#I think i should get a septum piercing again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rubyvhs · 1 month ago

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who’d believe? | dean winchester

summary. dean finds you six years after you ‘died’. tags. wc 2.3k, car sex (just fingering), angst, mentions soulless sam. lailas notes. this is for my ‘stuck on you’ by meiko square for @jacklesversebingo + actually got inspired by @little-diable ‘s not a ghost fic. so so beautiful and i think everyone should go read it! ++ for my 500 celebration, so happy i got to it so quickly && the title is the translation of the song title. and most importantly, beta’d by the incredible @copperboom82 who made it much more readable and enjoyable.

You were never really a bar type of person, mostly because of the loud noise and smell, other than that, you liked a good party. But you decided you needed to celebrate getting your dream job, or, okay, whatever, your friend is forcing you to.

"I'm not taking no for an answer," she said, handed you your outfit and went outside to get the car started, not even giving you time to reject the idea. Though the second you stepped foot in the lively place, you were glad you came.

The drinks and music were exactly what you needed; a nice night out with no responsibilities. And especially no men (at least none like those you work with, you're honestly over them).

An hour into dancing with your friend, two more strangers join you. When the last song ends and another less 'pop' and more 'rock' one starts, they suggest going out to smoke for a second. Despite not once in your life trying it, you agree.

You should really work on saying no.

Thankfully you're sensible enough to refuse when they try to hand you one, just standing next to them, linking your arm with your friend's. "Where do you work?" You ask one of the girls. She has shorter red hair that almost reaches her shoulders, black eyeliner and a septum piercing. In other words? Fucking sexy.

"Police." Your eyes widen and you stand up straighter. "Oh, stop it! You're fine."

You laugh but shake your head, "No, no, that's not what I meant, you're just so— cute, I guess. Wouldn't have taken you for the assertive cop type."

"Yeah, well," she shrugs, dismissing the thought. It's obvious she gets it a lot. "Saw the hottest guys today, by the way—"

Her friend interrupts, beautiful brown pin-straight hair, pale skin, a gorgeous smile; "God, he was pretty. And his brother too…”

"Oh yeah. Agent something and Agent whatever, I don't remember, I was too busy looking through the shorter one’s shirt." You all laugh, a sway in your demeanor. You're pretty sure it's the alcohol that's got them saying all this but it's funny either way.

"Yeah, he was amazing. Like, those green eyes, honestly—" Your smile drops fast. Green eyes had always been somewhat of a trigger for you ever since Dean, especially that specific beautiful shade. Then again honestly everything's been a trigger: hunting, black cars, vintage cars, food, pie— you could go on.

"Oh and the way he walks? The little outward bounce of his leg, so cute!"

You shift, a little uncomfortable. How many guys do you know with bow legs, green eyes and are cops? They're probably not allowed to tell you he's FBI.

The red-haired girl touches your arm making you jump. "Shit, you okay, honey? You seemed out of it."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, just reminded me of someone. Old…" Dean.

There he is. Alive and in the flesh. You don't become a hunter and not hear about the Winchesters, you, on the other hand, fly under the radar. Especially since you try to stay away from any and all hunters.

But you heard nothing of how gorgeous he has grown up.

The girls catch your drift mid-sentence and look back to see what you're staring at. A dumb-struck Dean. "Oh! Agent…" Her friend elbows her stomach and Dean doesn’t peel his eyes off of you to speak.

"Right, yes. Hi, Officer."

She blushes under the dim light but Dean apologizes before breezing past them and holding your arm roughly to drag you away behind the bar. Your friend makes sure to motion to you if you need help before you let her know she should just get back inside. It’s pretty damn obvious you know the guy.

"Are you fucking serious?"

You let out a shy smile, "Dean, hey, how are you?"

"'How are you?'" He mocks, letting go of your arm aggressively, "'how are you?'"

"Is that not what they say anymore?"

"Are you serious?" He seems to enjoy repeating sentences much more than when you last saw him. "I looked for you, I mourned you." You mourned him too, in a way.

You and Dean were acquaintances, occasionally hunting together until you stayed at Bobby's place for a week and he came to visit coincidentally. You both started talking more that night, exchanged phone numbers and became somewhat friends.

Sam left for Stanford and you guys stayed together more frequently. Sam came back and you 'died'. Not on purpose, obviously, but Dean thought you died. You did, for a second, before you were brought back for some twisted, fucked up reason. Not that you knew it but if you did you're sure it would be fucked up.

By the time you woke up Sam and Dean had been long gone and your body had been buried. Didn’t burn your bones like he should’ve, no. He buried you. You're not sure which is worse.

"Look, I don't know what happened—"

"What does that even mean? You magically come back to life; you fucking call me! Ever thought of that?" A thousand times.

But Sam had finally decided to come back and hunt with Dean, Dean buried you, and so, you'd reasoned he was fine. You knew that if you were Sam, your body would've been preserved in the Impala for months before he'd ever allow himself to do that, to put you six feet under. The fact that he didn’t hold on to you had to mean he was okay.

But neither of you deserve more guilt. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"That's really rich. Real rich comin' from you. Grieved you for goddamn years. Six." Huh, that's a lot longer than you’d have thought. You were sure it would be six minutes. You knew he cared about you, but Deans also a 'what's done is done' kind of man.

"I'm—"

"If you apologize, I'll kill you. Again." You're about to crack a joke but his glare sets you off. Oookay, tough crowd, whatever.

"I wanted to call, I swear I did," how do you explain to the king of 'I don't deserve good' that you don't deserve him. He'll think it's a cruel joke. "I didn't know if you'd want me to reach out, I thought you were moving on with Sammy, okay? Going on with finding John. Me calling wouldn't have made a difference."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "I went to hell." You bite your bottom lip between your teeth. He sighs, a mix of emotions on his face. "You knew?" Your nod makes him turn around in anger (disappointment? hurt?), kicking the cardboard box as far as it'll go, another plastic one breaks and you flinch at that one.

In your defense, everyone knows.

"I couldn't do that to you and Sam, you moved on, Dean, I heard about you and Lisa and Ben—"

"Where the hell did you hear that?" Hunters talk. And he knows it. He turns around in an angry haze. "I didn't fuckin' move on, alright? I did what Sam wanted me to do when I didn't have you. Because my goddamn brother was in a cage with Lucifer, and now he's walking around without a soul!" He raises his voice until it gives out and so does his breath. You can't help the way your heart clenches, not even because of the words, but the tired look behind Dean's eyes.

Subconsciously, you move forward until you can hug him, and like he always used to: Dean throws himself into it, his head in your neck as he breathes you in. "I missed you." He whispers.

You don't believe how easily he's adjusted to this. If you were in his place you wouldn't hesitate to kill him, thinking he's a demon or a shifter.

He chuckles, his whole body rubbing against you. "Haven't hugged anyone like this in— ever. Was waiting for you."

He's never been safe, always made everyone else feel protected, you could only hope you built a safe place within yourself for him. You're at least close.

"I missed you too, De. Every single day, I swear."

You don't know what about the sentence sparks anything in him, but it does. He pulls away to smirk and push you against the hard wall. You gasp, doing nothing but turning him on more and giving him an entrance to your mouth.

He kisses you like he's lost his mind. He has.

His touch is electric as he pulls you closer, the heat of his body searing your skin, the raw intensity of desire saying more than words ever could. The kiss evolves, turning feral, almost carnal. He holds you, firm but tender, and rediscovers your mouth like a starving man. He is, he hasn't tasted you in… ever.

This is your first kiss with Dean, but the explosive chemistry between you makes the blood scream in your ears. It was never a secret that you and Dean were more than just hunters to each other, and it seems you dying was his last straw.

"We— Dean, can't here—"

He agrees. Or he doesn't. He's still kissing you and you're not sure if either of you are breathing.

Eventually he lets go. "Yeah," he whispers against your lips, moving for another kiss, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, leaving a peck and panting out, "right."

"'M sorry." God, why are you apologizing? Why are your bodies so far away?

He shakes his head, moves away (even if it looks like he's struggling to do so), "it's fine, what— you were here with friends? Are you staying?"

"Are you asking me to not stay?"

He smiles, leans down for another kiss and you decide to say goodbye to your friends now or else you're never getting the chance.

"De, someone can see—"

"Don't overthink it." He says, burying his head between your breasts, kissing, biting, licking and loving all the noises you're making. He groans into your skin, nipping at a particularly sensitive spot that has you moaning out loud. "God, sweetheart, love that sound."

He moves his hands to your waist, thrusts his hips once, checking your reaction. A little tremor passes through you. Eyes hood over.

"Can't believe you're here, and all for me."

"Yes," you breathe, resting your forehead against Dean's, overwhelmed by his words and how close his hand is to your inner thigh. "Please."

"If I slide my hand up your skirt, will I find you dripping wet for me?" Another shudder shakes you gently.

"Yes."

When he grips your knee and your neck, closing your lips with a kiss while his other hand travels higher, you start feeling your pulse hammering in your ears. The windows start misting over, giving you privacy— not that you particularly believe Dean cares.

Dean moves his seat back, then pushes you until your shoulder blades hit the steering wheel so you're more comfortable, your legs bent on either side of him, hands braced against the door and his chest.

"Dreamed about this," He says, his voice low and husky. The way his eyes are raking over your body, you're not even sure you're supposed to hear him. "Thought about this everyday for six years, sweetheart. Now I get to have you."

He glides one finger between your lips, sliding up and down slowly. “Such a pretty pussy,” he groans, eyes focused between your legs and you fall over, your head on his chest, before he pushes you back against the steering wheel, "nu-uh, wanna see it. Wanna see how wet you are for me, baby."

You have so much to say— a lot of apologies and 'I miss you's’ and so many more beautiful words and kisses and you want to tell Dean that you care about him as much as he does you and why you left—

He dips two fingers inside you. Curls them immediately, and just like that, he finds your most sensitive spot.

You half pant, half moan, the words 'Dean, oh my god, please' a jumbled drowned-out mishmash because he starts torturing your clit, his thumb rubbing perfect circles, hard and fast, reducing your bones to liquid. But when you're right there, he eases away, lazily pumping two fingers in and out.

He smiles, exhaling a content breath as his gaze zeroes between your thighs, ignoring your pleas. "Yeah? you wanna come, darlin’?" the pet name and the question both bring out a loud moan you didn’t know you were holding, your hips involuntarily moving against his fingers until he stops you. you’re about to whine again but he increases the pace, crooking his fingers inside you while his thumb rubs your clit, and that’s all it takes.

The orgasm rips through you, powerful, relentless, so intense you think you might just black out. You’ve never felt so boneless in someone's arms, until your head falls right into his chest as he works your pussy, the sensation easing off and then coming again like waves crashing against the shore.

Dean doesn't stop. His fingers are rough, his thumb still being put to good use, and the release lasts so long. So fucking long you think you have an out-of-body experience.

It takes a minute until you're able to breathe anything but his cologne. When you can, you sit up slightly and move into the seat next to him, thankful for the lack of a console to separate you since you don't get very far, just lay your head on his chest.

He kisses your head. You can even feel his smile against the kiss until you notice the bulge of his pants and frown. You quickly get up and Dean's entire face falls. "I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

Dean grabs your wrist before it makes it halfway to his dick. "This isn't an exchange, sweetheart." Your entire body is like jelly, you can't move and you're pretty sure if you try sucking Dean off, you’ll pass out. But it feels… rude. "You're spent. I'll get you home so you can take a hot shower, and we'll pick this up again when you're ready. How about that?"

You can't fucking believe your luck. Dean wants an 'again'.

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backseatloversz · 2 months ago

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sometimes i think my parents do remember me telling them ages ago that a right earring is gay homo flagging which is why theyre always like "are you ever going to get your left ear repierced 😥😥😥" because idk they somehow dont look at me and see a gay homo? or they just dont like the fact i only have one ear pierced for some reason. even though its been like this for a YEARRRR im AWAREEE and i dont CARE!!!!!!!!!

i thinkk my parents & family lowk take issue with my piercings. but well. have they considered. its my body. and my money ? very simple. i think. to grasp

#also they just clearly arent huge fans of me having a few facial piercings i want to get but AGAIN: THATS TOUGH. MY MONEY! MY FACE! idgaf if #you think it looks good im your CHILDDDD #theyre like. super super relieved i dont have any interest in getting a septum because theyre totally open about how ugly they find that #piercing but honestly the more theyre like “youre NOT going to get a septum right???? that one is UGLY” the more i want to just to spite #them #and ive told them this and THEY had the audacity to get offended and hurt!!!! Like. HELLO?#why do you care!!!!!!!!!!!!! why should i care if you dont like my appearance youre my PARENTS

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sevikasuggestion · 8 days ago

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not quite pro

2nd person, 4k words somehow. 21+ and i loveee the block button

contains a not quite APA certified piercing that doubles as foreplay, some bloodshed, miiiild blood play, some praise, some low-key mocking, sevika playing mildly subby temporarily, reader with a vag, fingering, me getting real long winded idk how this got be so damn long but yayyyyy sevikaaaaaaa

you’re kind of a piercer with a massive crush on zaun’s finest. sevika lets you break her into a tattoo shop after hours for a couple of firsts.

“What if I get nervous,” she almost hums, a lovely timbre, deep and clear. Sevika’s creamy skin glows under you where you stand, burnished under bright oil lamp light, and her eyes make unerring contact with yours as she fights to keep the smirk off of her face.

That’s the only fight you can see Sevika losing, in a just world.

‘Nervous,’ sure. She’s so much unflinching challenge wrapped tight in leather crop top, and you snicker out loud at the absurdity. Imagine this tank of a woman feining shy or demure, batting those short dark lashes or pouting sweetly to get her way, instead of simply putting the world where she wants it.

‘Nervous.’ Maybe she’s making fun of you, but you’re sure you aren’t actually, like, trembling with want– you’d actually say you’re playing it exceedingly cool right now, in the muted quiet of this tattoo shop, out "late" enough that it may just be "early," prepping her for a piercing you can’t believe you talked her into.

“Do you need something to hold on to, sweetheart?” Not even your hands shake, and even though you almost whisper it, you are so fucking brave. You haven't kissed, just walked the streets together and chatted, ghosting touches and lingering looks, with no care for getting caught.

You keep playing along, an excuse to stroke your free hand, sans latex glove, through the lock of hair tickling her cheekbone. The gesture is entirely selfish, but it soothes you as much as you hope it does her. “Something to bite down on?”

Sevika leans her head’s full weight into your palm, like a puppy, and she must hear how your breath hitches in your throat at the sight. Her smile is a little devious, and her voice dips a little lower, settles deep into your gut as your heart climbs to your throat. But when you start again to sanitize the septum of her nose with the alcohol wipe in your other, gloved, hand, Sevika goes very still for you, like you asked earlier, stoic against the tickle. Still, except to ask, “so what if I do?”

Then again, a delicate Sevika doesn’t seem so far-fetched, now that you’re looking down at her. She’s humoring you more than you had expected she would, and you wonder if you’ve just gotten very lucky. Even so, every word has felt like a dare, one you desperately want to live up to. You had had to work up the courage to approach in the first place, after a few aborted attempts, but you got it done. Fine, you think. Since she bets you won’t.

Avoiding her eyes, you glide clean fingers down her warm jaw, relaxed and pliable in your hand. You almost massage her neck but run ahead, over her shoulder, down to cup the fraction of bicep you can actually get your hand around– does this count as feeling her up? because it should, the way your stomach is flipping– ‘til you’re all the way to her hand, a loose fist resting on her own knee. She doesn't move, except to dart her eyes up and down your body, no attempts at subtlety. You wonder if you've really talked her into anything she wasn't plotting herself.

Its endlessly exciting, touching her. It could go nowhere, and if all you can say is you got your hands on her, drew only a little bit of blood, you’ll chalk it up as sweet victory. Her prosthesis grips the arm of her chair a little– you hear it creak– when you guide her hand to the low swell of your hip and up your back. She needs no further urging, gripping you almost for support, and she’s sitting up straighter, and looking right up at you, chin tilted to show more of her face to the light.

“Hold on, then. As tight as you need.”

You could have called her to heel in so many words and it wouldn’t’ve felt half as perfect, but you do have to ruin it.

“You have to sit back,” you order, smiling ruefully as you widen the gap between you, pressing feather-light against her collarbone. She moves with no effort at all, easily cowed just by your voice, and the wash of warmth at how easy it is reaches your toes and back up to your stomach. Maybe she likes you telling her what to do, trusting you in your realm, a little novelty. You’re sure she sees the effort it takes to keep your head with her this close, maybe this obedience is a reward.

Sevika looks up through lashes now, almost contrite for having moved without permission, lowering her chin. You want to fall into her arms, but you have a job to do. “You don’t have to be nervous, but you will tear up a little. That’s normal.”

“S’ not likely, sweetheart.”

“It’s almost mandatory, actually. It's a face piercing, this close to your eyes, a tear or two is like, reflex. I know you’re plenty tough. We’ll keep it a secret, promise.”

This crush is weeks old, and in passing on the street, or at the bars, you haven’t ever heard her so soft with anyone, even when she’s flirting. She’s not quite voicing challenge, or denying you’re in charge, even though her expressive brow twitches at each order you’ve given since you led her into this studio. You’re clearly having fun, telling her what to do while your piercing needles are in reach waiting for use, and she’s content letting you talk her through it.

As you distract yourself for a moment of boldness, counting the sparkles in her slate eyes, she seems pleased to be here, sat with her strong legs spread wide open, calm and still, her knees loosely caging your legs where you stand facing her. You’re done wiping her down, and she takes a big breath as you pick up the straight needle in the gloved hand and piece of cork in the other, and start to line up. “Another big breath in for me. By the time you breathe out, it'll basically be done. You ready?”

Her grin is brief and treacherous.

“Do your worst.”

At the bar earlier, when you’d finally plucked up the courage to say something after a few weekends of staring at the back of her head, she had seemed pleased to see you. Maybe your attempts at walking up to her hadn’t gone unnoticed after all. She had complimented your piercings after trading hellos, and you had seized the opportunity, leapt at it, actually, almost knocking over your drink to offer her one matching the shiny silver hoop through your septum. She hadn't blinked when you clarified that you weren't a piercer for work, not quite a pro. More of an enthusiast. She’d seemed more skeptical at your suggestion of placement, and had brought up how badly that could turn for her in a fight.

You had made a play at her ego, insisting that you had never seen anyone get close enough to her pretty face for that to be a real risk.

“So, you have been keeping tabs, then?”

Now, in a shop you do not have keys to, the muscle of her thighs pressing against the outsides of yours, you breathe in with her, and she keeps her eyes on yours. The press of the needle, the pop of separating skin, and she doesn't flinch once.

“You’re doing so good for me, okay? Keep breathing.”

She’s only bleeding a little–you narrate every step, as is your professional protocol, very clinical and detached. Not breathy, almost panting with nerves as you swab away the smear of red, of course not; not resisting the moan at the back of your throat, laser focused on how her grip had belatedly tightened on your hips after you pierced her. You aren’t sweating a little as you chase the ring through, fasten the spike end, tell her again how good she’s doing. It’s quick and successful, and the relief of not having fucked up the face of the most dangerous person you’ve ever known pulls a sigh from you that fluffs her hair as you let it out. Her eye is watering, by the way, but you don't mention it, turning to her to wipe it away with a fresh bit of gauze.

“Keep your damn hands to yourself!” She halts her hand in its path straight to the new hole in her face, faces her palm to you in appeasement.

“I’m serious, Sevika, don’t touch. I’ve done my part, if you get an infection and your shit falls off I’m not liable.”

“Don’t touch, I got it. This what you’re always like with a weapon in your hand?”

“Sometimes, the job is to protect clients from themselves.”

“Job? Alright. Hands off, heard you.”

She’s keeping her hands occupied elsewhere, gliding them up and down your thighs, watching your chest rise and fall and little faster with each dip behind your knees. You feel like you're melting, like, it's a wonder you’re still upright with jelly femurs and a spine the autumn breeze could fold.

She’s moving up a little higher and down lower with each stroke now that you’ve cleaned her and up and shed the glove, eyes admiring your own piercings again, more exposed now with your hair pulled back.

“Your earrings are beautiful. I don’t know how you deal with so many. That can’t be it though, right?”

“Are you trying to catch up?”

You just sound excited, ready for more of her to look forward to. Would she really let you bring her back here and do this again? Lightning strikes twice all the time.

She lowers her lashes, leans back in the chair and slouches until almost eye-level with your exposed midriff, licking her lips.

She cants her hips further forward than ever, her pretty swoosh of wavey, soft-looking happy trail peeking over the cargos playing you a siren call, a posture you could see perfectly in place on some great throne, or at the head of a high end poker table-- somewhere you only get a seat if you can seize it. Gods, she's beautiful.

You’ve wanted to lick hearts into her bush for weeks, but now is absolutely not the time to tell her you’re batshit for her.

Now’s the time for Sevika to reiterate her grip on your hip with one hand, letting the cool metal of her other glide to your soft belly button, unpierced. You let her see you shiver, see your mouth fall open on another shakey breath. She looks back to your eyes instead of suggestively staring elsewhere.

“Are you holding out on me?”

Two options, and one slow, calming breath: whip off your shirt and flash her your nipple piercings, or play it cool? Be fucking cool.

“How about I’ll show you another one of mine for every one you let me give you?

“And I was right,” you sing, teasing. It’s your hand on her jaw now, guiding her very gently to look into the mirror to her left. “We’re a cute match.”

“That’s a shit deal if I’ve ever heard one. You’re way ahead.” Sevika smiles at herself with both corners of her mouth, brow soft and upturned, genuinely pleased to see your work done. You’ve started her with a gauge much larger than normal, closer to the thick hoop in your own nose. To your eyes, a dainty 14-gauge ring wouldn’t quite suit her, and she seems to agree.

“You love it.” At work, you’re nothing if not confident; this isn’t a question. Suddenly, she’s standing, and leaning into you, intent to answer without words. “Wait, no! Don’t–”

Sevika’s surprised, about to apologize, but then realizes what you mean. You both realize it at the same time, this has been a mutual act of self sabotage. You’re about a fingertips length apart and breathing each other’s air, but you’ve put your hands to her shoulders, blocking her advance, again. The urge, the want, rushes through you hot as brushfire, another spark to the grass every time you move against her full bust. As badly as you both want to, and goddamn do you want to, you really can’t jump her with a new nose ring.

“For at least a few days.”

The piercing, of course. She rolls her eyes and groans, slumps against you and rests her forehead on your shoulder, your heart soars at all this contact. She wants it as bad as you do, you think, as she sinks slowly back into her chair, never letting go your hips. She’s–do you dare think it?-- dejected, but pulls you back to start and then closer, hands curling possesive and hot on the backs of your thighs, kneading them almost apart.

“It's a– huh– a fresh wound…you have to promise to treat it like one. No mashing faces,” you prescribe while she spikes your heart rate with a few insistent touches. Sevika snorts and starts kneading you where she holds you, “or getting punched in the mouth. Don’t fuck up my hard work.” You think you kind of sounded stern there, at the end.

“Safe, huh? I will… do my best to respect your hard work.” She says it smirking, and you look away, suddenly shy now that the job is done. Then you hear your name from her lips, very frankly, so you let her catch your eye again.

“How’s it feel? Sore?” you ask.

She says your name again through a small smile, wincing a little.

“You were gentle, thank you. Really. I’ve had this in mind for… years, maybe, just couldn’t...well. Couldn't be bothered. Got busy. So, thank you. It feels…” she considers her reflection again as you take in her profile and commit every slope and sharp corner of her jaw, her nose, her brow, to warm-washed memory.

“Feels like me. Feels right. I owe you at least a favor.”

“Oh, I’m– uh– just happy I could–! Uh. Thank you for letting me be your first, hah.”

“Mhm, my first.” She sounds delighted at that. “That’s a big deal, isn’t it? I should thank you properly.”

She places a wginger kiss on your stomach, and from here you see her brow crease a bit. “You can't do that,” you breathe, helpless. Lying. “What did I just tell you?”

“‘No face mashing’,” she answers. She hisses in a breath, wincing again with another kiss, different angle, trying to mitigate the damage she’s probably doing. Clearly she’s knocked her now-sensitive nose again, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“I can be gentle too, sweetheart.” She keeps using your own words against you. This has been her plan, the reason for all this patience. She’s been collecting little weapons against you, waiting for you to clock out and come back to yourself for maximum effect.

“You're hurting yourself.”

“I can take it. Are you waiting for me to beg?” She raises one brow higher than the other, daring you to shut her down, but you’re already moving to straddle her, so done being in charge for the night.

“‘No sucker punches,' you said. I’m just following your rules, doll.”

The shock of cold against your back where she holds you up is such stark contrast to all the heat between you, and she’s finally, finally making her way between your thighs where she’s got you spread wide. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, and you gasp at the intrusion when she traces the slope of you through the thin panties under your hiked-up skirt.

You want to stop talking and communicate exclusively through whines and gasps, but you reach one last time for humility. What you’ve done is not that impressive, and all the glory you’d find at her fingertips would not be an even exchange the way she’s implying.

“Sevika-a-a, please. I swear you don’t– hm– owe me anything. This, huh, isn’tevenmyequipment, oh.” You’re fighting to get it all out in one breath, the shitty little people-pleaser in you getting its last useless word in before you wrap an arm loosely ‘round her perfect shoulders and give up the game entirely, give in to pleasure.

“You’re holding your breath.” You just squeak in answer, shoulders rising.

“You have to breathe for me, baby, you’re doing so good.” She laughs, and you grunt a little louder, and take a breath in– she’s not inside, not quite, just tracing a sopping wet circle around your entrance, just about brushing the underside of your clit with palm-heel. It’s a real onslaught, but one of frustration, two warring clusters nerves competing for heat, and all you can want is more, more, more.

“You want me to stop.”

Desperation seizes your throat– what a hateful thought, “no, god, no, Sevika, please.”

“‘No,’ what, doll?” says the evil woman.

“Do not stop, please, feels so good, Sev, could you–” and your boldness trips and stops short, you're frustrated out loud, not sure how to phrase it. You didn’t think this far, couldn’t’ve dreamt this far, and aren’t sure what would sound good to her-- you just know you need pressure. She lets her fingers circle your clit properly, lets you rub yourself against her in earnest, a delicious press pulling your hips forward and back almost involuntarily.

She’s a well of patience, this lady. Probably because watching you fumble is plenty entertainment, but she doesn’t stop either. You realize your hips have been moving along with her strokes the whole time, short rhythmic circles, a little faster than how she’s not just teasing, and you feel your face growing hotter. You can hear your own needy gasps getting higher, louder, and the sound of it turns you on even more. You wonder if she can feel the heart beat in your cunt where she's treating you so rudely.

“Could I…?” she prompts you to finish. Her chin knocks into your torso as she speaks, and from here you're not surprised to see a little blood trailing out of her nose. The sight of it heats you at your core, you want to lick her clean, but can’t risk scaring her off just yet.

“Just, could you–” and you run out of words again, instead reaching between you to flatten her palm against you. Now your cunt is covered by her, cradling you like a jock, like a shield, and she’s dripping wet with you. Your clit is buzzing against her calloused palm, hole clenching around nothing as you hump delicately above her.

It's good, so good, and still not enough of her. Sevika mouths at your tits over your shirt, leaving tiny blood droplets behind, and paying them no mind, and you remember refusing her permission to investigate your piercings further. She has to feel them though, has to know you’ll be laying this bloody shirt over your face when you fuck yourself and pinch, thinking of her mouth on the same spots through fabric.

“Keep breathing, sweetheart, you’ve got to keep breathing for me.” You are struggling to, and maybe she's mocking you, but all the fight you have is another desperate, sobbing, “please, please.”

“You ready?”

“Stars, Sevika,” you beg again. And she’s off, past the gate in one stride. She breaches and fills you full with two sopping wet fingers, the sweet burn of her stretching you has you flexing every muscle, yowling her name again in a long drag.

"Feels good, huh?"

"Stings," you huff, and she laughs, close-mouthed.

"Likewise."

Then, there’s the cold grip of her whirring metal arm across your waist, it's almost too much, it’s like an ice plunge, it’s like ringing crystal. The hand you aren’t supporting yourself with wraps around her leather wrist cuff between your legs, squeezing and using her. Sevika leans back a bit to watch your face contort and crumble as she fucks into you.

The wave builds quickly, you wonder if you should tell her you’re about to cum, her hums of encouragement too sweet against the vulgar squelch of you, dripping wet, she says, did me so right, baby, so how’s it feel? You can feel the chilling air hitting your thighs where she’s spreading your mess about, you feel filthy, exalted.

“That’s it, sweetheart, chase it,” and she coos it, cheery, like she’s telling you to go fetch, as she plunges in and out, hounding you, brows furrowed in focus on you, her grin devious. Her thighs clench below yours, keeping you stable, and yours flex in turn as you do as she says, chasing down your orgasm like mad. You’re on tippy toes in your seat, curling and arching your feet against the floor, and her long powerful fingers pull you along, racing you to your finish line.

You’re well past caring about safe protocol – you’re thinking only of having a taste of her when you lean down and lick her, lap sloppily into her mouth, tasting blood.

Something to bite down on.

She purrs deep and rusty, her long groan of pleasure and approval buzzing in your ear and down your spine, and she sucks your tongue to soothe before clipping your lip the way you just did her, harder than comfort. It just heightens the rush of blood in your ears, and her rhymth in your cunt is picking up to match your hips bucking against her.

Just before the wave crashes, when you know she can feel your walls stuttering around her, you pull her face away from yours and to your neck, pleading for her again with just her name, “Sevika, Sevika,” high and needful, and she hears you, she’s got you, bites down in answer as she plunges in and out of you through the orgasm ripping through your every nerve. You cum with her grunting in syncopation with your unsteady gasps, clamping your every limb around her, gasping and seizing, and she cradles you through it, suckling on the new bruise on your neck, tonguing the tooth marks she’s left behind.

As you come down, your seat shifting closer to her torso now that her hands don’t need the room, she winds her arms behind you in a hug, and you collapse a little against her chest, tired from all the tension you've been holding all this time.

Sevika leans back and lets you, chin on your shoulder. You're catching your breath as she takes another look at herself in the mirror, trail of blood drying down her lip and on the new ring in her nose. She's trying to recall the last time someone got close enough to do so much damage, and she's drawing a blank.

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika arcane x reader #sevika arcane smut #sev reads #mine #'job?' is making me laugh it looks like shes trying not to call u out for being unemployed she does not kno your life 🤚🏾#she should have hella piercings and SHE SHOULD BE AT THE CLUBBBBBBBBB #lots of seizing in this

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thebottomfromhell · 6 months ago

Note

The upper moons reacting to reader with facial piercings, like nostril, septum, or snake bites.

Welcome to another episode of let's remember these guys are from edo Japan and so they don't like our culture! /j. [Except Kokushibou, that man won't be happy with anything less than traditional Japanese swordsmen 🫤]

Uppermoons react to your style, facial piercings.

Warnings: Piquerism (non-sexual, but still), Mentioned self-harm, Self-hate, Karaku is a bit horny, Gyokko being Gyokko, Douma being Douma.

Gyutaro:

Gyutaro likes to look at your piercings, a lot. He looks at every piece of metal in your face, wanting to brush it softly with his hands, a little shinny reflection in what would be an imperfection. He carreses every part, gently and softly, a part of him he thought only belonged to Daki, and sees you. He adores it, the opposite way he scratches the black circles covering his own face. He wishes those could be covered with pretty and shinny things. Then again, make-up does exist. Then again, why bother? He will be still be ugly, he will always be ugly, resentful and twisted. Nothing like you or his sister.

He could pierce himself, too. You have asked him if he wanted, as he always touches your face so tenderly, looking with yearning eyes the holes in your face. You specially love it when he carresses your lips as he brushes your snakebites (sometimes you sneak a kiss into his fingers) but "Nah, it would heal anyway. Still, it suits you. Ne." He can't explain it but... it does make him feel less lonely with his own flawed face.

Gyokko:

More than how you look with them, Gyokko likes piercing you. And damn him if piercing your face isn't a rewarding expecience. It took you a lot of time to trust him enough to bring a needle to your face, knowing he is good with them, but that Gyokko might be tempted to use it to pluck one of your eyes out, but you have been wanting a piercing on the surface of the cheekbone, and you would rather not risk doing it wrong.

You bleed from the needles, and Gyokko knows he would never do on purpose such a harm to his own flawless skin, even if he could heal. You should heal as well, but you prefer to expose a wound decorated as a piece of art. Would you be surprised to see that after helping you with this, he started piercing jewelry in some of his victims? "And there. Try not to move your mouth too much for now, we wouldn't want to re-open this, would we~?" But he definetely likes it.

Hantengu:

He is terrified by the concept of piercing one's skin and putting a jewel so the wound can't heal. He doesn't even know why he is so upset about the idea, his own skin would heal instantly if he was ever pierced, if the needle even manages to harm him at all. But WHY DID YOU HAVE TO PIERCE YOUR FACE?! Pierce! Your! Own! Face! "Hantengu, you are having another break down." He gets like this everytime you take the jewelry off, specially the piercings in your eye-brows. Does he genuinely think the hole goes up to your brain or something?

"So scary.... so... so.... scary..." Well, it seems it doesn't matter if that is the case or not, the holes make him uncomfortable anyway. He tries to avoid looking at them, but he always end up looking at them. Not a big fan, it seems.

Sekido:

Why? Just why? "Are you fuck- ANOTHER ONE?!" Another piercing in your face. Of course you got to have another one, he told you to give it a break. It's annoying that you have an obssesion with making holes in your face, then spend who knows how much money on jewelry to plug them instead of healing like a normal human being! Well... not that he is an expert of human beings, but his point stands. "So you don't like it?"

You asked him, and he only frowns. It's irritating how he feels a potencial lack of responsibility. What if it gets infected? What if you regret? Can you even heal that? He doesn't even know and he is not going to make himself look stupid by asking. He just doesn't understand it, the desire to hurt your own face and keep it that way, it worries him too, but he is too irritates to behave properly. Still... "You look ok." It's not of his bussiness, if you want to do it, you can just do it. He will complain, but know boundaries enough to know he can't do more than that without hurting you.

Karaku:

Karaku grins, why not? You look so sexy with those piercings in your face, and there is just something so kinky about it. Maybe is the coldness of the metal against him when he kisses and brushes your face, maybe is the pain, maybe it's the similarity it has to branding and tattoing. But still, he thinks it's hot, he thinks you look hot with those in your face, posing jewelry as if it was part of you. Probably is, so far. "Would you like to get a piercing on your own? I think a tongue piercing would suit you."

He would like to get one, to be honest, but he doesn't know how that would work. The holes would probably heal around the metal, getting it stuck, so he would need to rip his tongue open to take it out if he ever needed to. Also, he might not even get the jewel on with how fast he would heal AND Sekido would give him a lot of crap for it. "Nah, they suit you better hot-stuff. I'm content with seeing and touching your face." Maybe one day if he actually wants to start shit, but he will be satisfiend with you having the piercings for now.

Urogi:

"Ohhhh! Shiny!" Urogi touches your face a lot, specially the piercings in your nose. You more often than not have to tell him to not mess with the septum, he sometimes pulls it by accident and with the lack of control of his own strenght you fear he might rip it out. Still, Urogi is attracted to everything bright, he will steal the pieces if you aren't wearing them, and if you are wearing them he will keep himself all over you, resting and trying to toy with the metal in your face.

Because of his fixation you decided to to a simple piercing in his ear to try it out. It was a disaster. He scratches his ear an hour later and ripped the piercing off, so you will not trust them with ones on the lips, nose or anywhere in his face, even if he can heal. At least he tries to be careful with you. "I really like them, you know? You look very nice!" But well, no harm done to him it seems, he is happy with teasing your face like a pet wanting attention

Aizetsu:

So... humans like to pierce their own skin and plug the wound with accesories to avoid healing, and all because it looks good? That is so sad, specially in the face, where everybody can see exactly ehat they have done to their own body. Set an imperfection. Worst part, as far as he knows, the face is one of the places humans heal the easiest, it's you who insist to keep that hole open. It's a bit sad that disregard for your own skin, but then again, everything is sad for him, so it's not as if it's a big deal for him.

"Do you like it?" He has to ask, even if he already knows the answer. Of course you like it, you would not have them in your face if you didn't. Still, he likes to hear you day it. "Yeah, I do. This is the image of me I like to see in mirrors. The me I want others to see." And so he can accept it with less grief, with the love you have for them. So he can feel less or more sad about it, depending on his mood. "I like it too, but don't get too much more, ok?"

Nakime:

Nakime states at you, quietly, hands still on her biwa. Now, she is not judging, she is just trying to understand. You have a fair face, easy on the eyes, to say at least, or at least that is what Namike thinks. "Why put holes on it?" She asks you after a while, you recently got another piercing, so she had she had to voice her curiosity. The only thing she ever did to her own face was a very little make-up (when she had make-up, that's it. Her husband did use it to gamble or trade for alcohol sometimes, she remembers with resentment), so the idea putting holes in it gives her a bit of an ick, even if she does like any jewelry.

"I don't know. I just like it." You answer honestly, and to be fair? It does suit you, it does suit you a lot. She would never let you bring a needle to her own face, even if she can heal, but Nakime can let her own biad aise to know... you like it, and she isn't meant to have an opinion in what you do with your body. "Good answer." She comments softly before focusing again on her biwa.

Akaza:

Akaza is no stranger to needles, not completely. He doesn't know why, but sometimes he looks at his wrists and has the sensation of needles pushing into them. Weirdly enough, it's only there when he has tattoos spread all upon his body, but he can't help but wonder... does it tickles and stings the same way your piercings do? Or is at a completely different feeling, let it be because the difference of place or purpose? He has marks on his face, and you have yours.

He doesn't know why his face is marked the way it is, maybe there isn't a motive at all, it's just how it is. But you? You have metal and holes in yours, wounds that could heal in just a few weeks with the peoper care. He is captivated by this choice of endure just because you like it. "I like your new piercing. It suits you." And that is enough to enjoy the pieces as part of you, as something as it's as part of you as your flesh. "Thanks." Because it makes up the ypu you want him to see.

Douma:

Douma is curious about the concept, humans are such a delicate species, for he can't tell if it's fitting or not for them to walk around with holes in their bodies. After all, with their, or rather lack of, healing abilities, a hole made in their bodies is meant to stay open, he would know. He does, sometime, keep some pretty corpses as decoration, having to take care of them so they don't start smelling and rotting, but holes do look pretty in the body. Now, plugging them with shinny metals seems like a even nicer idea! How come he didn't come with it by his own? Even more in the face, where everybody can see that a needle went through the skin as a performance, as decoration.

"They look endearing on you, darling." He compliments, as he is genuinely interested. He has your attention, and he knows it, so one day he asks you to pierce his eyebrow, nose and lips, only to pull the pieces of metal out of his body the second the skin closed against them, smiling at you, as it was only to show the difference between you too. Yet he never stopped complimenting you and asking for more, later you find out he uses those piercings he never gives back to mark his victims. "These jewels are beautiful, I definetely see them as so human. Let me carress your face, Y/N." And you do, because he is so gentle and loving. You can't even stop to wonder if it's fake or not.

Kokushibou:

You pierced your face... you pierced it. You have literal holes in it which you plug with metal... that is something that you currently do, and actually walk around with holes in your face when you take the metal off for whatever reason. [You guessed, he hates this one too.] He needs time to think. [He needs to take a nap, he is too old for this 🤣]. It's just that when he was human, your face had to be flawless. Marks and scars on one's face were not seen kindly, he would know. Why would the world become more tolerant now? He doesn't get it nor like it.

Still, you seem happy with those pieces of junk in your face, even the one in your mouth and nose. He can't imagines how talking and breathing would even feel with a hole every time you take the jewelry off. It gives him an ick, so he does prefer you having the piercings on than going around without them. He never comments on it, but you can tell, as subtle as he is... he doesn't like them.

#demon slayer #kny #upper moons #kny x reader #hantengu #akaza #gyokko #sekido #karaku #aizetsu #urogi #gyutaro #daki #nakime #douma #kokushibou

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suuuupernovaaa · 2 years ago

Text

Suit | Hobie Brown

Y/N sees Hobie in a suit for the first time. It goes... well.

18+

It had taken me at least 20 minutes to assemble the perfect jewelry set to go with my dress. Admittedly, the dress itself was boring. A deep maroon, with billowy sleeves and a tight bodice. Since the dress was so simple, I felt the need to adorn myself in gold jewelry. Earrings up and down both ears, multiple necklaces of varying lengths and textures, bracelets that clanged together in a satisfying way as I moved, and a gold hoop through my septum that was delicate and only noticeable up close.

"Perfect," I whispered, stepping away from the mirror to admire my appearance. It had been a while since I'd gotten so dressed up. My free time was either spent on the couch out in the living room, exercising (which I hated, but had a life-long compulsion to do), or doing whatever Hobie wanted to do.

Tonight was a first for us both. First wedding together. First formal event. First time Hobie was meeting my family.

"Well?" I heard Hobie say from behind me. He appeared in the doorway, and I could see him in the mirror before me.

My jaw fell to my lap.

Hobie, usually dressed in tight jeans, ripped t-shirts and studded jackets, looked entirely unlike himself.

He wore a suit - an honest to god suit - dark blue with silver trim. Underneath, he wore a gray, knitted vest over a white button up shirt. Everything was perfectly tailored to suit him, courtesy of my parents. The pants hung perfectly above a pair of gray dress shoes that I knew were pinching his toes. His shoulders looked broad and strong, his waist tantalizingly thin, and I stood up to get a good look.

"Wow," I replied in a whisper. The clean, sharp suit was in a delicious contrast with his facial piercings, and the tattoos creeping up over the collar of the freshly pressed white shirt.

He spun around, arms out to his side. "Well?" he asked again.

I glanced down at the watch dangling on my wrist. 11:30. We didn't need to be there until 1, which meant we had a little time before we needed to get in a cab.

"I don't think I can wait until after to fuck you," I replied, and Hobie's pierced eyebrows raised towards his hairline.

"That so?" he asked, already charging towards me. "Don't wanna mess up the suit."

"We'll be quick," I replied, meeting him in the middle of a room for a kiss that guaranteed I would need to re-apply my make up before leaving.

We weren't as quick as we thought we would be, but by 12:15, we were in a cab and only set to be a minute or two late. I buttoned the top button on Hobie's shirt and he smirked down at me.

"Should I wear a suit more often?" he asked.

Flashes of passionate kisses, Hobie ripping my underwear off, entering me without either of us taking any other clothes off, flashed across eyes, and I clenched my thighs together, well aware a cab driver was listening to us.

"I'm worried you'll attract too much attention," I replied with a teasing smile.

He put two fingers under my chin, and tilted my head up to his. He pressed a gentle kiss on my freshly lined lips, and one on my powdered nose.

"Yours is the only attention I want."

#Hobie brown #Hobie brown smut #Hobie brown fic

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teenage-mutant-ninja-freak · 10 months ago

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if is it ok to request, what if April brought her best friend down to meet the bayverse turtles? But her bestie is goth/punk with piercings and tattoos? looks a little intimidating but an abseloute sweetheart?<3

love this idea, thank you for your patience as it's taken me so long to get to this x

Also this is 100% like my best friend, they're super goth and tatted up to the 9's but they're also a massive sweetheart

Leo

"hey, I have someone I want you to meet" April calls from the doorway to the lair

Leo knows who she wants him to meet, she's been going on and on about how this friend is finally in town and she would love to hang out, all of you guys together

he puts on all his charm

"And who is this lovely-"

then he sees her

lips, eyebrows and nose pierced, hair dyed in an acid green/black split dye, dark and black ripped up clothes, tattoos covering every inch of visible skin

"-wow" is all he can make out

she's the complete opposite of April looks wise

"No, keep going. You were about to tell me how lovely I look" she jokes. "Hey, I may not be barbie girl pretty but I bet 'ya anything I can kick your ass at call of duty!"

that softens the mood and makes everyone a little more relaxed

and she was totally right, Leo was fighting for his life playing that game with her

when it's finally time for them to leave she calls back "And if you think my hair is cool, just wait til you see what I can do with a paint brush, that shell of your's is going to put the Sistine Chapel to shame when I'm done with it!"

Leo just laughs, thinks she's a great girl

"Never judge a book by its cover" he mouths to April as she walks out the door

Raph

He knows April is there, he can hear her joking with Mikey but he can hear another woman's voice

he walks in to say hi and stops dead in his tracks when he sees who she's with

"......"

"Raph, it's rude to stare" April scolds

"It's ok" he friend reassures "I just have a natural allure that's irresistible to men and turtles alike, it would seem"

that makes him chuckle, she's funny, he's glad she's funny

"The, erm, the..." He keeps touching his nose, clearly indicating towards her septum piercing "... like a bull" is all he manages

"Well, I am a taurus" she quips back

he laughs again

tensions settle after that and he gets on with her like a house on fire

he asks her later what he first impression of him was, since it was clear he was taken aback by her appearance

"My first thought was whether or not you'd fit through the door frame, holy shit dude you're built like a truck!"

the rest of the evening is spent with a lot of joking and laughing, April's friend can give as good as she gets and Raph likes that

Mikey

He's so excited to meet April's friend

so much so, he's prancing round the place trying to get everything ready

when April walks through the door with her, he his jaw drops

"Devil lady!" he says in a tone which indicates he clearly thought that was a compliment

"Masked turtle man!" she replies with the exact same enthusiasm

the two of them bond over how cool she is and how cool Mikey is

comparing stories and boasting, all in good fun, until they both get a bit carried away

April has to put her foot down when her friend tries to give him a stick 'n poke tattoo on the kitchen floor

"It's not sanitary! Put the ball point pen away! He's gonna get sepsis!!!"

eventually they all retire to the sofa and play guitar hero, which April's friend does not do too well at

"I thought all you punk chicks knew how to play guitar" he says

"Nope, we just date guys who do" she laughs

After they leave Mikey is begging April to bring her round again

he still wants that tattoo

Donnie

He's not the best at meeting new people

but, he actually feels more comfortable when he see's April's friend is alternative looking

he loves a good social outcast because he is one

they bond over talking about the history of subcultures and the ecological impacts of fast fashion and why you should DIY all your clothes or thrift them

April is ind of just sitting there like "what have I done? Putting two nerds in the same room..."

When the subject of tattoos gets brought up she mentions a couple she regrets

cue Donnie and his inventions

"I have a laser remover!"

"No" April pipes up

"It's totally safe, it's just-"

"N-O! No!" she reiterates

her friend mouths "When she's gone" and winks at him

the two of them are fast friends

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt x reader #april o'neil #April's friend #Aprils friend #goth friend #punk friend #alternative friend #tmnt donnie #tmnt raph #tmnt leo #tmnt mikey #tmnt headcannons #headcannons

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canonickero · 1 month ago

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Hi guys here's more of my cunty ass metal family oc Akuma!!!

Don't mind the legs once again I couldn't be bothered so now he is a chicken

Lore drop under the cut if you're interested!!!

Akuma is 22 years old, fresh out of college!!! He is a substitute teacher at [SCHOOL]. Akuma doesn't dress like this when he's at work but the manwhore look is definitely not lost. He just wears a full shirt, sleeves not included. He definitely should not have even passed the job interview, let alone still work there. They're desperate for staff. He's not a terrible person or anything, he's just really bad at his job. He doesn't get any work done. But the kids love him, he's fun!!! He's the guitarist in a local band and he brings his electric guitar to work. Speed metal!!! He is a terrible singer. Never ask him to sing. He is left out on karaoke invites.

His ears are slightly pointed and his necklace is chewelry. Akuma owns like five of that exact necklace, just in case he eats one. He's got an overbite and hella teeth. His fly is always down, he's pretty forgetful. But he cuts his own sleeves and sews his own patches!! His little brother, who he is in custody of, does his nails. Akuma's little brother is named Reign!!! He is 15 and goes to school with Dee and company.(Should I draw him?) Their mother gave up Reign when he was 12 and Akuma had to do a LOT of work to gain custody of him. But they're happy!!!

Akuma is way too relaxed. People think he's high all the time, especially because his eyes are always half-closed. But he always passes sobriety tests with flying colors. Gotta set a good example for his kid brother!!! He's just funny looking. Those are in fact his natural lashes. He's silly like that. Akuma's muscles kind of disappear when he's relaxed and standing normally, but they're all up in your face when he flexes!!! He's very proud of his home gym(he severely lacks in leg exercises, please throw rocks at him)

(and yes, this pose is him standing normally. He has severe social anxiety, but not the nervous can't talk kind. The kind of social anxiety that makes him loud and overly confident to hide the fear of perception going on inside.)

He does his own hair, and Reign's hair too! They both have mullets 😋 Akuma's hair is naturally white with black streaks!!(Reign's is dark brown, like their father's.) Akuma uses the black streaks in his hair as guides on where to part his hair when he gels it. He uses so much hair gel. You could throw a brick at him and he would not feel it. It is absurd. But after years of doing his hair like this, it just kind of naturally separates in those sections. He and Reign both have wavy hair! It is a mix of their parents' hair - their father had pin-straight hair and their mother had unruly curls. They got a right middle!!!

Akuma had a tongue piercing, but it got infected because it was done by his cousin Lindsey when they were 14. He never got it professionally redone, so now all he's got is a belly button piercing(which is crooked, also from Lindsey, but somehow didn't get terribly infected like the tongue piercing did) and a septum piercing done professionally on his 16th birthday!!!

Is he overly complicated for a metal family oc, both design and lore wise? Especially considering he wouldn't show up more than a few times? Why yes. But I love him. I put my whole ass into my OC because I can. Also he is adapted from a MHA OC. He has so much lore. Please let me yap about him.

@fiercestyourmajesty

#red's rambling #red's random rambles #metal family oc #metal family #oc art #oc artwork #my art <3 #my art #my artwork #my art i guess #metal family fanart #hi guys I got forced into the fandom

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dvrcos · 11 months ago

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Fuck it, what piercings I think aftg characters have

Aaron: one lip piercing (like Luke Hemmings old one idk the name) that’s a silver hoop, first lobes that are little black studs, left eyebrow piercing (also silver)

Andrew: septum, double lobe and a double helix on the left (all black jewelry), right eyebrow piercing

Neil: first lobe, he switches them to little Exy racket studs when they’re healed andrew got them for him

Renee: first lobe but she used to have an industrial and her nostril pierced but took them out

Allison: triple lobe that she is constantly changing to various cute earrings, double nostril piercing on the same side and she does double hoops

Nicky: only has his nostril, he cried and swore to never get another piercing ever again

Kevin: got one nipple pierced when he was drunk and they were out in Columbia and Nicky somehow convinced Andrew they should all go get piercings

Dan: first lobe and she wears little gold fox paw print earrings, a nostril piercing with a gold hoop

Matt: stretched first lobe piercings

Jeremy: eyebrow !!!!

Jean: daith with a silver star hoop (he gets migraines and wanted to see if it helped)

#the twinyards specifically with piercings is something that constantly plagues my thoughts #tell me your aftg character piercing headcanons please!!!#aftg #all for the game #aaron minyard #kevin day #andrew minyard #neil josten #the foxes #jeremy knox #jean moreau #dan wilds #matt boyd #renee walker #nicky hemmick #allison reynolds

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piosplayhouse · 10 months ago

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Hi! I'm the anon who sent your that really weird ask about the ex situationship on good reads situation. So, updates on that! I think I turned my ex situationship into a cis straight woman?

For context, unfortunately I saw her some days ago and I couldn't even recognized her because she just looked so basic it threw me off so bad (now she wears contact lenses ew) , so I asked my friend about it and apparently now she identifies as a cis woman?? (she used to be non binary with a septum piercing). This created a huge fear in me.. I was the last woman she was with according to my friend.

So this can only be explained in one way: I WAS CONVERSION THERAPY FOR HER!! she was with me and she decided she hated women and decided to get on good reads which is arguably worse. Anyways, after this experience I can't be with a woman again.. imagine this happening twice.. im the next one converting.

I have no idea how to respond to this but I think it should be shared so I'll publish it anyway

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beauregardlionett · 11 months ago

Text

you've walked a hundred times before

AO3 Link

“That’s pretty much the lay of the land,” Lydia said, boosting herself up onto one of the plinths. She leaned back on her hands and smiled cheerily as she knocked her heels against the plinth supports. “Any questions?”

Mar hummed, shoving their hands into the pockets of their scrub pants. “How busy is an average night here?”

“Depends on a few things,” Lydia said, crossing her ankles and tipping her head to one side. “Usually the main driving factor is how safe the city is on a day to day basis.”

“Why would that change so frequently?”

Lydia went still, gaze zeroing in uncomfortably on Mar’s face.

“You have worked in a city before, right?”

“Yeah?” Mar said, hesitant. “During school I had placements in two different major cities.”

“Which ones?”

“Trenton and Philadelphia?” Mar said, failing to see how this was relevant.

“Hm, condolences,” Lydia said, pushing herself off the plinth as Mar made a face at her. “You probably only worked during the day, didn’t you?”

“You know many physical therapy clinics that are open after seven at night?”

“Fair,” Lydia smirked. “Anyway, my point is, Gotham is a fucking nightmare when it comes to crime and weirdo villains - sometimes during the day, but mostly at night. So, the more active they are, the less patients we tend to have. It’s kind of like when the weather gets bad and all the elderly people cancel? Of course, there’s always people who just do not care and show up regardless, so we never have absolutely nothing to do.”

“Hey,” Fariha called, poking her head out of the tiny front office. “I finished organizing the schedule for tonight since Jiro had to take off. First patient should be here soon.”

“Thanks!” Lydia said with a wave. She turned to beam at Mar, brown ponytail swinging and teeth blindingly white under the fluorescents. “I almost forgot to mention, there’s an emergency clinic across the hall you might have spotted on your way in. So if you hear any commotion, it’s probably them and not a robbery. If it is a robbery, Fariha has it covered.”

Mar blinked, opened their mouth, then closed it. They decided to just take that statement at face value and hopefully never find out the details.

“Do we take walk-ins?” Mar asked instead, gaze shifting to the door as it opened. An elderly looking Hispanic woman toddled in, grinning brightly as Fariha called out a greeting.

“Oh yeah, if we have room in the schedule for them. Most of them come in without scripts so I hope you’re prepared to do some detective work.”

Mar hummed again in response as Lydia moved to grab her rolling desk and laptop.

“Hi, Mrs. Jimena!” Lydia said, gesturing to a plinth in the corner of the room. “Got your table all ready for you. How’s that knee doing?”

Mar ducked into the front office with Fariha, shifting through the small stack of patient charts left out for them. The pro bono clinic was only open for five hours, starting at four in the afternoon and closing somewhere in the vicinity of nine. Lydia had said it depended on what their schedules looked like that determined how early or late they could close up.

“Hey, Fariha?” Mar said, leaning against the filing cabinet to face the cheerful front desk woman. She had a heart shaped face, warm brown eyes, and she hadn’t stopped smiling since Mar met her half an hour ago. Fariha had a slight accent that dripped like honey through every syllable, making her friendly disposition increasingly effective. Her golden septum piercing seemed like the brightest thing in the world under the dingy lighting of the clinic.

Fariha turned her rolling chair to Mar and hummed to show she was listening.

“Lydia said if the schedule is light, we could close early some nights. How does that work with walk-ins?”

“Oh, well, it’s been a while since we’ve gotten to close early,” Fariha said, leaning back in her chair. “But I think the policy is, if we have no one on the schedule, and no walk-ins for half an hour, we can call it a night. Since walk-ins aren’t on the schedule, we don’t lose productivity for closing. Besides, it’s pro bono so it’s not like it affects paystubs.”

Mar nodded, glancing down at the folders in their hands again.

“I also had a question about this paperwork.”

After Fariha patiently explained some of their general paperwork, Mar’s first patient came hustling in, on the verge of tears and breathlessly apologizing for being five minutes late. Between Fariha’s sweet reassurances, and Mar fluidly ushering the patient back to the treatment area, there was mercifully little drama to handle. The next three hours passed without further issue between Mar and Lydia’s patient load, which Mar accepted for the blessing it was. They had only been living and working in Gotham for around three weeks thus far at a hospital based clinic four blocks from here. Mar had ended up agreeing to do pro bono work because they enjoyed it during their time at school and it wasn’t like they had anything better to do.

They occupied a mildly shitty apartment two blocks from the pro bono clinic with a roommate Mar trusted to at least pay their half of the rent. This felt like an about average experience for someone who had finished graduate school five months ago and passed their boards a month prior. Gotham was a less than ideal place to work, but Mar leapt at the job offer that promised an income to start paying back their loans.

“Here’s the paperwork from Mr. Boyle,” Mar said around a yawn, placing the sheets next to Fariha’s keyboard. “Have you heard anything from my next patient, by the way?”

“I just got off the phone with her, actually,” Fariha said, scooping up the papers and placing them in her scanner. “She said she wouldn’t be able to make it. She has to take her mother uptown for some last minute appointment, so I rescheduled her for next week.”

Before Mar could say anything, the door in the waiting room swung open to admit a tall, broad figure wearing…a bodysuit? The man strode up to the window at the desk, beaming with a smile that rivaled Fariha’s and eyes shrouded by a domino mask with white outs. As Mar had told Lydia earlier, they worked in a city during school - so Mar was used to seeing a lot of weird shit. But this was…new.

Mar looked down at Fariha for some reassurance that they were not hallucinating, but she was simply beaming back at their latest entry.

“How may I help you?”

“I saw you take walk-ins,” the man said, like that explained everything about this situation.

“We do indeed,” Fariha said, opening up a new appointment on her computer. “What’s your name so I can enter you in?”

“Nightwing.”

Mar watched in stunned bemusement as Fariha typed ‘Night’ into the slot for a first name and ‘Wing’ in as the last name.

“Age?”

“How old do you think I am?”

Fariha chuckled and entered in a random birthdate that dubbed Nightwing as twenty-five years old.

“Gender and preferred pronouns?”

“Male, he/him, please.”

Fariha entered the information and submitted the appointment. A window popped up claiming the chart needed more information and Mar waited for Fariha to fill in all of the required fields as expected. Instead, she flagged a box next to a line of text Mar was not fast enough to read, pressed ‘enter’, and smiled over the screen at Nightwing.

“You’re in luck, sweetie, we have an opening right now.”

“Great!”

Fariha spun in her chair and stared at Mar. They were still standing beside her, baffled.

“Oh, yeah,” Mar said, voice cracking slightly. “That…that would be me. Uhm…”

Mar looked down at Fariha and then back up at Nightwing.

“Follow me?” Mar said, feeling absolutely delirious. They turned and exited the front office, waiting for Nightwing to join them before leading him to one of the few private rooms they had for evaluations. Still uncertain if this was a fever dream or not, Mar gestured to the plinth in the room for Nightwing to sit on and then glanced out to the floor where Lydia was treating her patient.

“I need to grab my laptop, I’ll be right back,” Mar choked out before ducking from the room.

Their laptop was conveniently located near where Lydia was treating her patient, so Mar snagged her elbow and gestured frantically. Lydia left her patient doing a simple exercise and ducked her head close to Mar, an eyebrow raised with confusion.

“Could you explain to me why a man in a mask and skin tight suit just walked in and Fariha filled out an appointment with little to no information and acted like this was a normal occurrence?”

Lydia’s eyes went wide and Mar had all of two seconds to feel relief that someone here was still sane before that hope was obliterated.

“You got a Mask in your room?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Mar whisper-screeched.

“This is pro bono,” Lydia said, as if that explained anything. When it became clear to her that Mar was not following, Lydia sighed. “Gotham has vigilantes, right? They can’t exactly use their insurance for medical visits without exposing their identities. So we have both the emergency clinic and pro bono for them and for citizens who don’t have insurance or have shitty insurance. Didn’t anyone tell you about the vigilante rules when you signed up for pro bono?”

“Lydia, do I look like anyone explained that to me before I got here?”

Lydia ran a hand down her face and made a noise of exasperation, like she was the one most stressed out by this situation. “Look, they’re just another patient. Do what you normally do!”

“And ignore the spandex and domino mask and the fact that everything about the conduct of this appointment is a severe breach of several APTA guidelines - sure.”

Lydia dropped a hand on Mar’s shoulder and chuckled. “It’s cute that you think the APTA has any jurisdiction here.”

Mar watched her walk away, resignation feeling like a rock in their gut. Rolling their table and laptop back to Nightwing’s room, Mar tried not to look affected by this development.

“Sorry for the wait, Mr. Wing. My name is Mar, and I’ll be your physical therapist this evening.”

“Please, Mr. Wing was my father,” he said with far too much seriousness. “You can just call me Nightwing.”

Mar’s face went hot with embarrassment, well aware they were being teased, as they locked the wheels of their table with more force than necessary.

“Alright, Nightwing,” Mar said, tone clipped. “What brings you in today?”

“My right shoulder has been bugging me for almost two weeks now and it’s not really getting any better. Someone I know used to get physical therapy and said it was great, so I figured I’d just pop in and see what it’s about.”

“You appear to be…working,” Mar said, hesitant as they looked Nightwing’s ensemble up and down. “Do I need to get you in and out quickly this evening?”

“Nah, it’s a slow night. Plus, I know some others are out and about who can cover for me.”

Mar decided not to think about that comment too much. “So, what happened two weeks ago that made your shoulder start bothering you? Anything significant or out of the ordinary for you?”

Nightwing tipped his face to the ceiling, seeming to contemplate the question before shrugging and smiling at Mar.

“Nothing I would consider out of the ordinary. Usual patrols through Blüdhaven and sometimes here in Gotham, swinging from buildings and lampposts, the occasional flip and somersault, and getting thrown around during fights.”

Mar had been typing as Nightwing spoke, putting everything in a blank note to try and parse through later, but paused at the last comment. They looked up slowly and really took Nightwing in, assessing his posture, where he was holding his weight, and what they could see of his expression. They had a process for evaluation visits, a systematic flow of questions that were considered important, that provided information for both prognosis and diagnosis. Mar had put a lot of time and effort into figuring out a flow that worked for them during their schooling, and was quite proud of the results.

But between Lydia’s comment about the APTA and Nightwing off-handedly mentioning getting “thrown around”, Mar was beginning to question how to proceed.

“What…what constitutes getting thrown around?”

Nightwing tipped his head sideways at Mar like they were the one saying something unusual.

“What do you mean?”

Mar unlocked the wheels on their desk and pushed it aside to stand directly in front of Nightwing.

“I mean people who practice martial arts get thrown around, flyers in cheerleading get thrown around, and they do it in a way that is trained and practical to their goals. How are you getting thrown around and is there anyone there to catch you?”

Even without being able to see his eyes, Mar caught the strange faltering of Nightwing’s easy-going expression. He only slipped up for a moment, plastering it back in place, but it looked shakier.

“I work solo most nights,” Nightwing said, clearly trying to seem unaffected and almost getting there.

“Okay,” Mar said, making a mental note for his social history and moving on quickly. “So what are you landing on?”

“Uh, pavement? Cinder block walls? Sometimes my feet.”

Mar was beginning to regret signing up for pro bono.

“Okay, so nothing great.”

“If it helps, I do have training and I land on my feet like…nine times out of ten.”

“It doesn’t.”

Nightwing snorted a laugh and grinned at Mar, their heights almost even where he sat on the lowered plinth. Mar had no idea if he actually was twenty-five, but if he was, that made Mar older than him by a few years. It hurt to think about him getting thrown around and having no one to help him up and no one to go home to. But that was a conversation for another day, when they had more of a rapport to go off.

Mar felt slightly ridiculous for thinking they would ever see this guy in the clinic again.

On that thought, Mar decided, fuck it, just do what needs to be done.

“On a scale of one to ten - don’t give me that look, Nightwing - on a scale of one to ten, ten being I’m calling an ambulance, how would you rate your shoulder pain right now?”

“Right now? Uh…three?”

Mar reached over to their laptop and typed his response out quickly. “What is it at worst and what are you doing when it feels like that?”

“Usually when I’m putting weight through my arm or swinging between buildings, and I guess…a six?”

“Does it ever feel sharp, stabbing, or burning? Or is it more of a dull ache?”

“Dull, like I worked out too much.”

Mar typed those pieces of information out, too. They stared at the lines of text, something like disbelief pinching their throat. It was always like this with athletes and performers. Their perception of pain was less about how painful it actually was and more about how much it affected their ability to do what they deemed necessary. Or how much they were able to muscle through and ignore the pain. Mar suspected Mr. Wing here was no different. These numbers were seemingly average pain ratings, but Mar already doubted them based on the comment about concrete.

“Alright, let me get a look at your shoulder.”

They took Nightwing through a quick exam, subtly making sure his nervous system wasn’t royally fucked before actually focusing on his shoulder. If he had any qualms about said exam, he didn’t make them obvious, instead going through every motion and test Mar requested. Then they had him follow along with arm motions, Mar watching his right side carefully for any differences or abnormalities, and kept asking him if different things changed his pain at all. After a few more tests for his shoulder, some of which were less than pleasant for Nightwing, Mar snagged a rolling stool from outside the door and sat down on it next to the plinth. They dragged their desk over and made a few notes on their laptop before pushing it away and looking at Nightwing again.

“Okay, so the good news is, you don’t seem to have any broken bones, and haven’t torn anything in your rotator cuff.”

“Awesome. Does this mean there’s bad news?”

“I wouldn’t call it bad news,” Mar said, twisting their fingers together in their lap. “But you’ve definitely strained your shoulder muscles. It’s not overly serious, but if you don’t give your muscles time to heal, your shoulder is only going to get worse.”

“I thought these things went away on their own,” Nightwing said, distinctly pouting.

Mar pressed their lips together and cursed - not for the first time - the quality of health education in public schools.

“Have you ever heard the acronym RICE?”

“Maybe?”

“It means rest, ice, compression, and elevation. There are other versions of that acronym that are more involved and updated, but there’s nothing wrong with RICE. Anyway, it compiles the basic ideas of how to best treat an injury to your musculoskeletal system. If you don’t do any of that, your injury will absolutely get worse.”

Mar gestured to Nightwing’s shoulder for emphasis and said, “that includes swinging from buildings, by the way, which I guess is the bad news. You should take a break or find a new means of travel that doesn’t involve stressing your shoulder. I’d also prefer if you were thrown into less concrete-like surfaces.”

“Define less.”

“Zero would be ideal.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I appreciate that,” Mar said flatly. “I’m going to grab you an ice pack instead of having you do exercises for today. While you sit there with it, I have some papers for you to fill out.”

Mar ducked from the room and came back a few minutes later with two papers and an ice pack wrapped in a towel. They adjusted the ice pack on Nightwing’s shoulder and then wrapped it up to hold it in place so he didn’t have to hold it.

“These two papers are what we call outcome surveys. They’ll give me more information on how this injury is affecting you so I know what to focus on in your treatment.”

Nightwing took the offered papers and pen to fill out. Mar pulled their laptop over and started compiling a list of exercises for him, putting more than usual in case they never saw each other again or in case it took him a while to get back here. As they were filling out the note in Nightwing’s brand new electronic chart, Mar paused the cursor over family and social history. They could make a few guesses based on what he said earlier, but they figured it wouldn’t exactly be ethical to not ask. As much as they had wanted to wait until they knew each other better, there was a high likelihood Mar would never see Nightwing again. It felt wrong to let him leave without asking. Plus, despite how far off the reservation from normal this entire encounter had been thus far, Mar wanted to maintain some semblance of sanity this evening.

“Nightwing,” Mar said, peering over their laptop at him. He glanced up, the white outs of his mask level with Mar’s face. “Do you live alone?”

The white outs didn’t move, but Mar could feel the way he was blinking at them, baffled.

“What?”

“I need to make a note about if there is anyone at home with you in case of emergencies. I suppose…given your situation, I don’t need a name or contact information. But it would put my mind at rest to know if there was literally anyone at home or within a reasonable travel distance should you need them.”

Nightwing was silent for a moment longer and Mar was beginning to regret asking, about to shrug it off and tell Nightwing to forget it.

“No, I–I live alone.” Nightwing’s fingers tightened subtly around the pen in his hand. “But I have…people I can contact that live here. In Gotham.”

Good enough.

Mar added a few more exercises to his list in silence, letting Nightwing get back to the papers. They sent the list to the printer and stood, quietly informing Nightwing they would be right back and to finish the papers.

Ducking into the front office, Mar went straight for the printer and ignored Fariha’s insistent stare. Flipping through the papers to make sure they were all present and correct, Mar sighed and turned to Fariha, crossing their arms and raising their eyebrows as a prompt.

“Is he nice?”

“He’s a mess.”

Fariha waved her hand dismissively. “Aren’t they all?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mar said, voice heavy with sass. “I’ve never worked in a clinic unregulated by the APTA with vigilantes before.”

“It’s fun, right?”

“It’s giving me a headache.”

“You get used to it.” Fariha twirled back to her computer as the phone on her desk started to ring. She pulled a bottle of NSAIDs from one of her drawers and put it pointedly on the desk beside her. “You haven’t seen anything until you’ve worked the front desk at the emergency department overnight.”

“Sounds great,” Mar muttered as Fariha answered the phone with her cheerful, scripted greeting. Mar took their chance to exit and went back to the treatment room, ignoring the NSAIDs. Nightwing was setting the completed papers on Mar’s rolling desk as they walked in, the ice pack still in place.

“Here’s a list of exercises for you,” Mar said, plopping back down on the rolling stool. “I highlighted the ones I want you to focus on most and wrote down how many times per day and per week I want you doing them. And for the record, I’m banning you from swinging until your shoulder is doing better. If I see you swinging in this city, HIPPA be damned, I’m calling you out.”

“I don’t think that’s legal.”

“I’ve been informed the APTA holds no power here, so I’ll take my chances.”

Nightwing glanced up from his papers in surprise, the white outs of his domino mask widening slightly. “Are you not from Gotham?”

“No, I just moved here a few weeks ago.”

“Oh. That’s surprising.”

Mar glanced up from where they had been typing, eyes narrowed. “Why’s that?”

“You just seemed so calm and unfazed by all this. Usually people who aren’t from Gotham are more…freaked?”

“I have an uncanny ability to tolerate the shit that could only happen in a city,” Mar said in monotone. “I went to graduate school in a city - it’s a survival tactic.”

“Understandable, I suppose,” Nightwing hummed, folding up the sheet and spiriting it away somewhere on his suit. “Still impressive.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Mar stood, closing their laptop before freeing the ice pack from Nightwing’s shoulder. Leaving it on the plinth next to him, they gestured to the door.

“Before I walk you out, do you have any other questions for me?”

Mar was used to patients brushing that off, or immediately firing back with questions about surgery, imaging, or other healthcare visits they might need. It usually provided good insight on how the patient thought the visit went, whether they trusted Mar or not at the end of the session. But Nightwing sat quietly for a long moment, actually contemplating something.

Eventually, he asked, “that comment you made about not swinging until you cleared me, were you serious?”

Mar’s first thought was that’s a stupid question, of course I was serious. Their second thought was why did he ask me that?

“I was. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just…usually B is the only one telling me not to do something for my health and safety.”

Mar pulled their stool back over and sat down again. “Who is B?”

“He’s…” Nightwing paused long enough that Mar began to wonder if he was giving them the silent treatment, hoping they would move on. “Someone I work with.”

“And how well do you follow B’s advice, if I might ask?”

Nightwing immediately turned sheepish, grinning and scratching the back of his head.

“Admittedly…not well.”

Mar exhaled a sharp breath that sounded halfway like a laugh. Leaning forward, they propped their elbows on their knees and folded their hands together, staring up at Nightwing.

“Listen, Nightwing,” Mar said, serious enough to catch his attention. “I can’t actually enforce anything upon you. At the end of the day, your recovery is in your hands and depends on the choices you make. All I can do is provide advice based on the medical knowledge and expertise I have, and support you. So, I am strongly advising you to give your shoulder a break before you actually tear something and end up being unable to do the things you need to do, or require less conservative interventions. You’ve got a lot of strong muscles supporting the joint, but you’re stressing something that’s trying to heal and those other muscles can only do so much. Does that make sense?”

Nightwing nodded, shrouded gaze locked in on Mar. They nodded back and asked again, “any other questions?”

“Nope.”

“Alright,” Mar stood, brushing their hands down their scrub pants and gesturing for the door again. “I’ll walk you out.”

They went to the front desk together, standing at the window to schedule a follow up with Fariha. She explained the cancellation policy to Nightwing and said that if he was unable to keep a scheduled appointment, he could walk in again and they would do their best to get him on the schedule. Mar was fairly certain that was strictly a vigilante policy but they didn’t say so. For all they knew, it probably applied to other patients here, too.

Once Nightwing was set up, Mar walked him out into the short hallway that joined the pro bono clinic with the emergency clinic.

“Thanks again, Mar,” Nightwing said with a grin. He turned to go and Mar couldn’t hold back their last niggling concern any longer.

“Nightwing? I have one more question for you, if you want to answer it that is.”

He turned back to them, seeming nervous but still grinning.

“Earlier, you said that B was the only one who gave you health advice. You seemed surprised about something I consider a routine part of my job.” Mar paused, chewing at the inside of their cheek.

“There really is no delicate way to frame this question. Have you been neglected by other healthcare professionals? Because if you have, we can report them. I could submit anonymous information to the HR department if they’re within the hospital system and I can’t guarantee anything drastic will come of it, but the complaint would still be in the system and–”

Nightwing stepped forward and held his hands up toward Mar. “Whoa, hey. No, I wouldn’t say neglected. It’s just that this system of anonymity for vigilantes wasn’t always a thing, y’know? It’s only come about in the last few years, so it takes some getting used to. The system failed a lot of the vigilantes I know, so even with things like HIPPA and PHI in place, it’s not easy to show up and trust healthcare will keep us anonymous and treat us unbiased. And some of the people I’ve seen think we’re a little…what’s the word? Invulnerable? Like we’re all Superman and can heal quickly.”

“Well that’s stupid.” Mar immediately put a hand over their mouth, flinching. “Sorry, that was unprofessional.”

Nightwing laughed, short and loud. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head, still grinning broadly.

“You’re not wrong. But my point is, I appreciate you treating me like I’m a normal human despite uh…” Nightwing gestured to his ensemble. “This.”

“Until you stop being human, you’re going to be treated like one,” Mar said solemnly, making Nightwing chuckle again.

“I appreciate it.” Something at his wrist beeped and Nightwing grimaced, starting for the door. “Sorry, I really have to go now.”

Mar waved him off and called out, “no swinging, and don’t forget to do your exercises!”

“Sure thing!” Nightwing called as the automatic doors slid shut behind him.

Mar walked back into the clinic, already wondering how the hell they were supposed to document this visit. Fariha and Lydia were inside the front office, Lydia’s patient having left during Nightwing’s visit. They both nearly leapt through the door as Mar entered, figuring they should just get the interrogation over with before they sat down to document.

“Was that Nightwing?” Lydia squealed, eyes sparkling. “Was he nice? Is he as hot as the blog posts claim? How did his butt look?”

Mar made a face at Lydia’s questions, holding their hands up to fend her off.

“Yes, yes, subjective, and I was treating his shoulder, not his ass.”

“He seemed like a very pleasant young man,” Fariha said with a sigh. “I wish my boyfriend was as charming as him.”

“Fariha, your boyfriend is a computer engineer, a massive geek, and plenty charming,” Lydia said without moving her imploring gaze from Mar.

Fariha put her hands over her chest and swooned in her chair. “And I love him dearly. But Nightwing has a different kind of charm - so boyish and sweet.”

“As entertaining as this conversation is,” Mar said flatly. “I need to write up his note so I can go home.”

“Wait!” Lydia whined, chasing after Mar as they left the front office. “I have more questions about Nightwing!”

“Morning, sunshine,” Raya chirped, almost immediately getting in Mar’s way as they walked into the clinic the next morning. The hospital was bustling already, despite it being barely seven in the morning, and Mar personally thought that was a direct insult to their exhaustion.

Mar grunted a greeting in response, ducking around Raya and making for the back office where the therapists kept all their stuff. Undeterred, Raya trailed after Mar, grinning brightly like the morning person she was.

“I heard you had a fun night.”

Mar, setting their bag down on their desk, paused and turned to furrow their brow at Raya.

“How the fuck did you hear about that? It has literally been twelve hours since then.”

“Fariha’s, like, my best friend. We talk shit together on Fridays during lunch.”

“Of course you do.” Mar shoved their bag to the back of the desk and swiped up their coffee mug, immediately making a beeline for the office coffee maker.

“So,” Raya said with emphasis. “You met Nightwing.”

“You did not phrase that as a question so I will not deign to answer it.”

“Oh, come on,” Raya groaned, slumping against the wall next to where Mar was persuading the coffee machine to provide them with something to live for. “You’ve got to have something to say about him. He’s, like, objectively one of the coolest heroes in this fucking city and he doesn’t even live here!”

“It seems like everyone who has asked me for details on Nightwing already knows more about him and his ass than I do. You’re just looking for me to confirm some preconceived parasocial ideals, and it is far too early for that.”

“That’s a lot of bold talk for someone who had a five year long ‘delulu’ K-pop phase.”

“One, it was a coping mechanism. Two, I never developed a parasocial relationship about it. And three, Mamamoo is superior and you will pay for insinuating otherwise.”

Raya rolled her eyes and pushed off the wall to head to her desk. “Tell that to the collage of photocards on your bedroom wall, darling.”

“Maybe I will,” Mar said as the coffee maker sputtered out the last dregs of liquid gold into their mug. “At least they won’t talk back.”

Raya snorted an admittedly adorable laugh behind her hand and ruffled Mar’s undone hair as she passed by on her way out of the office.

“Whatever you say, champ. We’ll talk more over lunch.”

“As long as you don’t make me talk about his ass.”

“You’re no fun.”

#batman #batfam #my writing #writing #dick grayson #based off a CPS fic on ao3 #PT but make it batfam in gotham so it's a logistical nightmare #dc

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