do her nails, a fancy curling iron, things she would could never justify buying for herself. Thank you!

They found the list by accident, when they didn’t think they would have wanted you to. It was sitting on the counter while you were in motion, likely setting it down during one of your nest noughts. You had likely forgotten where you set it as you moved onto another small task while busying yourself with preparing the newly purchased house for your pups.

Your forgotten list was soon picked up by Steve and Ari, the two of them committing every want and desire to memory. They had taken it upon themselves as a personal task to complete the list and get you everything you needed or wanted because you deserved it.

They started with the baby items, the cribs and bottles, pacifiers and noise machines to help your pups sleep. They had gathered and bought clothes and blankets, stuffed animals and even monitors that would help you take care of your pups before they moved onto your list.

the items that you had written down as future wants were purchased and wrapped. the perfumes that would enhance your natural scent, pretty nail polish to doll yourself up with simply because you could, or even hot tools for your hair. They had gotten every item you had put down, even wrapping them for you with haste to surprise you with.

When you returned that night after spending the day with some of the females in their pack, the gifts had sat in the living room tied with neat little bows while your two alphas had been working on setting up the cribs.

[sayeedaqsa]

How Can I Get My Hair Transformed?

Whether you want to transform your hair with color or cut, it is time to take care of it. Your hair is exposed constantly to the elements, pollution, stress, and styling chemicals and tools. So if you are in the quest for having that lustrous mane, whether in curls, straight, or waves, you need to get your hair transformed from the salon by a professional.

In most cases, we rarely think twice before pampering our face at least once a month in a beauty parlor, so why not indulge your hair a bit too? Let it shine and transform from within.

In this article, we will look into five ways to transform your hair in the salon without getting a cut or color.

1. Use Of Keratin

It's time to stop your fight with frizzy, unruly hair and get it transformed with Keratin treatment. You no longer have to torture your hair with flat irons and harsh chemicals to get straight and manageable hair. Regular Keratin treatment can help you achieve that while nourishing your hair with protein.

2. Scalp Treatment

You love your hair length and style, but you are at your mind's end on how to control the dry, itchy scalp or the oily one. The scalp facial, a growing Japanese trend, helps you to scrub the scalp of any sebum. With a healthy scalp, you can warrant healthy hair that is naturally lustrous.

Also, Read - 5 Ways to Transform Your Hair

3. Hot Oil Treatment

This has been part of hair treatment for centuries and can be done at home. But if you want to get the most of this treatment that will transform your hair, get it done at the salon. You can enjoy the immediate benefit since it seals the hair's cuticles while adding instant shine to damaged and dry hair. It also adds volume to flat hair, transforming the mane within half an hour like never before.

4. Moisture Treatment

Suffering from dry hair that also has split ends? The moisture treatment, also known as deep conditioning, adds extra nourishment and moisture to the hair. The unruly tresses are given a deep repairing massage that hydrates the scalp and the hair. In the end, you will have bouncy and healthy hair. This is especially beneficial when you add color to your hair. The colors can make your hair dry, so add the moisture treatment to your coloring service next time.

Also, Read - PRF Treatment For Hair Loss: Procedure, Cost, Benefits

5. Detox Treatment

Are you suffering from your hair growth being stunted? First, check if your hair is ridden with chemicals and other hair product buildups. Then, you can undergo the detox treatment that removes all these chemicals and clears the hair shaft and the scalp while stimulating hair growth. The treatment while removing the impurities adds nourishment to the hair that gives a natural glow to your hair. We all want the transformation of the hair, i.e., enjoy our natural healthy tresses.

If you are looking for ways to transform your colored hair, then toning treatment is the option. It helps in perfecting the color of the hair. It can be availed in-between complete coloring services or full coloring services. But try and avoid doing the treatments at home, whether coloring from a box or using Keratin products directly on hair without proper experience. You will be incurring more damage than enviable hair transformation.

Final Words

Next time when you are fighting the split ends, patchy colors, unruly frizzy, or damaged hair, go to the salon for your hair transformation. Trust us. You will be thankful that you went there.

[terrainofheartfelt]

Blair + Serena prompt Colours

Blairena + Colours

Blair fidgets in her seat, trying not to let her anxiety show. 

“Relax,” Serena says over her shoulder, “it’s gonna look amazing.”

Blair chews on her lip, unconvinced. “Maybe if I could just peek for a second –”

“Nope,” Serena cuts her off, cheerful but firm, and continues on with her work, painting the dye into Blair’s hair. 

Blair slumps back with a sigh, her eyes still regrettably trained on the bathroom tile of their hotel room. 

It had seemed like a great idea at the start. After her divorce was finalized and Serena had ended yet another engagement to a handsome someone Blair can’t even remember the name of, they’d both been desperate to just…move. To be somewhere else. 

So, they packed their bags, met at the ticket counter at JFK, and bought first class seats to the first place that struck their fancy. 

Serena had met her sporting her latest post-breakup cut and color: shoulder length shag with a riot of bubblegum pink and electric blue highlights, and it only took Blair two mile-high cocktails to declare her jealousy, and one club soda for Serena to offer to do her hair too as soon as possible. 

And so, here she is, at the mercy of her best friend. Who, admittedly, has a great eye for both art and cosmetics, even though any project Serena takes involving either one comes with a huge amount of mess. 

And Serena, knowing Blair’s reticence to let go of control, sat her down in this luxury bathroom in Ibiza, turned her away from any reflective surface, and wouldn’t even let her look at the color Serena was planning to apply to her hair. 

It was all very distressing. Less distressing than the life she just left behind, but still.

But Serena knows her better than anyone, knows all her tricks, and so refuses to bend, and because it’s Serena, Blair lets her get away with it, and bears the wait through the bleaching, then the actual dyeing, and waiting for the dye to set, and the rinse and the drying, and the styling, until finally, finally, Serena sets down all her beauty tools and claps her hands. 

“Okay,” she chirps, so bubbly she’s brimming over, Blair loves her when she’s excited like this—well, Blair always loves her—”close your eyes.”

“S, noooo,” she whines, “I have waited long enough, I am going to –” 

She stops talking, because she’s finally turned around, and can see her reflection in the mirror. 

Now, mixed in with her natural chestnut brown, is a clever cascade of purple highlights, deep and vibrant, but not too bright that it’s battling her coloring. Rather, it complements it, adds a whimsical, free, softening edge. 

Mesmerized, she runs her fingers through the waves Serena made with her curling iron, watching the new color catch in the light. 

It looks nothing like her, and yet, it is. 

“Do you like it?” Serena asks anxiously, looking in her eyes through the mirror, twisting her hands in front of her. “I thought royal purple was the right touch.”

“Yeah,” Blair breathes. “S, I – I love it.”

Serena smiles wide, so bright that Blair thinks if they weren’t looking at each other via the glass it would turn her to stone.

Serena’s hands guide her into standing, and turn Blair around to fully face the mirror, rather than look over her shoulder. Shere arranges Blair’s hair around her shoulders, setting it into place, working with a casual kind of intimacy that only comes from knowing someone for decades, for knowing her more than her own self. 

Once satisfied, Serena smoothes her hands down Blair’s arms, and leans down to prop her chin on Blair’s shoulder. 

“Why, Miss Waldorf,” she says, playfully leaning on the title, “you look hot.”

Blair meets her eye through the glass, smiling, and somehow knows that it won’t turn her to stone. She’s never felt more vital. 

One word prompt

[zarrin99]

5 ways to transform your hair

Whether you want to transform your hair with color or cut, it is time to take care of it. Your hair is exposed constantly to the elements, pollution, stress, and styling chemicals and tools. So if you are in the quest for having that lustrous mane, whether in curls, straight, or waves, you need to get your hair transformed from the salon by a professional.

In most cases, we rarely think twice before pampering our face at least once a month in a beauty parlour, so why not indulge your hair a bit too? Let it shine and transform from within.

In this article, we will look into five ways to transform your hair in the salon without getting a cut or color.

1. Use Of Keratin

It's time to stop your fight with frizzy, unruly hair and get it transformed with Keratin treatment. You no longer have to torture your hair with flat irons and harsh chemicals to get straight and manageable hair. Regular Keratin treatment can help you achieve that while nourishing your hair with protein.

2. Scalp Treatment

You love your hair length and style, but you are at your mind's end on how to control the dry, itchy scalp or the oily one. The scalp facial, a growing Japanese trend, helps you to scrub the scalp of any sebum. With a healthy scalp, you can warrant healthy hair that is naturally lustrous.

Also, Read - How Can I Get My Hair Transformed?

3. Hot Oil Treatment

This has been part of hair treatment for centuries and can be done at home. But if you want to get the most of this treatment that will transform your hair, get it done at the salon. You can enjoy the immediate benefit since it seals the hair's cuticles while adding instant shine to damaged and dry hair. It also adds volume to flat hair, transforming the mane within half an hour like never before.

4. Moisture Treatment

Suffering from dry hair that also has split ends? The moisture treatment, also known as deep conditioning, adds extra nourishment and moisture to the hair. The unruly tresses are given a deep repairing massage that hydrates the scalp and the hair. In the end, you will have bouncy and healthy hair. This is especially beneficial when you add color to your hair. The colors can make your hair dry, so add the moisture treatment to your coloring service next time.

Also, Read - The patient's FAQ on Hair Transplant Transformation

5. Detox Treatment

Are you suffering from your hair growth being stunted? First, check if your hair is ridden with chemicals and other hair product buildups. Then, you can undergo the detox treatment that removes all these chemicals and clears the hair shaft and the scalp while stimulating hair growth. The treatment while removing the impurities adds nourishment to the hair that gives a natural glow to your hair. We all want the transformation of the hair, i.e., enjoy our natural healthy tresses.

If you are looking for ways to transform your colored hair, then toning treatment is the option. It helps in perfecting the color of the hair. It can be availed in-between complete coloring services or full coloring services. But try and avoid doing the treatments at home, whether coloring from a box or using Keratin products directly on hair without proper experience. You will be incurring more damage than enviable hair transformation.

Final Words

Next time when you are fighting the split ends, patchy colors, unruly frizzy, or damaged hair, go to the salon for your hair transformation. Trust us. You will be thankful that you went there.https://healthtrip.com/blog/how-can-i-get-my-hair-transformed-2