#misc: my stuff

[cyberllfe]

you replied so quickly i got excited. 😭 also, i totally understand! please perceive my request only when you are able to! there's a veeery big reread factor in your fics so they will busy me for a while. 😤

with that, erm, i spun the wheel and i kid you not,,, it landed on the 1500. 😭 i am also, admittedly, a nines simp and would love to see him with the "nurse me" prompt as someone studying a health allied program. 😖 again, thank you so much for your writing, i would genuinely love anything you put out. lots of love!

— anon from the italian mob <3

thanks for waiting, anon. make sure you listen to nines and get some rest, hm? (ao3 link)

1500 words, rated G.

want a turn? prompt me.

“I’m fine.”

You’re not. Anyone with eyes could tell you’re not, and Nines sees more than most.

True to form, he wastes no processing power arguing with you, just presses a cold compress to your head and watches with amusement as you make an embarrassing sigh of delight.

When you’re calm and a little warmer in the face, Nines presses a glass of water into your hand with a pointed look that says, very clearly, drink up. You accept the glass, savouring the delicious cool against your skin but fighting the urge to rest it against your face, and peer up at him, impish.

“You’re analysing me, aren’t you?”

Nines’ lip twitches. “Your temperature is 103°F.” He pushes the covers higher over you. “You need rest.”

“I know I’m hot.” You thrust the glass back towards him, mostly empty, and try to ignore how your hand shakes sends the water sloshing. “What’s new?”

Nimble fingers take the glass from your hand and you let your arm fall, since it feels so damn heavy. The covers cradle you so nicely. Your brain sits with that thought, and the cosy softness under your arm, until you feel firm pressure against your chest, pushing you back. It’s stronger than anything you can resist, even under regular circumstances, and leaves you nestled amongst a column of pillows that envelop you just like the covers.

It feels so soothing—sharp change in altitude aside—that you forget to be annoyed that Nines is manhandling you in such a mundane way.

“Hey.” The hand doesn’t move from your chest. “I need to breathe, Nines.”

Leaning in so close that your breath tickles his cheek, Nines’ mouth twitches again.

“I’m not stopping you.”

You’re wandering in a familiar grey, too lost to respond—but of course, that’s the intention.

A part of you that expects him to leave, and it’s why you’re hanging on. When the fight slowly leaks from your body and you deflate gradually, letting the bed take you, Nines tucks the sheet around you closely. You realise that despite your head being on fire, the rest of your body feels pretty cold. It’s nicer with the covers close.

He refreshes the compress on your head, applying gentle pressure. A single bead of water runs from your temple to your jaw; the cold makes you shiver. Nines catches it with a deft swipe of cloth before it can go any further, then sets a fresh glass of water on the table next to the bed.

When he’s done, he slides into bed beside you.

For a considerable time, you drift in and out of consciousness. Not dreaming, not really, but you’re wandering through a fever-warped imaginary world. More than once, you could have sworn you were conscious; your brain fills the space between thoughts with nonsensical sounds and images while your body rages against infection.

Nines is there every time you wake up. He looks down at you when you stir in your plush cocoon, and you’re struck by how casual it is—it’s not the clinical, sharp android eye that watches you, but. something far softer. He brushes away the stray mess of hair obscuring your eyes but they’re already half-closed, and soon after, the abyss takes you again.

*

Hours later—it has to be, it’s dark outside now—he brings you food. You’d wondered where he was, why he’d left you with nothing but a Nines-shaped impression in your mountain of blankets, until you smell something delicious that you can’t place. Somehow despite his many skills—and perfect willingness to show them off—you hadn’t expected that he’d cook for you in the middle of the night.

It’s sweet, and to your half-awake brain, it’s funny. Nines, delicately carrying a bowl of soup, garnished beautifully with a swirl of cream and a light sprinkle of herbs, while dressed in your apron. It’s a good deal too short for him, and it makes you laugh, then cough, then hastily reach for the water he left you.

With a slightly clearer head, you notice a few more things. His arms, bare to the elbows with his shirt rolled back and folded crisply; a little of his hair has fallen out of place, probably from the heat of the stove.

You’re watching him with too much intensity for a little too long. By the time your gaze meets his eyes you find mingled consternation and amusement, but he doesn’t chastise you—especially when you accept the offered spoon without protest.

Your open hands take the soup without argument, too; ravenous hunger has hit you from what seems like nowhere, so you sit up, prop yourself against your pillows, and cradle the bowl as if it’s precious.

It’s perfect, of course. Nines tells you that he’s taken care of some basics around the house—he’s cleaned your kitchen, for example. There’s more soup, for later, after you’ve rested some more, and he’s fixed the malfunctioning dial on your stove. Just because, with that unspoken loftiness—except it’s just because it helps you.

Not really giving him your full attention, you glare at him, a heavily laden spoon already in your mouth, and he laughs. It breaks the tension left in your body. Between the warmth of the food and the company, you feel soothed—aches and all.

While you eat, Nines reads to you. To your surprise he’s expressive—entertaining, even. It’s a calm choice of story, and he pauses when you laugh to watch your face, sometimes so intently that he chases your eyes back to your food.

He’s still reading when you’re done. You don’t want to interrupt him with thanks, and in any case, you don’t really have the words for your appreciation, so you cosy up beside him. When he looks at you his expression changes—softens, as if in acknowledgement, and you get the feeling he notices it in you anyway, the way he notices everything else.

With one wide, smooth motion he grabs your cold compress—refreshed and ready for you—and repositions it against your forehead, before brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. They’re cool but not cold against your skin, and you close your eyes, savouring the small relief, the calm of mutual understanding, before pushing closer to him, into his touch.

“Please keep going,” you mumble, muffled by the covers.

You can’t see, but Nines smiles down at you as he does.

*

You wake in the very small hours of the morning. There are birds merrily chirping in the trees that line the street.

In the stillness you’d assumed you were alone; Nines makes you jump when he shifts to lay parallel beside you.

“Thank you.”

You don’t quite know what else to say. The words aren’t enough, but your mind is still fuzzy and stalling any means of finding better ones.

Nines reaches out to touch your face and gives you one long, serious look, in lieu of accepting your thanks. You see something in him, the way he watches you, appreciation of an obscure kind—he considers your thanks unnecessary, but he can’t seem to say so, nor does he accept them.

“Your fever’s broken.” He touches your chin. “How do you feel?”

“Better.”

The cool morning air feels pleasant against your skin for the first time in days. You don’t shiver, just lay in your spot, savouring the contrast with the toasty bedsheets.

“Good.”

Now your discomfort is receding, you’re sharply aware of how bad you must have looked. You stifle a groan. How untidy it is, to be human.

“I… you’re lucky, you know.” Nines frowns. “Androids don’t have… this.”

“What?”

“All the human stuff. The mess.” You break eye contact for a beat, but look back, determined let appreciation override the gnawing self-consciousness, despite how gross you must have seemed.

“You are a mess,” he laughs when you express immediate indignation, and you realise you fell for his trap—your comical anger, the hand raised to slap at his shoulder, is a wanted response from calculated provocation. Nines is teasing you to draw you out of your own head. He knows you.

A moment of quiet falls on you both, where Nines catches your hand and rests it against the bedsheets, nestled in his.

“Don’t you think that, if I preferred to avoid human problems, I simply... would?

“It might have occurred to me,” you murmur, following the thumb you rub against his soft fingertips where they’re intertwined with yours. “Sometimes it’s just… very obvious that we’re very different.”

“I know,” he says, as if you missed the point. “Difference isn’t a flaw.”

Nines shifts his arm to lay his palm beside yours, skin receding to show smooth white accented in glowing blue. It’s gone seconds later, but you feel his hand against your chest, then your neck.

“I don’t mind the mess.” A dart of pink tongue behind parted lips. “In fact, I think I’ll make it worse.”

[omentu5]

[risingsunresistance]

happy birthday king, i will never stop drawing you over random pigs i find 🐖

[ehnrat]

fishing doodle break<3

[the-phantom-peach]

skyward sword… yeah <3

Crimson Loftwing

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

[acid-ixx]

mild spoilers for chapter six for my series again &. again, but i really feel the need to ramble about this, and i'd love to hear anybody's opinion on this hehe.

as i write outline chapter six (and write for chapter five), i'd like to say i couldn't wait to write the reader's face reveal in bruce's perspective. and it's not just angst, for me, this plays a very pivotal turn for the series— because bruce will spiral to insanity.

to never once see a single portrait of your second youngest child, whose presence has long been erased from the manor, not a single image, nor trace of you is sickening to the heart, even if he scours through the internet day and night for a single memoir of you, nothing— but to find your portrait in alfred's living quarters and seeing you for the first time in forever? graduating a milestone no less?

god, he's in for a ride just analyzing every aspect of your physical appearance.

the color of your eyes, the shape of your nose, the quip of your mouth, the fat in your cheeks; even the length of your lashes! god, does he brand it into the deepest parts of his mind to never forget you anymore. his pearl, his treasure.

the longer he stares, the more he notices and gazes even more, obsessive as he stands lonesome in the room with every bone in his body locking up, his eyes unable to look away from the portrait that showcases his baby child.

and there, there it is that he concludes a detail so small it's unrecognizable for someone who's seen it for his entire life; yet it's all the same triggered deranged emotions deep within him.

— you don't just share him and your mother's traits, no, your smile is also reminiscent of his mother's.

martha wayne, who'd died in his arms, laying in a pool of her blood with a bullet grazed deep inside her body. his loving mother, who caressed his face whenever he'd cry from his nightmares, who'd shown him motherly love that until now he still craves.

she died with her pearl necklace that once decorated her porcelain neck spilling to the ground and stained with crimson.

you wore pearl earrings on your graduation.

the thought alone is enough for him to just snap.

this? this is the child that he's been neglecting far too long? who shares the same, loving expression of his mother's? his child? not even a single memory could be conjured with you but fantasies now do. if your happiest moments were within the picture frame that he holds with shivering fingers at present; could your smile be any wider if you'd be with him?

how come he never once noticed? why is bruce always destined to fail left and right? why, just why is he brimming with jealousy for all the people who must've seen your smile before him, and contempt for himself that he was never there to pick you up from the police station beforehand?

bruce isn't a heckler for favoritism, but a darker part of him is motivated to take you away from wherever you are, and to never let anybody else witness his beautiful, little treasure.

he's gotham's knight, first and foremost. but he's a father, too, with goals to protect his children just like a father should.

and the things he'd do for you, his child, now? anything.

if it means he has to see that smile, then he'll turn the world upside-down.

he has to protect your smile.

[saywha413]

i love you headcanons. i love you rarepairs. i love you crackships. i love you self inserts. i love you kinsonas. i love you ocs. i love you selfshipping. i love you oc x canon. i love you x reader. i love you aus. i love y

[phelia-on-main]

Inside you there are two wolves

[asfodeltide]

[tyxaar]

A compiled list of various severe crimes committed by one Mr Scar of the Good Times, exact counts pending. Cannibalism (Multiple counts) War profiteering Trading of Souls Grave robbing Fraud of multiple varieties Racketeering Arson (Like a lot of it) Unethical experimentation Acts of Terror Spiritual possession Contract killing Sale of human remains Ritual sacrifice Perpetuating Police Brutality Domestic Terrorism Oathbreaking Violation of the real life Geneva Convention Deceptive marketing Kidnapping Desecration of a sacred place Whatever tf Area 77 had going on Insider trading Extortion Patricide Matricide Unsafe building practices Holy war Desecration of corpses Market manipulation Treason Tax evasion Murder (Lots and lots) Large-scale extreme vandalism Mass enviromental destruction Political corruption Identity fraud

[hibscubus]

GREEN PNGS . ftu , no credit needed. please donot claim as your own.

[cyberllfe]

unravelled (made for me, part 2/2)

(E, Nines/Fem!Reader, human!au, smut, check the tags, tailor!Nines) — complete!

“Thank you,” you say, filling the quiet with as many innocuous words as possible. “I appreciate you waiting for me, after everything, I didn’t mean to keep you…”

You face him again as he closes the door and turns back into the light. For the first time you notice his jacket is gone, and he’s in plain shirtsleeves with his tie removed and two buttons undone. The lines of his neck are still partially obscured, but you follow them down until you lose sight of them, and instead focus on the vivid blue thread of his waistcoat where its almost metallic sheen reflects the light. It reminds you of something.

“It’s no trouble.”

His eyes are paler than that blue, but they hold some of the same bright light.

“Do you… I mean, um, where—”

“On the counter.”

Perhaps that should have been obvious, even to your clouded thoughts; if Cain thought you foolish for asking, he didn’t show it. Despite his more casual appearance and that tempting peek of exposed skin, his demeanour doesn’t deviate even a little from your morning memory of him.

No, there’s one exception: his eyes aren’t inspecting his work, they’re on your face, your glowing cheeks, and they aren’t moving. Gentle tingling touches move up your back, phantom fingers retracing his earlier steps, but it’s just a memory: he’s still two paces away, hands safely out of reach.

[read on ao3]

[krinklefry87]

art dump

[vrisrezination]

[meamiki]

mira !!! :]

[meirimerens]

Herb Brides gestures studies that got out of hand

based on Damien Jalet's choreography L'Évocation, Marie Piltz's in the "Sacrificial Dance" of The Rite of Spring as drawn by Valentine Hugo, and miscellaneous.