#my hand is still covered in graphite

[violetnshenanigans]

Drew Griffin again :)

[daisyprayers]

Willow 🌿

[writing-mlm]

Hiii, can we please have more college!damian x male reader? Like a scenario where damian loves to draw reader but reader doesn't know this? Maybe friends to lovers? Idk your pick. The artist and his muse type of thing. Also, i LIVE for soft damian on this blog ong.

Forever my Muse

Summary: Damian has his finals coming up and he wants you to join-- at least that's his excuse to get you into the art venue. An artist needs their muse and for some reason, most of Damian's drawings include you in, naturally, he could fill museums with drawings of you. Pairing: Damian Wayne x Male reader WC: 5.8k

Dust-covered fingers were always something you had associated with Damian. Graphite, charcoal, pastels— anything he used to draw or even paint would inevitably stain his hands. It wasn’t intentional, and neither were the fingerprints he left on your stuff, or the paint you could never remove from your favorite sweater, but that didn’t stop him from apologizing. From buying you cleaning products and a new sweater; never mind it has never been worn in the year you’ve had it, Damian felt terribly sorry whenever he felt he’d stained something of yours. 

But never sorry enough to show you his drawings. 

You’d ask, you’d beg, but he would never give in. He’d show you when he was done, sure. You’d see the finished still-life drawings of whatever object had been in the line of sight, the paintings he’d done of his pets whenever he missed them, and the random sketches he did to loosen his wrist. But, damn, sometimes you wanted to see an unfinished drawing that wasn’t a warm-up. 

Even now, as the two of you are on the campus bus heading towards the music hall, he’s drawing. Sitting across from you on the bus, Damian easily adjusts himself to the movements of the bus as it jerks to a stop. He’s nice like that, you’ve never caught him off guard, he’s never fallen or stumbled in the time you’ve known him. 

Studying him, you wonder if he’s naturally so agile. You’ve seen him in your dorm's gym, during all-nighters you can sometimes see him running around campus, and once you had caught him doing one of those athletic challenges for some guy's video. He won. Of course. 

The bus comes to a complete stop and you look away, double-checking that it wasn’t your stop. It wasn’t. You knew that. But still. The need to check was far too great and you slipped back into a conversation with Damian. Only this time, you’re looking down at your phone to double-check the event and his eyes switch from staring at his sketch to staring at you. 

His eyes flicker between you and his drawing, erasing and adding lines where needed. He catches your eyes traveling up and he looks back down, working from memory as you start up a new conversation. 

Eventually, the bus reaches your stop and he carefully closes his book; he always worries he’d smudge his art, while he follows you out of the bus. 

It’s the end of the semester, ergo, it’s finals week. And for one of your music finals, everyone was to prepare a song and perform it. Truthfully, Damian doesn’t understand why you’d picked him to accompany you. He knows he’s not the best comfort, his demeanor often being the reason people don’t stick around too long. 

But, you reassured him. Telling him that his presence was more than enough for you. Knowing that he was somewhere in the crowd calms you down more than you ever cared to admit. 

The walk to the music hall isn’t short, but you can see the large building in the distance. The size is daunting on you as you see the crowd forming at the entrance. People aren’t allowed inside yet, but performers and their guests can head inside before anyone else. 

“I’m nervous,” You admit, wiping your hands on your shirt. “What if I fail?” You mutter, your eyes desperately searching to find solace in his green eyes. 

“You’ll do as you’ve always done,” He nods, looking ahead as you approach the building. “Exceptionally.” His sketchbook bumps against your folder of sheet music and you sigh through your nose, trying to calm down. 

“I’m so gonna choke,” Seeing your reflection in the glass, you feel as if you’d forgotten everything you learned. Every lesson, every mistake you fixed and learned from, the late-night practice performances with your friends. The song you’d composed nearly slips from your mind as you see yourself, walking in that suit and tie you’d worn several years ago. All of it left your mind and you felt like a beginner again. What even was a solfège?

“I'm trained in CPR.” He opens the door for you and gently encourages you inside, his fingers grazing your back. “You weren’t nearly as nervous for your accounting finals.” He notes, falling back into step with you. 

That’s another thing. Maybe that’s why you were so stressed. Double majoring was hellish. Twice the finals, quadruple the headaches. 

“Those were tests,” You scowl, showing the security your campus ID. “I’m going to be performing a live concert in front of nearly a thousand people. I cannot fuck this up, Damian. This is going to be posted for everyone to watch, too,” You ramble on. 

“Which you’ve done before, no?” He presses the elevator button and your heart hammers. You swear you’re going to pass out. He notices, of course, he does, and digs in his bag to find the fidget cube he keeps in there. 

“I have— thank you,” Taking the cube, he nods. “It’s just… I don’t know. Tests suck.” Rolling your thumb along the metal ball on one side of the cube, you stare at the numbers as they slowly tick down to the first floor. 

“That’s true,” He steps inside the elevator and you follow suit. “But you’ve made it thus far, you can go further.” He squeezes your shoulder as the doors close. There’s a silence in the elevator as it goes up to the second floor where you see your teacher waiting at the door to the waiting room, talking to a pair of students. 

“I can,” You affirm, dipping your head down as you smile. 

“You will.” 

—

You’re fifth in line to perform, watching a singer, dancer, another other pianist, and an opera singer go on before you go on did absolutely jack shit to help you. As you’re announced, you step onto the stage and try your best not to accept that there were thousands of eyes on you. Instead, you smile and wave as you walk across that large stage. Desperately looking for Damian in the sea of people. 

He’s in the front, right in front of where you could see when you glance up from the piano, you find out as you’re standing next to the piano seat. 

Damian’s eyes don’t leave yours, making eye contact with you as you fiddle with the buttons of your coat. He motions for you to stop and then does a breathe in breathe out motion with the same hand. Nodding, you blink away from him and hold your hands behind your back. Focusing on your breathing, you listen to the teacher as you’re done being introduced. 

The applause settles as you bow in, take a seat, and flip the page where your music sheet is. Slowly, you start. As a general music major, you weren’t restricted to just playing the piano. As emphasized by the microphone taped to your cheek. 

You aren’t the strongest singer by any means, you’re good for singing in the shower or on drives but you doubt you’d actually make a career off of your voice. What you hope will carry you is the piano, as you press each key your eyes flicker to Damian. He’s attentive, a smile on his face as you perform. 

Testing the waters, you glance at the people around him and they seem… pleased. Happy. Moved, even. You grin and return to staring at the sheet music. All of the notes flood back to you as you reach the last bit of the song, your eyes closing as your voice reaches a peak, holding a note. Then it’s just the piano, your voice echoing in everyone’s mind as the notes get slower and slower until you end it. 

Applause fills the hall and you stand up, taking a bow. Standing there, even if only for a moment, you can’t imagine why you’d been so nervous.

Collecting your sheet music, you exit the stage and hand the mic to the stage tech before leaving. 

When you’re nearing the exit, you spot Damian holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“When did you have the time to get these?” You laugh as he hands them to you. His eyes merely twinkle, refusing to give up one of his many secrets. “Thank you, they’re dope.” 

“You did it,” Damian reminds you as the two of you exit the building. 

“I did! Ugh!” Grabbing his shoulder with your free hand, you give him a little shake. “Thank you so much, you’re honestly the best. Was it good?” Falling into step with him, Damian doesn’t bother to fix his shirt. It’s hardly even moved, but you know he was detail-oriented in stuff like that. Hell, he hates it when he messes with his clothes. 

“It was mesmerizing.” He promises. “I do believe the woman behind me was crying.” Grinning, you stand at the bus stop, suddenly buzzing with excitement. Wanting to do it again, you start to imagine creating your own side business. Wedding musician, you can see it now. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” He avoids looking at you as he’s speaking. A rare occurrence on his part. But he does his best to look at you after building the courage. “I have an art showing next week. I understand the notice is short and you’re—“

“Send me the details.” You grin. His shoulders drop and he nods, clearly more relaxed. “I hope the attire is fancy. I got this fancy turtleneck I’ve been wanting to wear and slacks from my high school graduation just waiting to be worn!” 

—

With all of your finals out of the way, you finally had time to start removing the items from your dorm. One by one you removed posters and trinkets scattered across your end of the room. Pack your clothes into boxes, and save for enough outfits to get you through your two weeks left on campus. 

Damian was held up from finishing his art showing, unable to see you in person but he was more than happy with a Facetime call. With both your laptops placed in a space away from disturbing you, the two of you worked on your tasks. 

“I do need to be at the showing two hours early,” He tells you as you’re dragging the anti-suicide chairs to the closet, trying to see the top shelf. “But I’ll have arrangements to bring you to the venue.” 

“And my outfit is okay?” You ask, the chair wobbling as you stand on it. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. But hey, you’re not the one who installed a closet tall enough that only Shaq could see the top. “Because I can always swap out the turtle neck for a green button down— the silk one that Maddison made,” Always gave a fashion designer friend. She had used you as a model for of her projects a couple of months ago and with your measurements being unique to you, let you have it after she’d gotten her grade. 

“The button-down would be better suited,” He nods, leaning close to his painting before adding a tiny stroke. “The turtleneck is a little… on the nose.” Leaning back, he checks his reference picture before frowning. It goes away quickly as he picks up a bit of white and dabs it onto a dry brush. 

“I was afraid it was,” You laugh, grabbing a first aid kit from the shelf. Listening to him lightly brush the paint over the canvas, you toss the kit onto the bed and grab what little items are scattered up there. “Holy shit! Do you remember when that frat dude lost his frat ring?” 

“Unfortunately,” Damian glances at his screen, watching as you haphazardly get down from the chair. Nearly tripping, he wonders how you've made it this far in life without breaking a bone. 

“I think I did take it! Look!” Showing the screen, Damian looks almost impressed as you hold up a fraternity ring. It’s a shiny gold, likely fake but engraved with the initials of the Frat house. The two of you remember the guy had been going around to every single campus building with a missing ring poster. 

“What a thief,” He chides, setting his brush down and taking a physical step back from the painting. Harsh glares scan over brush strokes, ripping apart his painting bit by bit before he nods to himself. His glare morphs into a soft sort of gaze and he signs the back of it. 

“Is that your final painting for the semester?” You ask, the ring forgotten about as it’s tossed in a box of trinkets and you’ve moved on to ordering food. Probably Panda Express. Or maybe Chipotle…. really it’s whatever is closer and cheaper. 

“Hopefully,” He sighs through his nose, his paint box clicking shut. “I’ve been drawing and painting these past couple of days. My canvases take up an entire section of the art studio. I’m sure my professor cannot wait for them to dry and get glossed. Which I should probably start doing.” 

“How does that taste?” Setting your phone down, Damian’s face goes sour as he looks at you. “Personally, I think the gloss would taste tarty.” You add. “Or maybe like the frosting for Toaster Strudel.” Picking your phone back up, you continue your order. 

“Neither is correct.” He blinks. “It’s a toxin and filled with chemicals, it most likely tastes as good as acetone does, Hab—“ He pauses, and you look at him wondering what the issue is. “Habits of tasting chemicals shouldn’t be one you pick up.” He finishes his sentence with a bit of force. 

“I just love chemicals. Violin resin is my favorite.” Making a chomping noise Damian huffs. As you’re finishing up your order, you look at him. He’s halfway across campus and judging by the rack of canvases he wheeled over, he won’t be back until well into the night. Eh, it doesn’t hurt to ask. “I’m ordering some food, do you want something?” 

“No, thank you, though.” He shakes his head. “I have food from the court in case I get hungry.” He quickly adds. Humming, you place the order and scan over your room. The only things that need to get packed are things you’re still using. Now it’s just a matter of organizing the boxes and bins so you can still move around your room. 

“After the glossing, what’re you doing?”

“I have to write short summaries for each painting. No less than one hundred words,” He explains as he’s putting on a pair of latex gloves. 

“So, a breeze?” He laughs and nods. 

“I’m afraid I’ll go over the word limit,” He admits, sparing you a glance as you’re lugging a box to a corner of your room. “My paintings harbor a lot of my emotions and they’re far from short.”

“Real as fuck.”

— 

On the day of his art exhibition, you spend extra time in the bathroom. Making sure your hair is neat, and presentable, fixing your outfit, making sure you don’t stink. Anything and everything you could check over, you did. 

This nervous feeling was different from your pre-show nerves. Especially since you don’t even know why you’re nervous. Probably because you’d never actually gotten to see his paintings, at least the ones he was showing. He’d been ultra allusive about those, citing the exhibition would be the best place to view them. But even he was nervous and that’s a lot considering he’s Damian fucking Wayne. 

He texted you two minutes ago saying that the car was going to arrive within the next ten minutes and you rushed out to the front of the dorms. No need to lock the door behind you, since your roommate was busy sleeping and would stay in there until you came back. Plucking at your shirt, you watch a sleek black car pull up in front of you, and Damian texts you that the car is there. 

The ride is long, far too long for your liking anyway. But considering it’s in the middle of the city, it’s not unwarranted. 

The art… museum? What should you call it? The space where the exhibition was being held was a well-known art gallery— that’s the word! The gallery was well respected, talked about within art circles, and incredibly high-brow. Thank fuck you didn’t go with that turtleneck. 

There’s a woman in front of the gallery, greeting everyone who enters. She sees you and there’s a flash of recognition across her face. 

“It’s great to finally meet Damian’s muse,” She smiles as she shakes your hand. 

“His what?” You ask but Damian pulls you inside. 

“How was the ride?” He asks, his eyes darting between his professor and you. 

“Good but what did she mean?” You ask, looking around to see the other people around. Like your performance, it was open to the public and with Bruce Wayne’s son being in attendance, many people had showed up. Including his family. “Bruce Wayne is here?” Your head whips to Damian as you spot him in the crowd. 

“He is my father…” He trails. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Fuck no!” You gasp. “The knowledge of his wealth is burying me as we speak— but this is about you,” Turning to him, you smile. “Where’s your paintings? Those don’t look like your style,” Eyes flicker across the paintings and you can’t see Damian’s strokes, his colors or his lighting in any of them. A sort of pride swells within him, knowing that you’ve looked— studied his art enough to know that the ones around you weren’t his. 

“It has its own section,” He tells you, guiding you through groups of people and halls. “It’s going to be revealed in around half an hour. My professor insisted,” He stops at a section of the gallery covered by a curtain and two security guards. You never knew it was that serious, but damn. 

“Mr Fancy. Why don’t you catch up with your family? I’ll look around?” In truth, you were going to the nearest bathroom and making sure you didn't look stupid. 

“I’m more than certain they’d be more pleased if you accompanied me.” He shakes his head as you raise your eyebrows. “If that’s something you’d be comfortable with, of course.” 

“Sure,” Once more, he guides you past people until he spots his father and brother talking in a corner. 

“Father, Richard.” He calls as the two of you approach. “This is (Y/n).” Richard’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, the smile only furthered curbed by his brother's glare. 

“Hello,” Waving at the two men, they reach to shake your hand instead. Bruce has a firm grip, probably tighter than it really needed to be but Richard is more than welcoming. He’s more than excited to meet you, although you can’t imagine why. 

“My other siblings are still in Gotham,” Damian explains, physically taking Dick’s hand from yours with a pointed look. “Although I’m surprised you didn’t bring Cassandra, father.”

“She’s here,” He shakes his head, glancing around for the mop of black hair. “In the bathroom, probably.” 

“Is that her?” You ask, looking at the woman in the corner. She’s standing there, downing a glass of champagne before returning to a conversation with a man. She looks like how Damian had described her, although he downplayed how intimidating she seemed. 

“Oh boy,” Dick huffs. “Let me go help her,” Excusing himself, you’re left with Damian and his father. The two of them talking with their eyes. 

“So, Damian’s told me you’re a double major,” Bruce breaks the silence and their weird eye conversation. He talks about you? Glancing at Damian, he’s making a point to look anywhere but you. That’s sorta cute— totally not in a romantic way, totally. 

“I am,” You nod, wishing a man with drinks would walk past you. “Accounting and a performing arts major.” He hums and there’s another beat of awkward silence. 

“From what he tells me, you’re excelling at both. That’s incredibly hard. Do you have any job prospects lined up for when you graduate?” He asks and you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” You admit, picking at your hands. “Since I'm not sure where I’d like to settle after I graduate it’s difficult finding places.” Bruce nods, quickly making sure Dick and Cassandra are okay. 

“Well, if your grades continue to stay or improve, Wayne Enterprises is always looking for accountants, especially one so esteemed.” He smiles at you, that sort of small smile that makes you feel more relaxed in his presence. A fatherly smile. 

“Yeah, praise from Damian is a lot.” Dick grins, leaning his weight on his younger brother. Cassandra agrees, leaning against the wall Bruce was standing in front of. “And he talks about you a ton!” 

“That’s enough.” Damian huffs, pushing himself away from Dick who frowns. “Let’s look at some of the artwork,” 

“You talk to your family about me?” You grin as he’s hauling you away from his family. He looks at you, clearly licking the inside of his mouth before he blinks and gives one strong nod. 

“Of course I do, it would be a shame to hide someone so talented.” He explains and then looks forward, his eyes swimming across the faces around him. “I do believe in your talents and my father is someone who can help them flourish; it would seem awfully cruel if I didn’t at least try.” You go to speak; to thank him but his attention is pulled away by the director of the show. 

“It’s time!” She gleams, ushering the two of you after her. 

There are already people gathered in front of his top secret exhibit, cameras and people wearing PRESS lanyards like the front and sides. Much like a moth drawn to a flame, they find Damian walking and try to hound him, only to be stopped by his family. They’re far more intimidating now but Damian pulls your attention from them and towards him. 

The two of you are in front of the whole crowd, the two guards holding one piece of the curtain and waiting for a cue to open them. 

“We welcome everyone to Damian Wayne’s very first art show,” The director says, her hand ghosting over his shoulder. He takes that as a sign to step forward, barely leaving your side as he explains his art. 

“Through My Eyes is a collection of various pieces I’ve created over the course of two years,” He explains. “The music that accompanies the art are pieces composed by my muse.” His eyes find yours as the curtains are pulled aside and for the first time, you notice the way he looks at you. The way his eyes never seem to want to leave yours, how he takes you in the same way he takes in the art around him. 

Then you hear it. More specifically you hear yourself. 

You hear the piece you’d played during your final, hearing your voice fill the spaces where people aren’t talking. Each key, and each note floods your ears as you turn to see his art. 

It’s you.

All of it. Each painting, each frame has something of you in it. 

“Holy shit.” You breathe, moving to the closest one. It’s a painting of you, wearing clothes you’d only seen in shows like Merlin, holding onto a statue of an angel. It’s almost impossible to not know where the inspiration had come from. After convincing Damian to go exploring with you and some friends, you’d come across a newly abandoned church with a large angel statue. On a dare, you pretended to dance with it. 

Sure, you’d seen the picture before but it was nothing compared to the painting. It looked amazing, you had never looked better. Your features were captured in the best way possible, you’d been posed in a way that made it seem as if you were guiding the angel in a dance. 

The description catches your eye next. 

One Last Dance wasn’t the first drawing of Muse, but it was the first drawing of him that I truly loved. He’d resparked a passion for painting for me. The painting had been on my mind for two weeks before I finally started to work on it, having it become my only focus for the two days that I worked on it became the norm for the next two years of my life. 

Muse doesn’t personally care for the Renaissance era, but it seemed fitting for such a painting. The feeling of dressing Muse in modern clothes didn’t ruin the drawing but it didn’t make sense, in my head their dance is accompanied by the sounds of the wings and their feet gliding across the floor. Just outside is probably a mob, unbelievable of a true angel. Muse would probably say that he was dancing to the sounds of Sleep Token and outside was a bunch of ‘angel fuckers’, but who knows. 

D.W

The next painting was smaller than the first, but it’s a close-up of your face. Your eyes are wide and you’re desperately pulling at your eyelids as a light twinkles inside of it. 

Blinding Gaze came about when Muse had gone to the eye doctor, fearing he was going blind. Turns out he was just extremely stressed to the point of temporary blindness. When we spoke about it, he joked that he was developing powers from that time he drank a sports drink mixed with a crushed-up Tylenol and he could shoot lasers from his eyes. While Blinding Gaze doesn’t follow his original plan of lasers, I imagine developing eye lights could be frightening. 

Blinding Gaze isn’t body horror, although I had intended it to be but I couldn’t bring myself to put Muse into that position. Even if it was completely fake. I did eventually remake the painting how I truly envisioned it, but I still prefer my Muse to the remake. 

Drifting to the next painting, you see yourself, dressed in your favorite smudged hoodie, dancing amongst the crowd. The people are drowned out in the colors of the background, nearly blending in meanwhile you’re ever so present. The light shone down on you in a way that made you seem like the main character in some movie, all eyes meant to be on you. 

A Night To Remember was undoubtedly one of the best moments of college thus far. Muse had been invited to a friend's party and insisted I come instead of remaining in the art room, drowning myself in oils and pastels. Although I’ve put his words in a more friendly manner. I hadn’t wanted to go, the noises and being pressed against unfamiliar faces was hardly something I ever enjoyed. But for Muse, I’d do anything he’d asked of me. 

Glued to him for the night, I found myself unreasonably drawn to him. I do not remember the song, in truth, I don’t remember much from that night aside from him. The way he danced, how he looked at me. How he looked in the room. I resented not bringing my sketchbook, but I would’ve been more out of place than I originally had been. 

Smoothening your shirt, you take a nervous glance around you. You’re unsure about how you feel, it’s a lot. You’ve never truly thought about Damian in such a light before, at least not to your knowledge. Sure, you’ve written compositions about him and sure, if you read between the lines in some songs they’re definitely about him. You and Him. 

Perhaps, without realizing it, you had made him your muse just as he had made you his. 

“I want you to see this one,” Damian says as he walks up behind you, finally free of people asking him questions. The music loops as he does and you count that there’s five songs on the set playlist. Each and every song was one you had created. Your song from the previous week plays again as you stare at him, smiling. 

“I’m your muse?” You softly ask, unable to remove yourself from the spot until you have gotten your words out. Damian dips his head down for a moment and wipes his nose. “You’re nervous,” The small tease makes his eyes roll and he clears his throat, the red settling from his tanned ears. 

“I want you to see this one,” He repeats and grabs your hand, gently guiding you past the people surrounding the room. They look at the two of you, watching as you walk up to a large painting in the center of the room. Clearly a last-minute addition but it seemed to be the focus. 

“Woah,” Is all you can say when you see the painting of you during your final. It’s painted in the same style as your favorite art era. The romantic era where colors were soft, even if they were dark. The painting itself had you in the center, a sea of people at the bottom and there are several ghostly figures of yourself, dancing across the stage leaving streaks of yourself at the top. The floor of the stage was covered in candles. 

“How long did this take you?” You ask, eyes darting between details and finding new ones each time you look. 

“Two days,” He shrugs. Slowly, you look at him and he looks back at you, confused. “I couldn’t sleep until I finished the painting. The way you looked during your final.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “It’s truly beautiful— you’re truly beautiful,” He adds, looking at you. 

“When you paint me like that I definitely am,” You laugh, looking back at the painting. 

“I only painted you through my lens. Perhaps your eyes aren’t as good as you think they are because the paintings truly do not live up to their references. You’re captivating and the way you’ve consumed my thoughts is honestly intoxicating.” His eyes twinkle as you look at each other. You don’t know what to say, honestly. You can stroke your ego a little, you could crack a joke, or you could bear yourself completely to him. But definitely not in a room filled with people. 

“Ah,” Dick breaks the silence. “You know he used to be a junior poet?” Grumbling, Damian looks over at Richard as he’s staring at the painting, sipping sparkling champagne from a flute glass while holding a cracker with cheese and jelly. Gross. Probably, you’ve never had it before. 

“I do believe I asked for a moment alone,” Damian gives a half-snarky grin and Dick shrugs. 

“A whole lotta people here, doubt you’d be alone.” With a sweeping motion, he gestures to the crowd around you. It’s not elbow-to-elbow crowded but you can hear at least seven conversations happening around you. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” He nods, following his brother's line of thinking. “Fresh air?” He asks you and you nod. 

There’s a park in front of the exhibit and it’s mostly empty, save for two kids and their parents but they’re clearly about to leave. Damian heads towards the benches but you pull him to the swings. There are three but one of them is tossed over the bar and you don’t feel like fixing it. 

Sitting with your back to the exhibit, you look over the trees and the playground. The sandpit with someone’s lost doll sitting down, a bucket behind it. 

“What did you think?” He spoke up after a minute had passed. The entire time he watched as you gently rocked back and forth on the swings, tempting yourself to actually swing. 

“You’re amazingly talented,” You hum, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Although, I already knew that. You’re like Michelangelo with everything you pick up.” Glancing at him, you smile when you see his hands. “You still haven’t cleaned the charcoal from your nails.” 

“No,” He blinks, his eyes staying closed for a beat longer than a blink. “Not of my skill level, (Y/n). Of the drawings. That you’re Muse.” He looks down at his fingertips and starts to pick at the bits of charcoal. “That you’re my muse.”

Softly you sigh before looking back to the trees. 

“What is there to think about? You’re my muse, I'm yours.” 

“You’ve written songs about me?” He asks and you sheepishly nod, refusing to look at him. “Which? If you don’t mind me asking,”

“Birds of a feather, I wanna be yours, and Golden hour. There’s more but they’re too embarrassing to admit,” Hearing him take a deep breath, you pick at your fingernails and slowly stop swinging.

“What now?” You ask, finally looking at him. He shrugs and starts to slowly swing. He thinks for a moment before he checks his phone. 

“When are you free? I can make reservations to—“

“Applebees or Red Lobster,” You cut him off and he looks at you, confused. “Applebees is once every so often, birthdays or celebrations. But Red Lobster? That’s graduation or date.” 

“You could’ve gone for a five-star restaurant, you know that, right?” He laughs and you shrug. 

“I heard they’re pretty shit. And I want to fuck up a seafood boil. Oh wait,” Blinking, you try to remember the Red Lobster menu. “Never mind, I don’t think they have vegetarian options. We could do Olive Garden or whatever vegetarian places you like. I’m not picky,” 

“And I am?” He teases and you roll your eyes. “Friday, at five. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Olive Garden. And then to the movies to watch that new horror movie you’ve been wanting to watch.”

“That sounds perfect,” You nod and nudge your swing into his. 

“Can I admit something?” He slowly asks. “Forgive me if I’m being too forward but…” Watching as he licks his lip, you stop swinging. “May I kiss you?” 

“Yes.” You nod. Trying not to seem too eager, the both of you stand up and you watch as he raises his hands to cup your face. His fingers are warm, gliding across your skin as you hook one arm around his waist while the other holds his shoulder. “Do you want to lead?” You whisper as he looks at you, unmoving. His eyes dart down to your lips and he nods before closing the distance. 

His hands drag a little down your face, his pinky curving under your jaw before moving up into your hair. Slowly the kiss breaks and he dips back down for one quick kiss. 

“He’s been waiting months to do that,” Dick announces and Damian groans. You snicker and look behind Damian. Dick isn’t even looking, looking off into the distance before he’s sure that you’re done kissing before looking at the two of you. 

“Must he ruin everything?” He whispers to you before facing his brother. “I understand you have no concept of privacy, but this warrants that.” Dick frowns at the rudeness before he shrugs and points his thumb towards the venue. 

“They’re asking for you, thought I should come and get you before they spot you.” He explains through a sigh. “Would hate for our little demon’s kiss to end up on the front page. But, yeah,” He sighs and looks over at you. He stares at your face for a moment before he chuckles. 

“Take him to the bathroom, you got dust on his face.”

“It’s charcoal.”

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Soo ... How about a hannigram where the reader draws and paints too but never showed her drawings to the boys because she thinks they're not good enough, then one day Will accidentally finds them and I decided to show them to hannibal, how do you think they would react ?

!!!!!❤️!!!!!

———

Will found an errant slip of paper sticking out of one of Hannibal’s sketchbooks. Curious, he carefully pulled it out to examine it.

On it, he found a small collection of pencil sketches that seemed to be copies of Hannibal’s work. The lines were unsure and a little messy, but they weren’t bad at all. In fact, they had a surprising amount of detail.

He gently traced them with his fingers, frowning.

“Hannibal?” He called him over.

Hannibal walked over to his side, shutting the book he’d been perusing. “What is it?”

“These aren’t yours, right?”

“No… they’re not,” Hannibal said thoughtfully, inspecting them more closely.

From your spot on the couch, you glanced over at them curiously. When you realized what they were looking at, you were momentarily frozen with dread. Oh no.

You must have forgotten it last time you’d taken his sketchbook to practice. You leapt out of your seat and hurried over.

“Um, well, actually funny story but… that’s mine, yeah,” you said, reaching for it, your face warm.

Will pulled it just out of reach, not wanting to concede it yet. “You didn’t tell us you liked to draw.”

“It’s because I’m kinda new to it… been practicing whenever I can,” you said. “I didn’t want you to see it until I was better at it.”

“I was wondering why I’d seen graphite on your fingers so much lately,” Hannibal said. “I would’ve enjoyed drawing with you, and I could have taught you a couple of things myself.”

“Well, you kind of did. I’ve been using your sketches as reference all along…” you felt your face heat up even more and you covered it with your hands. “God I’m mortified! I should’ve just asked.”

“Aw, come on, give yourself some credit. These aren’t bad,” Will said. “I really think you’re on the right path.”

“It’s not up to par, though…” you muttered, uncovering your face.

Hannibal waved this off. “Who cares about that? What matters is you’re doing it. And besides, my offer to do it with you still stands.”

“And we both know how good a teacher Hannibal is, don’t we?” Will added, a slightly playful edge to his tone.

You smiled a little, feeling less discouraged. “You’re right about that.”

———-

[stariikis]

colour your smile

synopsis ; when riki picks up a paintbrush, two problems surface. for him, it's fear of being unable to portray you perfectly. for you, you have no idea how to counter this fear of his. this fear that is a constant state of unrest in his mind.

pairing ; artist!nishimura riki x muse!reader genre ; fluff, established rs wc ; 1097 warnings ; kissing and implied mental disorders

It’s pretty difficult for Riki to encapsulate all your beauty into a painting. 

He’s tried, time and time again. Sat you down in his allocated ‘art studio’ room, a tiny part of the house where the grey walls are splotched rainbow. Watercolour palettes lie uncovered all over the room, one sitting just beside your boyfriend on the wooden bench he’s parked himself on. 

In front of him is a blank canvas – tainted only by the strokes of graphite that sketch the outlines of your features. Wispy hair that partially covers your eyes, your button nose quickly drawn into a nub, and your smile accurately depicted, eager and wide. Riki captures the very essence of who you are, with little effort at all. 

It doesn’t look difficult to you, because he makes it look effortless. Like with one snap of his fingers, he can churn out another portrait of you. But it really seems like he does. To Riki, however, it’s not so easy. He tilts and turns his head, muttering dissatisfied remarks to himself. More often than not, he spends more than an hour sketching you and touching up ‘mistakes’. ‘Mistakes’ that you never even saw. ‘Mistakes’ that look like nothing in your eyes, but make all the difference to your perfectionist of a boyfriend. 

“You know what?” You murmur, slightly tired of having to endure another few hours of him scrutinising your portrait. “Why don’t you just try to paint freely? Without thinking about the quality. Keep your focus on me, paint as if you have nothing to hold you back.” 

Riki finally draws his eyes away from the surface of his canvas. He meets your gaze, looking remorseful as he does so. “I wish I could. But then I’d see all the errors and feel guilty. Wouldn’t you?” 

You slide closer to him from the opposite side of the wooden bench. You gently tug the paintbrush from his fingers, placing it beside the watercolour set that looks horrifyingly dry and crackled. “Are you scared?” 

Deep emotions. You take his hands in your own.

You feel them surging deep inside his veins, the whimsical vibrancy of colour flowing along the current. His imagination is running wild but he’s restricting it himself. Out of fear he’s going to mess up. Afraid it’s going to turn out worse than expected. When he looks away, running a hand through his hair and nodding, you’re hardly surprised. 

“Relax.” 

You whisper into the silence. 

“It’s going to be fine.” 

His fingers start to tremble. 

“Your beauty is too complex to be depicted in a simple painting,” he finally speaks, inhaling deeply from his own confession. “Everything looks grey — it looks so plain and so boring, and your smile there – so not you. I have to make this you, I have to do you and your beautiful smile justice.” 

“One hue off the right colour of your hair already scares me to my depths. Everything is so colourless and bare and empty I can’t even tell these strokes apart.” He runs his fingers along the bumps on the wall, forest green fading into baby blue and a harsh strike of vermillion. “I don’t remember how these came about but I remember they’re strokes of frustration.”

“Frustration?” You urge him, patiently. He’s still distracted, rambling and refusing to meet your eyes. But he’s an artist, and you’ve already resigned to putting up with episodes like these for a while now. At the same time, you understand. In your own way, you are an artist too. The only difference between you and Riki is,

you’re bold and daring. You see all the shades the rainbow has to offer. You complete your pieces without a second thought. Of course, they’re never top quality, but they’re satisfactory to yourself. 

Riki is hesitant. He sees in black and white, occasionally shades of grey bleeding into borderline brown. He feels it’s his duty to reflect and duplicate everything about his object perfectly. Like looking into a mirror, it should properly align with reality. It should elicit appropriate emotion. It should reflect all his object’s best qualities. He should be able to make them shine. 

And when he doesn’t, he lashes out. 

“What if?” He scrunches the apron hanging over his thighs. Lost in thought, you wonder whether he’s coming back down to earth or if his head is still in the clouds. Worrying and worrying and worrying. “What if I can’t do it again?” 

“You need to free yourself…” 

Ironically, you know what he needs the most to free himself, is a long, warm embrace that calms his mind. Bring him back down. Teach him to breathe again. You lean back to snatch the paintbrush and palette, holding it in front of him. His gaze clears and begins to transfix onto the materials in your hand. “This is what you came to do. Is it not?” 

He takes it with a shaky hand and blank stare. 

“I think it looks pretty,” you kiss his cheek quickly and slide back into position. “That’s your intention. I know. I look pretty there.” 

Your heart aches for him. Will he ever shake off his overbearing perfectionism and learn to enjoy the talents and skills he’s been blessed with? 

With adoring eyes, he turns back to the canvas and thankfully begins working on it. You hope the profound sparkle in his eye has signalled a change. Everything falls into routine, and you’re stuck breathing in the same scent of must and dried paint for the next few hours. 

Luckily for you, Riki seems to have let the weight evaporate from his shoulders. He can finally take smiley glances your way to compare his portrait and you. He can lean back with a pleased and impressed glimmer in his orbs. Every once in a while, he gives you and kiss and thanks you for staying so still and remaining so patient. 

You know his words carry more intent than he wants to let show. 

“You like it?”

Three hours later, he finally spins the portrait around and lets you have the first look as the muse. Though many portraits of your face have lined his walls since you started dating, you’re pleasantly surprised to feel something different. Though the paintings may all look similar. Same face. Same eyes, nose, ears, cheeks, hair, moles in the same spots. There’s a hint of confidence emanating from the mish-mash of colours. 

And Riki looks satisfied. 

“I can finally see the colours,” he rasps in excitement, cutely clapping his hands together. “I could finally colour your smile.”

i just got diagnosed with chronic migraines (i'm having one rn but it's because i'm not sleeping) so this is pretty self-indulgent. i am riki riki is me. ALSO. riki's aotm i'm shitting tears

more of my works >

[glassrowboat]

🎲 muehehehe get diced >:3 🪐

13. Kiss to the chest.

Anatomy. Welt Yang.

Word Count: 1,500+

Thank you for the ask, Stardust <3 Now we just gotta fan over Welt together

The mattress hit your knees as you stepped backward, the cushions something you barely had the chance to register the comfort of before you were tripping over your own two feet and falling backward. The form on top of you doing little to help. Rather, it was only making it worse as Welt fell on top of you with an over exaggerated oof! Hair askew and glasses nearly falling off his nose from the game of tag you two were playing only minutes before around his room.

Having ducked around the desk, the trashcan full of crumpled up paper, a giant stuffy March gifted him as a thank you for helping her on their last shared Trailblaze mission, and lastly workout equipment.

All over one pencil.

His favorite, or so, Welt claimed. Apparently, it had the perfect grip, so it sat comfortably in his hand. To draw, it proved the best one was familiar with the materials they used. Like how every painter has a favorite medium as either watercolor, gouache, ect, seeped into the bristles of their brush.

Graphite covered the side of his hand, staining it a metallic gray you had grown accustomed to seeing in him when he slipped the gloves off and sat before the sketchbook he kept. One that was nearly falling apart now, bindings getting looser with every time he pried it open to add another drawing to the collection. If not that, to slip pages of your own horrendous attempts at doodling him away for safekeeping.

Despite your protests to simply crumple the paper up and toss it away as the garbage you saw it as, Welt insisted otherwise. Said it was something precious to keep, memories embedded in the scribbles that could barely resemble a human face. Nothing like his art. Not from what you've seen, at least.

You had seen him make circles and lines into something more than what you could see them as. A circle turned into a head, a box into a ribcage, a line, and another line paired together to make tweezers. It was only when that item was added did it click in your mind he was drawing the picture he took of you earlier that day plucking your eyebrows. For some reason.

“I believe this means you owe me my own materials back.”

“Now why would I do that?” You asked, trying to hold out your arm even further so Welt couldn't slip it out of your hold. To pluck it from your hand like one would a loose string on a shirt. Or, as is the case with the two of you, his scarf. Though, it's not like your effort could do much against the man who could, quite literally, make the item float out of your hand and back into his own.

Surely that had to be classified as cheating.

“Are you going back on your word from before, honey? I distinctly recall you saying you could wait for me to finish what I was working on.”

Yet here you are, still trying to play keep away.

“Yeah, but then I got bored.”

A sigh. One that brushed against your skin from how close he was. Like this, you could even make out the sparkle in his eyes. Or it could just be a speck of lint on his lenses. One of the two. “I suppose that's fair.”

“Exactly. So….” You trailed off. Honestly, you weren't expecting to get this far, so it wasn't a surprise you found your own words to be suddenly falling flat. “Well, if you are so intent on focusing on art, why don't you teach me something?”

There, interactive. An olive branch offered to his outstretched hand, grasping something you can do together.

“Teach you?” Welt repeated, mulling over the words as they rolled over his tongue. “I can work with that.”

The pencil was pulled from your hand before you could even whine in protest as he pulled away. Leaving you to place it on his sketchbook only to return shortly after. Mattress creaking once again as hands, now free to do as they pleased, slid along your cheek. Thumb right under your eye.

“You're a hands-on student, aren't you? If I remember correctly…”

“I am.”

Welt muttered an “excellent” as his thumb brushed through your lashes. Your eye squeezed shut on instinct, but this didn't seem to deter him at all. “Then we can start with our first lesson now.”

“That being, professor?” You didn't miss his eyebrows burrowing ever so slightly at the nickname, but still you smiled up at him like nothing was wrong.

“Basic shapes. We can start through profiles as an example.” His touch moved to the eyebags you had been sporting that morning, running along the colored hue of the skin that gave away your bad sleeping habits. Again. “The head is not perfectly rounded, but the shape that resembles the dome of the skull the best is still a circle. Eyes are round under the lid, also best drawn using a circle first.”

“I'm getting some real creepy imagery here, teach.”

“I can understand that. It might have been easier to pull up images instead to give you something to see. To lead by example.”

“But?” You asked, head tilting ever so slightly as you watched Welt silently mouth words.

“But first, let me ask you something. When I ask you to pick something round, specifically on the human body, what do you think of first?”

Well, your first thought was balls, but you were going to keep that one under a tight lid. Maybe even in a trash can. Though that does risk the chance of Stelle rummaging through and finding your secrets.

Second? Well, that was easy.

“The callous on your finger.”

Accrued from hours, days, years even of leaning over pen and paper and letting the images in his mind come to life. Something that's not perfectly round, but it always caught your attention nonetheless. Your own fingers ran over the bump anytime you hold hands.

“I think of a ring.” Before you could question him on that, Welt slid his thumb over your lips. It was second nature to press a kiss to it, just like it was second nature for him to smile at the gesture. “Or that earring you always lose and I have to find for you.”

“No need to call me out like that.”

“Ah, I apologize.” The look in Welt's eyes was enough to tell you that even if he was sorry, he still knew he had a point.

“Yeah, yeah, what else? I can't learn to draw from circles alone, professor.”

“This 'professor’ is beginning to think the student is in a rush. Now that's no good way to get A’s in my,” He took a moment to look around the room again, taking in the place you two shared and made your own on the express, “class.”

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry.”

“Your tone tells me otherwise.”

You bit your lip, trying to stop the smirk that was hoping to overcome you.

“As for more lessons, there are topics we can focus on.”

As he spoke, Welt's hand slid down your neck, tracing the hollow where the skin met your collarbone. Your shirt shifted ever so slightly out of the way, brushing against your skin the same way he was as his lips fell to meet yours.

“Anatomy, for example.”

“Now that's a big step from shapes.”

A giant leap, actually. You couldn't even draw a perfect circle, but here he is suggesting something that you've seen even him struggle with. Reference photos had been pulled up countless times as he drew. It was that, or, you'd find Welt standing before the mirror to see how his body shifts in this new pose. He's even asked you to indulge him once or twice and move along with how he places you, pen in his mouth as he chews on it to help him think. Or so he claims.

“No need to worry, we can start small. Besides, did you not just say you can't learn to draw from circles alone?”

Ahh, your own words. What a great way to turn them around and shove them back in your mouth. Something to choke on for fun.

“And what is this something small, professor?”

Fingers toyed with your shirt, unbuttoning it as Welt looked up at you, making sure this was okay. Just like he always did. With your nod, he continued, undoing the top three until the tank top you were underneath was peaking out.

“It's simple. Simple enough that I can show you.” Welt said. His lips met your chest, heart thrumming under him, beating wildly in an attempt to escape and give him what has already been his since the moment you first saw his smile at a stupid dad joke. Of all things.

“But something tells me this will be easier to do without these clothes in the way. Do you mind, honey?”

And of course you didn't mind at all.

[thiniceofeternalyouth]

MISLEADIN' ME SERIES: CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

"I CARRY YOUR HEART IN MINE"

⊳ Gojo Satoru x f!reader

series masterlist

Genre: angst, fluff, sci-fi, cosmology, smut.

Words count: ~13.3k

tw1: jujutsu kaisen 0 mild spoilers

tw2: unprotected sex, creampie

⊲ previous

There was no questioning of your conscience, no rage pressed upon you - you sat in the black office chair, still dressed in your hospital pajamas, and stared blankly at the desk. You didn't know or feel whether an hour had passed or twenty-four hours - you mourned in the dark office, the windows of which were always covered with dark gray curtains.

The dead, unlike the living, don't repay debts - you couldn't understand what you were paying for. Yes, you were a thief. Yes, you were a killer. But there were creatures on Earth who were far worse than you, and they got away with it - otherwise, if punishment came to them, it took the face of death. They didn't suffer long, they had no time to grieve, nor did their souls boil in attempts to make things right.

You were confused. You came to the deity half asleep, guilt-ridden, hundreds of thoughts and memories swirling in your head, knocking you off balance, unable to distinguish reality from dream. Slowly, you put your elbows on the table and almost knocked over the clear glass, and held your head, hiding your inhuman face from the faces that flashed before your eyes. Were they payment for your stubbornness, or were they taken away because you had allowed yourself to be happy for a moment? A haunting thought was killing you with its grief - it could have been a necessary course of events, and you should have retreated, leaving your loved ones behind, without changing anything.

If you only knew the moment it all went wrong, the day your sister was taken from you, maybe things would have been a lot easier. The slightest mistake, and your only chance to get rid of the demons could slip away. You couldn't just jump around in time because of the guilt and loneliness that fell on your shoulders - that's what common sense told you, but you couldn't recognize its voice.

In the corridor there was the distinctive sharp sound of heels on parquet, which grew louder and louder. As soon as they stopped right in front of the door, someone turned the key and, pulling the doorknob, entered the office.

"Y/N, long time no see," Laitta greeted you cheerfully, turning on the light in the room - you couldn't even hear the surprise in her voice, and you got a sense of deja vu.

She didn't pay attention to your appearance or your condition - Laitta walked smoothly to the table, and you stood up to make room for her. You turned cautiously and locked gazes with each other as the goddess sat down, and you exhaled, stepping around the table to stand across from her.

She flipped back her dark curls, sighed contentedly, pushed her laptop to her side, and opened one of the folders on the table, pouring whiskey from a crystal decanter into a clear glass. The goddess didn't care about you - you were a ghost to her.

"Give them back to me," you commanded, clawing your hands into the table, trying to draw attention to yourself. Your tone was strikingly different - just a little while ago you'd been begging Rei for it, but now you were spitting out orders.

"Give you who?" the goddess asked idly, staring at the laptop and sipping whiskey from a glass. The quiet clinking of fingernails against glass was enough to make you snap.

"My family!" you yelled, sweeping everything off the table, Laitta's eyebrows raised in confusion and she glared at you squeamishly. Her graphite table began to be covered in the darkness that your dark lines carried with them, spreading beyond your body.

"Why would I?" she asked mockingly - she wanted to chop your hands off her desk so they'd stop making it dirty. "You have nothing to give in return," she reminded smugly, leaning forward.

The creature gave an order - you obeyed. You grabbed Laitta by the neck and slammed her against the wall, the impact so strong that the shelves collapsed to the floor with their contents. Open books, broken statuettes, plants, and scattered earth sprawled around you as you pressed the goddess's neck into the wall with your forearm, tears of rage streamed from your dark eyes.

You groped Laitta - your hope was fading more and more with each empty pocket as the goddess laughed hoarsely. "Talking to you taught me a useful lesson," she chuckled huskily, clinging to your forearm with her hands. "Keep anything of value away," the woman hissed, jerking away, but your grip was firm - you only pressed her harder into the wall. Your grin and the dagger edge pressed against her throat amused the goddess more. "So what are you going to do?" she asked with contrived pity in her voice. "Kill me?"

The goddess didn't seem it, but she was on the verge of passing out - she couldn't breathe. The mirth and irony had been replaced by coldness and arrogance. "Are you seriously threatening death to someone who has lived for more than a thousand years?" she wheezed indifferently, sensing your desperation - instead of trying to offer the goddess other jewels, to find a compromise, you were immediately ready to tear her to pieces. That was your mistake, and she should have put you in your place. "The only reason I helped you that time was because you had Atlas," she said proudly, despite her position - your grip was weakening with every word she said. "You can kill me for all I care," Laitta said calmly. "No one will notice the extra few drops on your already bloody arms."

You whimpered and staggered backward in horror and denial - not a mockery, but a reminder. It seemed that your fear had come to life, and you should have stopped being afraid - you had fallen down where there were no ladders or ropes, and you had become someone who not only lived off human blood, but also enjoyed human suffering. You could not justify yourself even before the reflection in the mirror - it didn't expect explanations and reasons from you, it was blind to your suffering and attempts to return everything back to normal. It still wanted to live at any cost, but you had nothing to pay for it.    

Not to return, not to fix, but to hold on to the last opportunity for which you came into this world to be who you were. No one will pull you out of the abyss, no one will pull you deeper into it – just the balance and eternal peace you have learned since you were a child. Fill deaths with meaning, justify your deeds before the silent human wrath, and, if you were lucky, see them all again - if that side existed, maybe you would meet again.

You stood before the goddess who had lived a long time and looked at all the sins of humans, and you wanted to ask her if she had ever seen anyone worse. Laitta didn't judge you, didn't blame you, but she didn't want to help you either; resigned to the fact that you couldn't bring anyone back, you turned and walked out of her office on weak legs.  

[October 23, 2023, 04:39pm; USA, State of Alaska, Utqiagvik]

At the edge of the world, a white mist rose slowly the town over, spreading between the small houses that stood on stilts. Red spears pierced the chill haze as the sun retreated, illuminating the snow-covered roofs one last time. The few people wandered leisurely through the streets, wrapping themselves in jackets and exhaling clouds of steam. 

The North, as always, was serene and calm. Beyond the Arctic Circle, the cold dispelled people's fears about the future, there was no room for worries among the snow and ice, the gusty wind didn't drive home, on the contrary - it made get up and look around, freeze in place, feel the searing tide that flowed coldly through lungs with every breath. The feeling of frozen earth underfoot, blue colors in the sky, and a measured beating heart under the supervision of the harsh polar region mercilessly smothered any anxiety, and every tear froze in the eyes, never rolling down the cheek.

You could no longer see the shore because of the fog, but you could feel that the boat was taking you farther and farther away from it in pursuit of the white whale. You huddled as tightly as you could against the bridge, fidgeting with your orange lifejacket as you were tossed by the waves. Motorboats whizzed by, men's excited exclamations were heard, and you squinted every now and then - you should have stayed home today and not gone along with Jordan. The man standing on the bow was trying to see the escaped whale in the dark waters - white small ice floes in the distance, brazenly impersonating its tail, gave false hope.

You grabbed the side of the boat as it shook again, and looked at Jordan, who wasn't going to turn around at all, just clutching the harpoon tighter in his hand. "Jordan, the storm's coming, we have to go back!" you yelled, trying to shout over the roar of the engine and the wind.

"Quiet!" the man hissed, waving you away. He adjusted his black hat and stepped forward easily, still searching with his eyes for a hunted victim. You realized you were taking someone's place. To be more precise, you were standing where his son should have been standing - that was never an excuse for his gratuitous rudeness, but deep down you understood the man. It's hard to seal emotions inside forever - everyone coped as best they could. He chose to be rude.

Jordan wasn't a bad man - when you'd come to this town and wandered the streets as a homeless girl, he'd been the first to notice you. He'd brought you into his house, fed you, warmed you, and then, when you came to your senses, he'd let you live in his son's house for a nominal rent. Jordan had no sense of tact - he bombarded you with questions, and you had to make up a story about the tyrant father from whom you'd fled. You consoled yourself that it was partly true - you kept thinking of Rei as you told the fictional story.

The faces of those you had left behind flashed before your eyes, most vividly Gojo's face when he found out you had run away again. You couldn't see him, but your mind drew out his painful features, and in a voice that wasn't yours asked why you'd done it. You lost all sleep again, and at night, when the town was asleep and it hurt the most, you'd show up at Jordan's house - you'd always be greeted by a sleepy, disgruntled, unshaven face, but he never sent you away. You drank whiskey, played cards and did it mostly for money - when you realized that the man had a passion for gambling and a complete lack of gambling skills, you had to give in, lest he lose his small fortune and the house. But there's a silver lining - you did win yourself a few months of free accommodation.

Today was your second whale hunt - Jordan unceremoniously showed up at your house, tossed you a lifejacket, and dragged you to the dock. You tried to get through to him, talking about the forecast, but as you approached the shore, you saw people as desperate as he was - hunters crowding in, talking excitedly and getting into boats, and now you were here, in the middle of a restless ocean in a thick white fog.

Everything went smoothly on the first hunt, except for Jordan's perpetual nagging. It was the moment you realized why his son had fled to the big land, to the university - most people wouldn't want to witness a poor animal being harpooned and dragged ashore by its tail while dead blood washed over the blue waves. Even your body organized a protest at that moment, pushing nausea down your throat, but you were only laughed at - whale hunting was a tradition in these lands, a tribute to the past.

You almost flew overboard when an ice floe brought in by a swift wave crashed into your boat. The boats that were circling near you began to turn around - there was a whistling sound in the air, and that's when Jordan came out of his prostration. "Hey!" yelled the man from the other boat. "We have to turn around or we won't find shore!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Jordan spat, and turned unwillingly to throw the harpoon, heading for the bridge. "There's a reason they say a woman on a ship brings misfortune," he muttered as he passed you.

"Ya the one who brought me here!" you exclaimed, stepping onto the bridge with him. It wasn't any warmer, but the wind was no longer whipping at your face.

"Missed the white whale," he continued to lament, turning the boat toward the shore. You saw other boats whizzing past you, and they weren't even floating - they were riding the waves. Soon faint glow showed on the horizon - lights in the windows of houses called you home.

The hum of the engine died down, and the angry voices grew louder. When your boat was moored to the shore, Jordan hastily threw off his lifejacket on the deck, and then, adjusting his hat and taking off his gloves, he jumped to the ground. You followed the man, hesitating a moment.

As you stepped ashore, your head snapped up, and you looked around anxiously, feeling the stare, but there was no one you knew, only disgruntled men who were ready to blame anyone and everyone for the disruption of the hunt, even though it was the fault of the coming storm. As they stomped, shaking off the mud and sticky snow, you took a slow step back, trying to get away as fast as you could to avoid the swearing, but Jordan, sensing your cowardice, grabbed you by the shoulder. "Hey," he huffed, patting you on the shoulder. "Get us a beer while we get the boats secured on the ropes. There's got to be some use of you."

"No wonder why your son ran away from ya," you muttered, holding out your hand - you weren't going to pay for them all with your money.

"No wonder why your daddy tyrannized you," he muttered back, but put the money in your palm. "Hurry up. The storm won't wait, and we all have to go home," he said, shoving you toward the store, which wasn't far away, and even its friendly streetlight was hard to see.

The blustery wind made the snow rise and wander clumsily across the road - you tried to look at your feet, but you were surprised to realize you could barely see your shoes. Your eyelashes and eyebrows were frosting, and you threw your fur hood over your head, hugged yourself, trying to keep warm, and quickened your pace. The road seemed longer through the snow flakes than it had in the sunlight, and the light of the store was still far away.

It was getting darker. It seemed to you that behind the creak of your footsteps you heard another one - constantly frantically turning around, you couldn't see anyone in the northern darkness, and the storm, impudent, disturbed and raised the snow, drawing white silhouettes. Out of breath, you ran - climbing the stairs and bursting into the store to the tinkling of door bells, you met the surprised stare of the seller, who had been half asleep only a second ago. "Howdy," you smiled, waving your hand, and the salesman nodded confusedly.

No one came in even after five minutes of wandering between the counters. With a sigh of relief, you stopped at the liquor shelf. You should have hurried to avoid the righteous wrath of a bone-chilling Jordan, but once you were alone again, you were at the mercy of the memories that immobilized you. You'd never tell Jordan that he was the reason you hadn't fallen into inhuman despair, that his every shout and rude remark had kept you moving and thinking less about what had happened.

It's true that you couldn't bring back the dead, but you left the living behind too. You didn't talk to Dany, you didn't see Megumi, you didn't ask Issu how he was feeling or if his brother was okay, you just ran away. Your gaze mindlessly wandered over labels you couldn't read - you'd already forgotten exactly what you'd been sent here for. No matter how much you thought it was for their safety, you couldn't justify yourself - there was always a selfish purpose behind the noble one. Your possible death sounded like a quick song - until then you wanted to live like a normal person, shielding yourself from loss and sorrow. A dull life filled with peace on a far corner of the Earth - an unattainable treasure you couldn't steal, and even holding it in your hands, you knew that eventually it would be taken away by force.

In the north, the creature was silent, though hungry - you wrinkled your nose at the thought of having to go out sooner or later. There was a hospital in this town, but it was so small that there was no storage for a blood bank, which meant you'd have to get sustenance elsewhere. Gritting your teeth, you grabbed the first bottle you could find and went to the checkout counter. "Here," you said, showing the beer to the seller. "Need a six-pack. Got one?"

The salesman nodded and disappeared behind the warehouse door. You spotted a white cat with a bobbing head near the cash register, leaned your elbows on the counter, and jabbed your finger at it; it nodded merrily, hypnotizing you. You must be out of your mind to see Gojo in that cat. You shook your head and straightened up, as a salesman came out of the warehouse and placed a beer in front of you. 

The store said goodbye to you with a clink of bells, and the storm greeted you with a gust of wind and snow in your face, tearing off your fur hood. With an annoyed sigh, you pulled the hood back on. As you looked ahead, stepping onto the stairs, you froze - the northern nature had brought with it a guest that looked so much like it. You refused to recognize the white, disheveled hair in the snowy patterns, but there was nowhere to hide from the piercing blue eyes that looked at you with longing and hope. 

His voice didn't speak to you at night, nor did he appear in your dreams, nor did he beg you to return in any of your thoughts. You ran away cowardly, looking for a better life for Gojo - unless you were there, there was a monster who always cried out with terrible hunger. You dared not think of the sorcerer, for every bitter impulse to dream of his embrace was overshadowed, chased away by the memories of what he had endured while holding your hand. And as you saw him in front of you, you were trapped by the repressed emotions rushing out - you hadn't realized how much you'd missed him.

You underestimated Gojo. You couldn't believe that he would follow you, and all his students' words about him being the strongest had fallen apart - how could such a man look so miserable when he had won? You wanted to fall at his feet, to beg for forgiveness, but you kept silent, not moving - if you hadn't been born like that, you could have stayed with him, fearing nothing, but in this life your happiness had a countdown that was coming to an end. If it wasn't a demon that was going to kill you, your madness will do it then. 

The bag of alcohol fell out of your hands and rolled down the stairs and landed tiredly at Gojo's feet, and you took a step back in disbelief, shaking your head frantically, and jumped over the railing and rushed away.  

For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, even if death do you part - Gojo never made vows to you, but he was ready to fulfill them, but you didn't realize it even when he came to the far north for you. He felt your fears as his own - in every word you said, every clumsy decision you made, you wanted to keep him safe, to protect him, to spare him pain, but there was no pain greater than being alone, without you at his side.

The sorcerer was chasing you, barely able to make out your silhouette in the blizzard, barely able to see what was right in front of him. There was only one outcome to the chase - once he found you, he wasn't going to let you go, and you couldn't get away from him by hiding in the snow. Gojo ran so fast that even his anger couldn't catch up with him - it was left behind, left to the cold wind. In his imagination your reunion looked different - amidst the apologies and promises he could hear the ringing laughter, but the dreams were shattered by the blizzard and he continued to pursue you relentlessly. You were as small in comparison to him as you were nimble - the faster he chased you, the more the cold burned his lungs. 

Gojo caught up with you at the corner - you were trying to escape by ducking into a small alley between the houses. He didn't realize it, so he grabbed the first thing he could reach. Miscalculating his strength, he yanked at your hood, and you fell awkwardly into the snow. "Where are you going?" he whined, trying to get you to answer where you were going and why you were running away, but you crawled helplessly away from him, disturbing the soft snow beneath you. You could barely make out Gojo's voice through the whistling of the storm. "I asked where are you going?" he echoed painfully, and you, with your back against the pile of the house, could run no farther. He collapsed exhaustedly in front of you and raked you into his arms, despite the fact that you tried with all your might to shove him away. "No," he shook his head stubbornly, sobbing and hiding his face in your hood, his ragged breath turned into wet droplets on your neck. "I'll never let you go," the sorcerer gibbered in a broken whisper, pressing his lips to your cheek - his strong hands were freezing, but his fragile soul was burning. Your body went limp, and you lost all ability to resist. "Never, did you hear me?" you nodded weakly, pressing your nose against his wet cheek. 

You led Gojo by the hand into your house, and he followed obediently. When you got to the front door, you were embarrassed for a moment for you couldn't remember the last time you'd cleaned the porch - all around the house was covered with snowdrifts, and there was only the thin path you'd made before. As you came up the stairs, you fumbled in your pocket for your keys - you pulled them out and with trembling hands got them into the keyhole. You were afraid to look back at Gojo, so you glanced over your shoulder, smiling awkwardly before you saw him. 

You frowned wistfully, opening the door and inviting him in. It was cold and almost deserted, there was no entertainment, and after a week the familiar faces were starting to get annoying. You, taking off your jacket, threw it on a shabby, old chair at the entrance. The sorcerer, looking around and not noticing the hooks, looked confused and repeated after you. "Ya cold?" you quietly interrupted the silence. He didn't answer out loud, but slowly shook his head. "I'll... um, I'll make something for us to eat then, and you... look around for a while," you mumbled haltingly, realizing that there wasn't much to look around - the little house up north wasn't a mansion.  

You went into the kitchen, and Gojo remained standing in the living room. He shuffled from foot to foot, staring at the couch and the TV in front of him, unable to distinguish lie from truth and truth from dream. How many nights did you spend here while he was desperately searching for you? The sorcerer took a step forward and opened the left door where your clothes hung - behind it was a cramped bedroom. Glancing at the bed, he immediately realized that you hadn't slept on it once. He walked over to it, and after a moment's hesitation, sat down - the old, laundered sheets were too cold under his hands. Still not believing what was happening, he sighed convulsively, wiping his burning face with his hands. All this time he had dreamed of being as close to you as possible, but when he found you, the sorcerer couldn't stand to be near you - he thought you were about to turn him away. You had settled here, most likely living a quiet, peaceful life, and Gojo was a bitter reminder of what had happened. In his pursuit of you, he was thinking of himself, as he always did.  

Gojo flinched when you knocked on the jamb of the open door. "I just wanted to warn ya that dinner won't be hearty," you scratched the back of your head and lowered your gaze to the floor. "I wasn't expecting guests, and I didn't buy any groceries, so I hope... you'll be fine with pasta and marinara," he looked at you like you were a ghost, and your soul turned inside out at his silence. "It's almost ready," you said in a half whisper.

With a nod, the sorcerer stood up and walked past you - you leaned back weakly against the doorjamb, watching him walk away without a word.  

Gojo pulled plates from the shelf - some of them had broken, chipped edges, and he had to choose carefully. He set the dishes on the table and sat down without even inviting you in. Your zeal was fading by the second - you couldn't get him to talk. The only thing you could hear in the silence was the clinking of forks against plates. "Ya know," your voice cracked with excitement, and his heart skipped a beat, but you didn't hear it. "When we were messing around, Frank sometimes set the table, and we ate in absolute silence," you said, messing with pasta around your plate with your fork. "So say something already," you pleaded.

"Messing around? Is that what you call it?" snapped Gojo, throwing his fork at his plate - you shut your eyes involuntarily at the sound. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, startled by your reaction - the last thing he wanted right now was for you to run away again. "I don't... No, I understand why you ran away," he hissed, holding back his emotions leaning against the table, hid his face in his hands. "You think you're dangerous. I just don't understand how you could leave... everything like that," between everything, endless and boundless, the word 'me' modestly slipped in, which he didn't dare to utter. "You really never once felt like calling me?" whimpered Gojo. "Or message. Did you even think of me?"  

Fear clenched its clinging hands around your neck - you had a hard time talking about everything you felt. Gojo was beautiful in every way, except that he sometimes forgot it. You tugged at the damp sleeves of your sweater, naively hoping he'd forget his question or pretend he hadn't asked it, but your silence only pressed harder on him.

You both jumped as you heard a loud pop - the lights in the house went out instantly. Gojo moved closer to you, peering into the darkness of the hallway, and you realized what was wrong. You walked over to the window, covering the glass with your hands and peering through the storm, and noticed that there were no lights on in the neighboring windows either, though it wasn't too late for sleep. "I think the power plant's having trouble again... It happens a lot around here," you muttered apologetically.  

Your breath caught when Gojo came up behind you and put his arm around your waist - not so much from surprise as from the fact that all his clothes were damp and cold. "Oh my God!" you exclaimed, turning around. You cupped his icy cheeks, but it was as if he was bewitched and didn't feel the cold. The sorcerer, feeling you again, covered his eyes and gently rubbed his cheek against your palm, kissing it. "Get in the shower!" you worried. "I'm not gonna sit by your bedside for a week while ya sick with a fever!"

"I don't think so," he grinned playfully, covering your palm with his.

You pinched his side hard, shocked at the insolence of it - at his outraged yelp you broke free, and, panting with anger, you went into the bedroom and stopped by the dresser in front of the bed - a little rummaging through the drawers and you found candles. The locals were always prepared for such conditions. "Here," you muttered grudgingly, tossing the sorcerer a couple candles. "Go take a shower, I'll set up the rest." 

Gojo took a moment to kiss you on the forehead and quickly disappeared behind the bathroom door, taking all your irritation and anger with him. You dazedly put your hand to your forehead - not only the place of the kiss was burning, but also your whole face.

You walked around the house with the sound of running water in the bathroom, setting up candles and lighting them as the flames dimly illuminated the rooms. When the last candle was lit and there was nothing left in your hands, you didn't know what to do with yourself. You had left Gojo unanswered to the question that troubled and worried him - he was chasing you, looking for you, and you couldn't even get a word out of yourself. Disappointed in yourself, you walked over to the bed and got down on it, arms out to the sides - even though you were a coward, you were embarrassed to thank the universe that Gojo was braver than you thought he was. Thoughts that he wasn't supposed to be near you drifted away with the muffled sound of water, and your heart stopped for a moment when it did. When you heard the lock click, you jumped up and sat up - you swallowed involuntarily as he came out of the bathroom. Wearing only a towel that hugged his hips. "Wha...," you began, stammering. "Get dressed!"  

"Into what?" parried Gojo, raising an eyebrow. "Your robe fit me right here," he pointed to his waist level, and your cheeks flared. "Or do you want me to put on those wet clothes again and get sick after all?" he asked, pursing his lip pitifully.

"My turn!" you exclaimed, flying past him and closing the bathroom door with a loud slam. Gojo laughed softly but heartily - you hadn't realized how much courage it took for him to show himself in that state to you like that, or the embarrassment behind it.      

The sorcerer looked around the room, which was lit by flickering lights, and dropped his gaze awkwardly to the floor, smiling sadly. He should have done it, but you beat him to it again. He looked around the room again with a sober gaze. It was empty, uncomfortable - no framed photos stood there; no clothes strewn about. Even when he looked in the dresser, he frowned, realizing it was empty, as if you were ready to flee this town at any moment. 

Gojo was still angry, but he could never blame it on you - he blamed fate itself for keeping you away from him, for making you think that you were unworthy, that you were cruel and bloodthirsty and would hurt him sooner or later. Did you remember that you came to him in your unconscious state, silently asking for help and seeking protection? The sorcerer grinned, biting his lip - he didn't know if he'd made it up himself or if he'd read it in the memories of your face, but in the end, lying on that bed without the black orchid running through your veins and without the tourniquets that bound your limbs, you never attacked him.

Gojo looked at himself in the small mirror on the wall above the dresser, embarrassed; he no longer saw the strongest sorcerer. He was still him, but the face that appeared before Gojo was no longer smug and cocky, and the only thing missing was you standing next to him. When he caught a glimpse of you, he decided it was now or never. And never, taking its infinite nature with it, retreated. 

The sorcerer glanced timidly at the bathroom door as the sound of water behind it subsided. Slowly walking up to it, he knocked. "Mochi?" he asked. "You done?"

"Yes," you replied muffled.

"May I come in?"

"Why?" he almost laughed, hearing the childish disbelief in your voice.

"I need to brush my teeth."

"Well...," you drawled uncertainly, pursing your lips. "Come on in."

When the sorcerer came in, you stood, tucking your white robe as tightly as you could without looking at him, but the awkward and hurried movement of your hands screamed embarrassment. Pretending he wasn't interested, he walked around you and stood in front of the sink - you, chuckling, repeated after him. The only sounds in the bathroom were the water running from the faucet and the rustle of brushes. You weren't used to someone else standing next to you in the bathroom. Gojo was not used to having someone else standing next to him in general.

But you've learned.

You looked at Gojo through the mirror, and you frowned when he looked back at you, but in person - putting the brush in the glass, you snorted and walked out, trying to brazenly leave him alone with his damn towel on his hips, but the sorcerer, throwing his brush right into the sink, followed you. You squeaked quietly as you were picked up in his arms and placed on the dresser - you shook your head fearfully from side to side like you were afraid you were being watched, but really you were afraid to look directly at Gojo, at his face that was inches from yours. "I can't take it anymore," he confessed in a trembling whisper against your cheek - you shuddered invisibly at his hot breath. "I'm giving up," he exhaled soundlessly. "I lo-"

"No!" you shrieked, clamping your hand over his mouth - Gojo whimpered into your palm, his eyes squeezing shut as the unspoken words throbbed painfully in his chest. "Ya can't," you shook your head desperately, tears were welling up in your eyes. 

"Who are you so afraid of?" he asked morbidly, cupping your cheeks, trying to reassure you. Gojo knew you too well, and the fear you were feeling was not for your life at all. "Judges? I don't give a fuck about them," the sorcerer grinned bitterly. No one would drag him away, no one would take him away from you - he could pick out hundreds of words, but in this vulnerable moment, Gojo could only stroke your hair with trembling fingers.

Your wishes and your peace of mind were the undeniable priority, and so be it - his words went unspoken, but the greed inside Gojo grew more and more fiery. If he couldn't tell you that, then he'll show you. "I know what I want for my birthday present," the sorcerer said quietly but firmly, stroking your thighs.  

"What?" you asked confusedly, fixing your wet hair with your hands. "But your birthday is in December-"

"I want it now," Gojo resisted hesitantly, but squeezed your hips more stubbornly. "I won't ask for much," he promised, resting his head helplessly on your shoulder - you turned slightly and buried your cheek in his snow-white hair. When he felt that you weren't pushing him away, the sorcerer stirred and rested his forehead against yours. "Take off your mask," he asked. You, frowning, lowered your gaze. "Take it off, please," he pleaded, touching your temple with his lips - you suddenly remembered how he had asked you to take it off long ago - that request had been impertinent, insolent, and now he stood before you, waiting obediently for you to take it off. Gojo had seen you in all your forms, and you thought it would be all right for him to see the last of you.  

You wrapped your hands around his tentatively and brought them up to your face - you could feel his warm fingers shaking, and you could barely look him in the eye, but you forced yourself to feel what you had forbidden yourself to even think about before. You pressed his fingers lightly against your chin line, and he bit his lip, breathing feverishly, trying to calm his heart - Gojo realized what he had to do. He led his fingers downward, painfully slowly, along your cheekbones, and you, unable to find the courage, closed your eyes and tears ran down your cheeks. "Shh," he whispered softly, cupping your cheeks - you could almost feel how soft his lips were. "There you are," the sorcerer laughed wetly, stroking your cheeks and kissing every inch of your face. 

Gojo pulled away from you a little - the agony was tearing his patience to shreds. He ran his fingers along your chin, your nose, your lips - how could you keep it from him for so long? Your conscience had to get back at you for the sorcerer, for all the days and years he'd lived without seeing your beautiful face fully. 

Gojo moved closer and stopped right next to your lips. He breathed raggedly against them, feeling your closeness. How many nights he'd spent with you, how many days he'd been with you - all of them combined wouldn't be enough to describe a second of what he was feeling now.  

You clutched at his shoulders and froze - you knew what would follow, but you had no idea how the sorcerer would treat you afterward. You had no experience, no loving hands to caress you, no warmth to give you, and you were alone with the fear of the unknown. 

Gojo felt almost cruel - unasked, without permission, he kissed your lips, pulling you to him by the waist, trying to convey all the tenderness he'd been saving up since almost the first day you met, but his movements were curbed by fever. He couldn't resist anymore, he didn't have the strength to live without you. 

Closing his eyes as if in pain, Gojo felt uncertain. You were responding to his kiss, albeit clumsily, but whether you were doing it of your own free will or being overwhelmed by his assertiveness, he couldn't answer. His lips, trying to keep up with his feelings, barely moved, and the sorcerer panted. His hands were restless – he stroked your hair, then your soft neck, and those scars that he constantly touched reminded him how you were treated – only then did he feel how hard you were grasping into his chest.

Gojo suddenly pulled away from you and looked at you anxiously, his hands gently cupping your face. Your flaming skin felt icy, your body chilled, and you weren't looking at him - your black, frozen eyes were staring through. 

Startled, the sorcerer recoiled a little, but he was still clutching at you. "Baby," he whispered, kissing your temple. "I'm sorry. I didn't...," he mewled, biting his lip painfully. He looked at himself in the mirror that was right behind you and saw himself as an animal, no different from the ones who tortured you when you were weak. With barely suppressed anger, he pulled you against him, burying his nose into the top of your head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to be... like this."

Gojo flinched when your fingers touched his stomach - you drew circles on his skin in soft motions. "It's okay," you murmured into his shoulder. "It's just... Can ya slow down... just a little?"

Gojo looked at you worriedly, surprised. "I...," he began, perplexed - he saw no disappointment in you. "Sure," he laughed softly, and shyness chained him - in the rush, in the greedy passionate kiss it couldn't catch up with him, but now, as he kissed you desperately but tenderly, he realized that the dream had come true. You were here with him, real and alive, responding to his kiss, stroking his cheeks, digging your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to you. Gojo could endure anything as long as you were by his side. A thrill ran through him, unsparing his heated soul, and he grasped at you shamelessly, his hands digging into your thighs then and stroking them as if apologizing for his impatience.  

You involuntarily pressed yourself against Gojo, seeking protection - past humiliations, oppressions and torments had tried to catch up with your tenderness, to make you doubt, to push Gojo away and close in on yourself as you had always done, but this time it was different - in the light of the blazing fire your shadows cast gentle movements. Feeling how you fondled, how you pressed into him, he whimpered softly against your lips and, cradling your head, tipped you over a little and covered you with his body from the whole world, wanting to kill the bitterness of memories on your lips. The rush could have ruined everything, but Gojo, unable to resist, wrapped his arms around your waist, the privacy begged to continue. Shrouded in security, you wrapped your legs around his hips, and cowardice left your shores - you chased it away from your night with him.

You touched his towel – Gojo, frowning, pressed his hips deeper into your thighs and, whimpering, grabbed your hand and placed it back to his shoulder. Perplexed, you tried to pull away from him, but the sorcerer, whining resentfully, tried to press his lips to yours again, to feel your warm, tender tongue against his, but you stubbornly recoiled, forcing him to answer your mute question. "I'm a little shy...," Gojo muttered under his breath, embarrassed, and you laughed quietly. He scooped you up into his arms - you squeaked in surprise and clung to the sorcerer, and now it was his turn to laugh, despite the weakness he didn't show you - his legs shook long before he carried you to the bed.   

Gojo sat you down on the edge, and he, exhaling, slowly knelt down on the floor in front of you - you awkwardly tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, hiding from his blue eyes, remembering and realizing where things were going. He didn't tear your clothes, he didn't rush you, he didn't threaten you - he was subdued before you, but love wasn't something you two could subdue. Gojo wetly kissed your neck, gently nibbled at your collarbones, and when he faced reality, he clenched his teeth and pulled back. He could shamefully admit that he'd imagined it more than once, but finding himself here now, with you, he was afraid to go any farther. "What's wrong?" you asked worriedly, taking the sorcerer by the chin and forcing him to look at you.

"I'm afraid of scaring you off," he admitted honestly on an exhale, stroking your knee. "I've only just found you, and already I'm doing everything I can to get you to run away again," Gojo swallowed and looked down, and dishonor choked his neck – he was weak before the urge. "Are you sure you want to do this?" 

"No," at your answer, his heart dropped and he was ready to swallow his own desire despite its sheer size. "I don't want that. I want you," you admitted shyly. "I...," you laughed, trying to hide the brokenness in your voice. "Yeah, I'm a little scared, but it's okay if it's ya."  

For another long moment, Gojo stared at you devotedly, and then you felt his warm hands on your neck again - pulling you to him, he deepened your fragile kiss with a gentle flick of his tongue. "Can I take it off?" he dared to ask, rubbing the waistband of the robe - crumpled by your passion, it hid almost nothing, but the sorcerer wasn't going to make any more mistakes. You, closing your eyes, nodded. Covering your forehead with light, almost ethereal kisses, he slowly untied the waistband - the fabric of the old robe slid down your shoulders along with his hands. You tried to wrap your arms around yourself, to hide the scars that the sorcerer hasn't seen yet, to shield him from this picture. Gojo wasn't going to push you anymore - instead of objecting, he nuzzled against your cheek. "Hold me," he pleaded, knowing you couldn't refuse him, and you gave in and wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders.    

The walls of the windowless room no longer pressed against you, you didn't feel the dozens of clammy touches, you only wished the Gojo's hands were touching you more - they not only didn't bring any pain, they took the old one with them. He would never kneel down like that in front of anyone, he would never show obedience to anyone but you - you breathed into each other's mouths as he gently, tentatively cupped your exposed breasts, not daring to go any farther - you wrapped your palms around his and squeezed it a little harder with his hands. "My baby," Gojo moaned against your lips, and you felt unbearably hot - despite your open eyes, you couldn't see anything in front of you, but the blazing spots on your skin told you where he was kissing you. You arched your back, whimpering softly as you felt his wet tongue on your breasts - Gojo stifled your doubts, listening to your every moan, pulling you tighter against him. He licked and sucked your nipples - he was maddened by your flushed, hot skin, the way your touch silently begged him for more, unwilling to let go. It wasn't a desire - that disappeared once it was done, but it wasn't an obsession - not to keep you in a cage, not to pull your leash, but to tear it off and follow you everywhere.

Feeling brave, you pulled Gojo to you, your initiative got him confused, and Gojo whimpered into your mouth as you kissed him, responding eagerly to your urging. With his thumbs he continued to stroke your nipples, wet with his saliva, in circular motions, and you, losing your balance and your mind, caressed against him, rubbing your cheek against his in brief pauses. "I'll never hurt you," he whispered into your neck, and you frowned, trying to hide the confusion - wasn't that a necessary part of the process? But his words, unlike the memories, felt more real - you wanted to hear them more and more. 

Still sitting in front of you, between your legs, Gojo took hold of your undies and looked at you cautiously - you nodded, biting your lip. He kissed your forehead again and slowly, as if deliberately, began to pull down your underwear. You involuntarily squeezed your legs and looked away, unable to look because of the shame. You sighed in surprise, curling your toes as you felt his lips on your ankles - Gojo was moving higher and higher, kissing your shins and cold knees, and you clenched your teeth and tried to relax, and his promise, dousing you with a soft wave, helped you do it - you closed your eyes and slowly spread your legs apart, making Gojo whimper with anticipation.  

You could no longer feel the scars on your thighs - his gentle, unhurried bites burned on them. You could hear the crackling of the candles in the room, your ragged breathing and the way Gojo stroked your skin. The kiss on your lower abdomen was timid but unexpected - you twitched, and he lavished your worries with a kiss of calm and adoration as he rubbed his nose against your thigh. You weren't angelic to him, but you came to him from heaven - his most beautiful creature that Gojo had once mistaken for a monster, and he was ready to pay for it for the rest of his life. 

Gojo wanted to revel in every moment, for he couldn't hold back any longer - you felt his fervent breath between your legs, and you moved in impatience, touching his hair. A shy frenzy swept over him, and he responded to your silent request by slowly running his tongue over your clit - you tried to pull away, unaware of yourself because of the unfamiliar sensations, but Gojo whimpered pathetically and pulled you to him obsessively, drowning, eager to take all your vulnerability he felt on his tongue. 

Your moans were getting wilder, louder. You tried to muffle them against your hand, biting it painfully - he stubbornly but gently grabbed your palm and put it back in his hair, not letting you take away the melody of your pleasure, the notes he'd been searching for so long. He almost wanted to laugh triumphantly, you had nowhere to run - the sorcerer pressed you closer to his face with his forearms, his palms soothingly stroking your convulsively heaving belly. Gojo kept changing his pace, giving you no time to think, taking all your thoughts from you as he gently, slowly ran his tongue, wet with his saliva and your juices, over your clit, then sucked it greedily, and the sorcerer was dizzy from the closeness - he could only moan helplessly into your pussy as you clutched desperately at his shoulders.   

Your legs began to burn, not from the pain, but from his touch - never a fraction of the pleasure you'd felt before, and your eyes widened in fear and your legs trembled as you grabbed the sheets and tried to pull away from the sorcerer again. "Don't you dare," Gojo whimpered between kisses and flicks. The towel, tired of hugging his hips, slowly slid off, falling to the floor. His hard cock throbbed painfully and he felt like his lower abdomen was about to burst, but Gojo didn't dare touch himself - he knew that if he did, it would be over before it had even begun. But he wasn't chasing his orgasm - his pleasure without yours meant nothing to him, though passion had curbed the sorcerer, but it wasn't lust that drove him, and in all his ardent, timid, jagged and sometimes clumsy movements, he tried to convey to you, the blind one, what you meant to him. He wouldn't run away in the morning, he wouldn't avert his eyes after - he would give you pleasure at night, making you laugh and protecting you during the day. "I don't- I think- I-" you stammered, almost out of breath and squirming, and he pressed your trembling legs harder against his face. 

"Do it for me," Gojo moaned with you, and you stiffened, arching your back - the orgasm drowned out all cries of consciousness that you were supposed to be in pain, and you collapsed onto the bed, freed by loving hands. You panted in affectionate but insistent oblivion, still stroking Gojo's hair as he kissed your wet, glistening thighs. With a satisfied, self-conscious smile, he climbed higher, deliberately loudly and quickly smacking your belly - you giggled stupidly, hiding your face in your hand. "Nom," Gojo bit your cheek softly, and you laughed, though both of you had tears in your eyes. "How are you feeling?" the sorcerer asked, gazing at you intently and stroking your hair - you snuggled into him, kissing his neck.   

"I didn't even know it could be like this," you admitted with an embarrassed laugh, but contrary to that, you didn't hear Gojo laughing - you looked at him worriedly and saw an anxious, wistful look. Your careless compliment reminded him of your agony. "Hey...," you began, but he playfully grabbed you, flopped you onto the pillows and plopped down beside you. "We...," you began perplexed, overcoming the awkwardness. "Um... We're not... gonna... continue?" you asked almost resentfully. Gojo had opened a new world to you, but you didn't realize that he had led you by the hand into his own where you were the only one who belonged. 

Gojo raised himself on his elbow and leaned over you, rubbing his nose against yours and lightly touching your lips with his, stroking your belly. "Baby," he whispered, holding on to his vow - he promised to keep you safe. "Is that really what you want?" he couldn't restrain himself - he sought reassurance from you by any means necessary. You frowned and nodded stubbornly, making him chuckle sheepishly. "Then listen to me carefully," Gojo ordered sternly, squeezing your stomach slightly. "If you get scared, hurt, or you just don't feel like it, you have to tell me, okay? At any moment," you absent-mindedly bit your lip and wrinkled your nose, but he took your chin with his fingers and ordered you to answer with one look. "Promise me."

"I promise," you exhaled penitently, mesmerized by the restless blue eyes.

Gojo, already missed your kisses, covered your lips with his again - he nibbled gently, searching for any spot that brought you pleasure, that made you moan into his mouth, driving him crazy. Hovering over you, covering you from the world with his body, he kissed you briefly on the forehead and tilted his head slightly to look down - he almost burned his throat with his own breath when he saw your spread legs. With light touches of his fingers he stroked your lower abdomen, preparing you, but as he looked into your eyes, the sorcerer saw no fear or apprehension in them, only the infinite trust that you entrusted to him. "I'm gonna try to put one finger in, okay?" 

"Okay," you sounded flustered, but pressed yourself harder against him, kissing his shoulder. After stroking your wet clit and getting an impatient moan from you, Gojo began to slowly put a finger into you - you shut your eyes and he stopped, seeing your jaw tense. "It's okay," you assured him, and Gojo, hesitating, continued - you were so warm inside, so tight and wet, that he, bashfully hiding his red face in your neck, began to pant.

He increased his pace, gently stroking the soft walls, trying to find the spot, and he nearly came when he heard your feverish whimpering. "Right there?" he asked excitedly, catching your moans with his lips. "Am I making you feel good?"

"Yes," you panted, grabbing his forearm, not to stop him, but to warn him not to stop. Hearing the long-awaited affirmation that flew from your lips, Gojo couldn't resist - he sank into your lips frantically, tasting your pleasure, and it was the sweetest he'd ever tasted in his life. Gojo pressed relentlessly against the spot, making you squirm, shaking you free of the last shackles of protection you'd built up over the years - your eyes darkening again with recklessness.

When you felt a second finger, you immediately grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "Baby, what's wrong?" he asked anxiously, almost panickedly, examining you from head to toe. "Does it hurt?" 

"No, no, not at all," you shook your head nervously, and lifted up and began kissing his neck - Gojo gave in without a fight or objection, his head tilted back and his mouth open in pleasure. "I wanna feel ya inside me," you whispered in his ear, taking away what little sanity and self-control he had left. Whimpering painfully, he bit your lip and began to caress your tongue with his - you squeaked as he lifted you up sharply and pulled you against him. Something rustled beneath your ear, but you didn't dare open your eyes as he laid you back on the bed, and you felt something soft under your lower back - groping the pillow beneath it, you eyed him suspiciously. 

"Why?" laughed Gojo, kissing your face. "We're not young anymore, I need to watch your back. In every sense," he chuckled, tickling your sides - you squirmed, trying not to laugh, and you both exhaled. "Are you ready?" he asked suddenly, laying on top of you, and you felt his hot, hard cock pressed against your thigh.  

"Ready," you smiled, kissing his chin. Gojo put his hand under your head and cupped the back of it, rubbing the tip of his cock against your swollen clit - you let out a ragged breath as he began to enter you slowly. You closed your eyes shut, feeling the stinging sensation that was ready to burn you from the inside out - you realized your mistake as soon as Gojo stopped. Your eyes fluttered open to meet his worried blue eyes with tears in them, and you shook your head frantically, pulling him closer to you, begging him not to stop - he'd promised you wouldn't get hurt, and you believed him. 

"Shh," Gojo whispered into your forehead, and he was ready to curse all the nonexistent gods for not bestowing him with the ability to take away other person's pain. "It's okay, baby," he soothed you as you sobbed into his shoulder. "Look at me," he pleaded, stroking your hair - you obediently pulled away. "It's okay. It's me. It's just me. It's your Toru, see?" under the vast blue skies that lurked in his eyes, your pain melted and stewed. You cried out quietly as he put his cock all the way in, sinking your teeth into his shoulder. "Let's stay like this for now," the sorcerer said, giving you time to adjust, stretching you from the inside. He listened to your every breath - at first your breathing was intermittent, wet, but the more he stroked your hips, the more frantically he covered your face and neck with soft kisses, the calmer it became.

"Ya can start moving," Gojo didn't hear the order in your voice, but your wish was his command. He began to penetrate into you slowly, watching you, protecting your pleasure. Your grip on his shoulders grew stronger and you whined and nestled against him, but you didn't even have the strength to kiss him - you moaned against each other's lips, and you leaned back on the pillows, lost, but he didn't want to let you go - he covered you with himself, kissing you uncontrollably, though you could barely respond. Your hips were touching, and he thrust into you gently, but deeply, so that you could feel everything he felt - the arousal was on the surface, and he wanted to reach your depths with his own. 

"Toru," you whimpered, afraid of the nature of these feelings, afraid that you were experiencing lust instead of pain, and that it could be taken from you.

You clung to his back, to his show-white disheveled hair, and Gojo grabbed at you, pulling you by his waist, stroked your head, squeezed your breasts gently, pulling away from your lips only to press his lips brazenly into your neck and collarbones. "More," he moaned pathetically. "Say my name more," and you obeyed without orders, repeating his name like a mantra while Gojo went mad - the candles crackled mysteriously, protecting you, and the unfamiliar town, flinging blue smoke, painted your tenderness on the walls with a storm.

Unspeakable words lurked in your intertwined bodies, filled with each other - his life didn't depend on that embrace, but Gojo felt he would die if he let you go, and he clung with all his might to your vulnerability. His name on your lips was like the confession you were so afraid to utter, afraid for his life - the sorcerer was almost incoherent, oblivious to the world he lived in, for you were all that existed to him.  

Gojo sucked in air through his teeth as you began to clench around him - he whined and reluctantly stopped, realizing he was on the edge. You, in exhaustion, didn't even realize it before he started stroking your clit with his thumb in feverish, gentle circles - you trembled, and he sobbed as he saw the dark lines begin to form all over your body. "Do you really feel that much for me?" whispered Gojo in your ear, whimpering. 

"Yes," you replied tearfully to his question that had tormented his soul for several years - and if the sorcerer had once been convinced that he would spend his life here beside you, cherishing you, now he knew that he would follow you to your lands as well when your time came. "I feel it, Toru, I feel it," you cried, letting go of your essence, and it no longer dared to hurt you in his loving arms.  

"My love," your neck was wet with his tears. "You're so beautiful," Gojo whispered, kissing feverishly the patterns the other world had drawn on you. He called your name with desperate, intermittent moans, feeling how close you were - the sorcerer began to penetrate you again, his thrust grew faster and messier, and as you pressed your legs around his hips, unwilling to let him go, he began to shake with you. "Cum with me," he whimpered. "Cum with me, please," Gojo begged, trying to catch your lips with his - he pulled you against him with such force that your ribs nearly crunched, and you both stiffened in the mute scream that froze between you. You danced sensuously with Gojo on the thin edge and fell over the it with him - he pulled you with him on purpose, to a place where no one would ever find you. His whole body shuddered, and he couldn't hold back his tears - Gojo sobbed shamelessly, silently against your neck, confessing his vulnerability while the storm outside the window sang northern songs to you both.  

Returning from the heaven first, you stroked Gojo's trembling back, guarding his defencelessness as he left wet sloppy kisses on your neck. Your bodies were so close that you mistook the frantic pounding of the sorcerer's heartbeat for your own - it spread across your skin in desperate beats, making you snuggle against Gojo harder and feel more. "When did ya become a crybaby?" you asked softly, kissing his temple. 

"I don't know," he exhaled convulsively, sniffing his nose. Gojo lifted himself up, brushing his nose against the tip of yours. "It's just that you're so beautiful," he said, covering your lips with gentle kisses.   

"Mm-mm," you drawled playfully, giggling. "You said that a few minutes ago, when-" you shrieked as he started tickling you - an attempt to hide embarrassment lurked behind the sweet, little revenge. Returning to you, a wave of realization came over the sorcerer. He finally did it. You finally did it. You allowed him to get as close as you'd never allowed anyone else - thinking about it, he sniffed his nose again and burrowed into your neck. "I don't wanna ruin the moment, but can ya...," you started, and Gojo instantly lifted his head, blushing shyly - you were still involuntarily clenched around him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he apologized frantically, slowly pulled his cock out - you cringed a little, for the sensitivity reminded you of itself with an unpleasant burning. "Sorry," he repeated more quietly, kissing your forehead. "How are you?" he asked suddenly restless, nuzzling your cheek. "Everything okay? Doesn't hurt anywhere?"

Your quiet, sincere laughter awakened your shared happiness. "I feel wonderful."

"Really?" Gojo chirped softly but happily, kissing your face shamelessly and laughing with you. "Then lie here for a second," the sorcerer said, standing up - you glanced at him, but when you saw his naked ass, you looked away at the shabby wallpaper with interest. You frowned, sitting up and cradling your knees against your chest as you heard him fidgeting about, digging and rattling dishes in the kitchen, turning on the water in the bathroom, and in the intervals of silence you heard him humming to himself. "Here I am!" he exclaimed, coming back. "Miss me already?" Gojo cooed, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to you. As he handed you glasses of water, you realized how thirsty you were.

"Ya brought... water?" you asked perplexed, dumbfounded. 

"And a towel and clean panties," he announced cheekily, twirling your underwear on his finger. You looked away in confusion, sipping from your glass, but he moved closer to you and kissed the tip of your nose. "I just wanna take care of you," Gojo whispered, dispelling your doubts - even though no one had ever done this for you before, he was glad to be the first. "Here you go," he boasted proudly as you finished your water and set the glass aside. "Now...," he mumbled embarrassedly, rubbing the back of his head. "Can you spread your legs?" 

You widened your eyes in surprise, feeling your cheeks burn - it didn't feel so sharp in the embrace of arousal. But you trusted Gojo, and with shame, but without question, you slowly spread your legs apart, hiding your face in your hands. He didn't laugh at you, didn't mock you, but slowly and gently wiped your wet thighs with a damp, warm towel. You hissed involuntarily as he tried to wipe your pussy clean of your shared mess - your clit was still too sensitive. "I know, baby. Just be patient for a little while," he whispered, encouraging you. When he finished cleaning you, Gojo put your underwear on you as carefully as he had taken it off you.   

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he plopped you down on the bed, unceremoniously lay on top of you, and hid you under the covers. "That was... an interesting experience," you chuckled nervously, still in shock.

"Get used to it," Gojo murmured contentedly, making himself comfortable and resting his head on your bare chest, but despite his sleepy state, he remained awake. He was drawn to the spot between your collarbones, kissing it with excessive care, stroking it with his fingers, glancing furtively at you and pressing his lips together in resentment that you didn't understand his hints.

"Do ya want to see it?" you pity him, laughing when the sorcerer gave an overly dramatic sigh.

"I do!" replied Gojo quickly, almost desperately, cocking his head and looking at you expectantly. 

The patterns that adorned your skin came to life - they crawled smoothly across your collarbones, reaching for each other, trying to join. When they came together right in the middle, Gojo gave a quiet, amazed gasp, revealing a small, black spot right between your collarbones. "Ya can kill me right now," you whispered, closing your eyes. "I won't be happier." 

Despite your words, you weren't expecting a blade between your collarbones, but the kiss on your heart was far more deadly - it killed your doubts forever. "You will," Gojo objected stubbornly, rubbing the tip of his nose gently against the black spot. "And even then, I won't let anyone touch you."

It was caressing Gojo, rising to meet him with its little black tongues. Gojo pulled back a little, and slowly brought his finger to it, stroking it gently, as if the slightest touch could hurt you, but you breathed measuredly, calmly, lulled by the protection. The patterns wrapped around his skin, begging to stay, and the sorcerer could almost hear their desperate cry when he pulled his finger too far away - to where they could no longer reach him. "Mochi...," he began uncertainly, glaring spellbound as he connected with you. "Back then, at the first meeting, you said I killed him first. How did you know?" 

"Because I saw it," you answered half honestly. You saw him frown his eyebrows. "Your director and Nathaniel kinda happened to be acquaintances, and Yaga asked for a little backup... Nathaniel told us, so we agreed. For money, of course," you clarified, chuckling awkwardly. "Besides, the director seemed like a man who could keep a secret. So he didn't tell anyone about us, after all."

"What an old geezer-"

You, laughing, pinched Gojo's shoulder softly. "But we didn't even do anything then - you were doing pretty well on your own. We just watched the show. But a deal's a deal, and as soon as it was over, I went back to Tokyo College for the money, and I ran into... you."

"So it was you...," he exhaled, seeing the light and finding himself back in the day where he had stood staring into the darkness after killing his best friend, searching for the enemy.

"Yeah," you said faintly. "It was me." 

Gojo couldn't have predicted and laid out the cards of fate - neither of you knew what would have happened if you had shown up then, or if he had been the least bit more considerate. Maybe you would have become sworn enemies, or maybe you'd just lost a whole year - he didn't lament the lost time. All that mattered to him now was that you were together, in a small northern town, lying on a bed, drowning in each other. You were more vulnerable than ever in front of Gojo - as soon as he looked at the black spot, he covered it with his palm, and the black patterns, seeking the same caress, crawled between his fingers, wrapped around his hand. Let those who in bitter resentment or in sticky fear once called you heartless burn with wild fire - henceforth, protecting and defending, caring and cherishing, he will forever carry your heart in his.

[December 24, 2017, 08:34pm; Tokyo, Tokyo Prefecture, Tokyo College]

You strolled leisurely along the towering stone fence, the long wall of one of Tokyo College's temples stretched out on the other side - you stayed as close to it as you could, trying to get away from the purple clouds that littered the evening blue sky under the overhanging roof. You looked around absent-mindedly, trying to find a clue that would lead you to Principal Yaga's office - you'd only been there once, and now you couldn't find your way out of the maze. Driven not by a noble goal, but by money, you continued to walk slowly but stubbornly, searching.

The dry, thin branches of the trees that had been lurking behind the stone fence began to peek out - you cringed as they imprinted themselves as shadows of bony hands on the college wall, trying to reach you. The wind made them rustle - when an unintelligible and mysterious whisper crept up the back of your neck, you thought about insisting on full payment in advance.

Tired after an exhausting day, you found solace in the usual child's play - you spotted a pebble in the road and started kicking it forward. When you could see a turn on the horizon, you left your mute companion and accelerated your steps.

"...trust?" you stopped just before the turn, hearing unfamiliar voices. You should have asked for help, for directions, but your policy was simple: don't show your face to anyone. As it turned out, you were already known to those who shouldn't know, and even though Nathaniel vouched for Principal Yaga as an old acquaintance, the other strangers from the jujutsu world weren't to be trusted.

You looked back - you'd already come a long way, exploring the area, and you had no desire to turn back. You leaned your shoulder against the wall, crossing your arms lazily over your chest, and waited for the strangers to talk.

"...your doing, too?" the second man's voice sounded less surprised than indignant. You could barely make out what they were talking about, but your innate curiosity played its part, and you involuntarily began to listen to the quiet conversation. 

"It was," the first one laughed muffledly in response. You, sensing the tension, frowned - never after the raids had you had similar conversations, much less a similar atmosphere.

The more they spoke, the more you had to strain your hearing - the words grew more serious, colder and quieter. "...any last words?" you stared open-mouthed at the stone wall. Your heart was pounding as if this question was addressed to you. If you took a step forward, you could see the strangers, could catch a glimpse of the end of their story, but you were afraid to even take a breath.

"...I hate those monkeys," you squeezed your eyes shut as hard as you could, for the hoarse voice was fading before it reached you, but no matter how many words flew past you, you still couldn't think of them through the prism of sworn enemies. There was no swearing, no breaking of bones, no collapsing of surroundings, all of which reminded you of your quarrels with your sister.  "...a heartfelt smile while living in this world."

"Suguru," you stunned when you heard the name - the first time it had come out of Director Yagi's mouth as he was filling you in. Dead silence wrapped around the dry branches, and they stopped rustling. There was only a brief whisper that you couldn't distinguish.

Hot blood rang in your ears, and you missed the last words. The wind picked up the fallen leaves, and they flew away, thudding against the stone walls. There was a sharp, sloppy sound, and that conversation was silenced forever. The man didn't torture his interlocutor, didn't mock him, only gave him a quick and, most likely, painless death as if it weren't a punishment, but a deliverance.

As an unwilling witness, you shifted your fingers awkwardly over your intertwined hands like you were on the field of vigilante justice - the revelations had never been meant for you, but you couldn't just cut them out of your memory. Biting your lip awkwardly, you stepped forward.

They sat across from each other, their backs against the wall - two mutilated men. One of them was limp, covered in blood, his dead face was hidden behind stained black hair and he seemed to have no arm, while the other, hiding his face in his palm, shuddered. Your heart was pierced with sympathy - even the kindest man wouldn't so grieve for an enemy. You were immediately ashamed of your behavior - the other man's sorrow made you retreat a step, and you were dazed when a dry branch crunched beneath you. There was no time to think.

"Shading."

The man was instantly in the place where the sound came from, right in front of you. And you caught your breath. Lies and pretense aside, you admitted it to yourself at once: he was beautiful. You stood mesmerized and breathless, watching him - his blue eyes, still full of sadness, scrutinized the walls of his home, and in the light of the sunset his feelings flashed in wet streaks on his pale cheeks. Everything but him blurred before your eyes - you lowered your hands and watched helplessly as he squatted down and took a broken branch and twirled it between his fingers. Frightened, you took a step back as carefully as you could, but you were still afraid to move, but it wasn't the exposure that you were afraid of. You were suddenly afraid that you would never see him again.

When he pulled himself up and stared at the road that had brought you there, you reached out involuntarily, imagining you were standing right in front of him. Your gaze focused on the way you were fixing the unruly white strands that fell over his eyes, but you frowned disappointedly, almost resentfully, sensing the distance between you. But even if you were destined to stay in different worlds, you couldn't deny yourself the small inner request to look at him one last time.

"Relocate."

***

Standing on the middle tier of the sloping roof with pointed edges, you didn't notice the devastation around you. You didn't see the broken concrete walls and cracks on them, irrevocably destroyed temples, the trees piled on top of each other and the splinters that scattered all over the Tokyo College grounds. You gazed desperately into the pink clouds, but all you could see behind them were twinkling stars, and for the first time you were disgusted by the sight of them. You turned your gaze again to the people below, far away from you, and they were all looking upward as one, their faces shining with hope and something elusive to you. You clenched and unclenched your fists with injustice, seeing how they were all mesmerized by the sight that was invisible to you.

You'd never wanted to be near a stranger, much less one who didn't know you existed, but here you were, trying to see what made the white-haired man smile so brightly, and you couldn't help but be angry with bewilderment as his body still shuddered in pain before your eyes. "Adoptee," Rachel called to you, climbing onto the roof, panting. "Did ya get the money?"

You didn't respond. You didn't care about the reward anymore, it had lost its value. The only thing that mattered to you now was the emotion this man could evoke. "Adoptee," Rachel muttered discontentedly, and walked over and shook you by the shoulder. "Uh-oh," she drawled warily, glancing at your profile - your eyes were completely black. "Come on, let's get out of here before you scare everyone away."

"Rach," you asked with hope in your voice, looking up again. "Do ya see anything?"

"The only thing I'd like to see right now is money," she snorted indignantly, tugging at your collar. "But apparently not today."

While your sister persisted in trying to get you out of there, you wanted to be in his world and see everything through his eyes. You felt like you'd been looking at the man forever, but even that wasn't enough - you needed the revelation that lay in his smile. You were unworthy to let the mystery open its veil and let you in, but you wanted to feel what he felt, and you didn't even realize how close you were to it, for the new emotions were so hot and fervent that they burned your gut for a moment, but even they couldn't answer your question - what was it that made him so happy that was hidden from your eyes?

That invisible blinding light made you want to cry, and you shifted your sparkling gaze from the sky to him one last time.

The answer was simple. The answer was one.

It clicked inside. And if you had been human, if you had held back that impulse, that feeling would have been yours forever, but by sharing a body with a creature that had no place in this small world, you'd exposed your one desire and let others feel it, trapping yourself.

next ⊳

[cosmos-coma]

Hi i was wondering if you can do a Bucky fluffy angst (modern/college au if possible) where basically him and reader are friends through steve and both have a crush on each other but don't do anything about it considering bucky is sort of a playboy and thinks reader is way out of his league and reader is sort of shy and quiet and thinks bucky is way out of here league but get together in the end

College Crushes

A/N: WOW, I'm so sorry, This has been in my inbox for like 2 months and I just didn't realize???? sorry!! So I tried to write this one out as quick as I could!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 3011

Warnings: Little editing, Awkward goobers

Bucky Masterlist

Buy me a Coffee?

_________

“Y/n, did you hear what I said at all?” Your blond friend asked a small snort of laughter hidden in his voice. 

“Hmm,” you hummed, in something akin to agreement as you lifted your mug to take a sip. 

Steve smiled, but gave you a knowing look, even if you were too distracted to receive it. He knew your painting was due at the end of this week, hence why you had been spending so much time in the studio after class hours, getting lost in the smell of acrylic and the smallest brushstrokes.

“I said: ‘You know you’re drinking paint water, right…?’” He said, barely holding back his snicker.

“Uh huh…” You mumbled, “Yeah, I totally hear what you're saying….” you continued, taking a large sip from your mug, to which your face immediately soured, and quickly spit out the paint-clouded water back into your mug. “Oh, gross! Steve!!” you complained and wiped the dribble from your face, almost undoubtedly replacing it with yet another smear of paint.

Steve was fully laughing now, shaking his head at your accidental antics, “I tried to warn you…” 

You punched his shoulder lightly, delving into your own laughter as you reached for your actual drinking mug now, “Don't laugh at me…. Punk.” you grinned and took a much-needed sip from your new mug. Steve always had a good way of putting your shyness at ease. 

He only grinned and brushed off your ‘devastating assault’, “I really do think you’re just about done… I know you still think you have a lot left, but I’d hate to see you overwork something like this.” Steve nudges you, and he would know. The two of you met not long into your freshman year, the both of you being art majors and all. While Steve tended to focus on graphite and charcoal as his medium, you had your heart covered in paint splatters from the very start. Whether oil or acrylics you found your home smoothing them across a canvas even if they didn’t always end up how you liked. 

You were thankful to have Steve, not only for his friendship which brought you out of your shell,  but also for his artistic eye; Because of your difference in mediums, Steve was always one of the first to be able to tell you if you were beginning to lose your themes by doing too much and vice versa. 

You sighed and leaned back from your painting, looking over the piece as a whole instead of its individual parts, “You’re probably right…” You scratched some of the old paint off your hand and tilted your head to the side as you continued thoughtfully, “and I can always add to it after it's graded…. Okay, you’re right… You’re right!” you held up your hands in surrender as you started packing your things away. You knew a break was for the best, and your rumbling stomach firmly agreed. 

Steve snorted and stood up with his things, “Come on, let’s get lunch before our classes start. I’m buying.”

“Well, I’ll never say no to that,” you grinned and headed out as you finished packing up the last of your things.  

You smiled as you two walked down the busy sidewalk and out of campus toward your favorite lunch spot. You finally spoke up, “Sooo, What’s the catch here?”

“No catch,” Steve smiled at you simply, “I’m just trying to be a friend worth their salt, you know?”

Steve was always a great friend, but today he was being awfully nice… maybe even too nice? As you glanced over you could see the smallest glint in the corner of his eyes. “I dunno…. “ you drawled out as you bumped him, “buying me lunch at my favorite spot when it's already so far out of our way..? Seems suspicious to me,” you observed casually with a quick shrug. 

For a moment his perfect smile faltered and his far-too-honest and good-hearted nature got the best of him, “So… I know you’re not really a party person…”

“Steve…” You groaned.

He held his hands up, “But hear me out! It won't be too loud, and there’ll be plenty of people there…. Chances are you won't have to talk to anyone if you don't really want to, but I thought it would be a nice way to get out on a Saturday night…” Steve tried to argue. 

Pursing your lips you gave him a long look, searching him for something else, “Why do you really want me to go, Steve?” 

The blond man sighed as if he really thought he might’ve had you that time, “Bucky is gonna be there….”

You shook your head so quickly you thought you’d get whiplash, “Nope. No. I’m not doing it. Sorry Steve, I can’t. I think I would actually rather drink the paint water again.”

Bucky had been, hm- how do you put this lightly? From your very first meeting, Bucky had consumed your thoughts and shaken your heart. Steve had introduced the two of you a while back now, wanting the two of his closest friends to finally get to know each other. But once you two finally met you just clammed up. You didn't even mean to! But you saw those unbelievably blue eyes and you heard his full-bodied laugh and you haven’t caught your breath since. But of course, you weren't the only one who felt this way, and you'd be silly to think so. Everyone wanted a piece of Bucky, whether for just a night, a week, or something longer and you knew you had nothing on your competition. You were far too quiet, you always had paint somewhere on your face, and you were anything but a party person. You preferred to spend your evening in with whatever takeout you could afford that week- and maybe a small game night if you were feeling especially social. But You were leagues away from what Bucky deserved, let alone from the people he’d picked and chosen from before. Yet Steve still seemed relentless in his will to bring you two together since you’d confided your feelings in him. 

He sighed and plucked out his wallet to pay for your food, “Y/n, please? I know you’re a little nervous when it comes to Buck, but there’ll be plenty of other people around to buffer and It's been a long time since we’ve all been together…” he said, looking over at you.

God, you shouldn’t have looked at those big blue golden retriever eyes…. And following a moment of hesitation, you nodded, “I… I guess I can- yeah, okay, I’ll go… just for 20 minutes,” you finally caved with a sigh, thinking only, “What am I getting myself into?”

—----

Taking a deep breath you stared at the house before you. The party wasn’t crazy or overflowing yet, but there was still a handful of people outside already trying to get a break from the noise and crowd. 

“Just 20 minutes?” Steve asked beside you, his well-meaning smile giving you an iota of comfort.

You nodded, giving him a small reassuring smile and a thumbs up. You smoothed out your sweater beneath your hands, it was your favorite one- comfortable, didn't have any smudges on it, and you thought the color looked rather nice on you. It was just 20 minutes. You could go in and awkwardly talk about something for 20 minutes, right? And if not- Well, there’s always punch.

With a short breath of confidence, you headed through the doors. A small sea of people spread out about as far as you could see, with little gaps here and there for people to sneak through or join in the already existing conversations. You bobbed your head gently along with the music, searching the crowds as you made your way through the dimly lit rooms.

It was an achingly slow start to 20 minutes, most of your time being spent sipping punch while Steve talked to anybody and everybody as if he was personally running for mayor. So you stood quietly, nodding and smiling when people laughed and making expressions that seemed to match the conversation as you looked around for anyone you knew. The whole buzz of endless conversation seemed to get monotonous and verge on overwhelming as you listened in, until a particular laugh rang out, one that was hearty and familiar and made your heart rattle in its wake. 

You turned to confirm your suspicions and lo and behold there he was. Across the room, through the sea of people, you could see Bucky standing there like a lighthouse promising safe harbor.   His blue eyes squinted with laughter as he flashed the whitest smile and made some retort you hate that you couldn’t hear. Just the sight of him made your whole body heat up pleasantly, your lips splitting into a wide smile as your eyes just refused to leave him. 

It was only when he happened to glance over that you realized you were still staring, but he didn’t seem bothered. No, he simply grinned and raised his hand above the crowd to get your attention, urging you to stay where you were while he made his way over. 

Only his path got intercepted. 

A bright, bubbly girl maneuvered up beside him with no problem from the crowd, her arms wrapping around his bicep as she pulled him in possessively close. If that didn’t make your stomach turn enough, the kiss she planted right on his cheek surely did. 

You couldn’t even think enough hide the way your face fell, your whole posture deflating beneath you as your stomach dropped to the floor. “Hey, Steve…?” your voice squeaked out, your throat closed like a vice as you couldn’t pull your eyes away. “I’m gonna walk home, okay? I’ll see you later, I just- I need to go…” You managed to get out, not waiting around to hear out whatever argument he had to urge you to stay. 

“Y/n? Y/n, wait-” The blond urged as he looked around, immediately spotting Bucky and the unfamiliar girl he was trying to shake off, “Wait- It’s dark out, don’t walk alone!” Steve called back to you, but his only answer was the click of the closing door over the murmurs of the crowd. He went to say his briefest goodbyes and run after you when he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. “Buck?” 

“I’ll go after her,” Bucky assured him, his face worried and serious as you ran off into the night by yourself, “You stay here, I’ll walk her home.” he finished before quickly making his own way out the front door and down the dark street. 

----

You huffed an angry sigh and shoved your hands deep into your all-too-shallow pockets. “Why am I even upset?” you thought to yourself with a biting tone, “you’re the one who's out of his league! You’ve said so yourself! Shouldn’t you just be happy he has someone that will be better for him…?”

“I hate parties…” you mumbled as you passed beneath the streetlight, pulling your foot back to kick the small rock resting on the sidewalk. “Aaaand of course I missed…. ” you think bitterly as your foot whiffs right past the rock, not even a bit of movement to prove your effort. 

“Hey…” A low familiar voice sounded out behind you, its owner coming closer as they jogged up to your side “What did that rock ever do to you?” Bucky grinned at you, half joking as he fell into step beside you. 

“Bucky…?” you breathed, your mood already lightening at the mere presence of it, but you quickly tamped it down, “Oh, right well… The rock…uh, tried to mug me” you half-heartedly joked, “ Really put me between a rock and a hard place, if you know what I mean. But don't worry, I beat it off.” You said with an awkward laugh, internally kicking yourself for such a bad joke and with a pun to top it off at that. 

But Bucky still snorted a laugh, his thumb jabbing back in the rock's direction as you both continued on, “You want me to go back there and kick it for you?” 

You grinned and shook your head, “No, No, that's okay… I think it's learned its lesson…”

You two walked in comfortable silence for a moment, a small smile resting on your face, but inside your heart still weighed heavy upon you. 

“Why did you leave...?” Bucky finally asked and for a moment you swore you heard something akin to hurt in his voice, “I had finally gotten a chance to see you again.” he said, quickly adding, “I just mean… it’s been a while since you, me, and Steve got to hang out. I, ah… guess I’ve sort of missed it with everything going on…”

You tried to ignore the way your heart squeezed in your chest and looked down at your wringing hands as you answered, “I just… It was getting too much for me,” you lied, thinking back to the confident kiss that girl planted on his cheek, “and I didn’t want to distract you from your time with… other people.”

Bucky furrowed his brow as he listened and stepped in closer to you as you hit a dark stretch of broken streetlamps. He was so close now, you could smell the faint scent of cologne coming up from his jacket. Your hands, both chilled by the late fall air, brushed together as you walked in time, though neither of you were brave enough to reach to the other. 

“You mean that girl from before?” He motioned back to the now-distant party as he spoke, “I’m not even sure who that was.” He laughed a bit, “she said her friends dared her to kiss me, but I’m not sure….” 

The weight of your heart eased significantly as you took in a quiet breath of relief, “that seems… huh…” you said as you frowned and rounded the corner, you could see the porchlight your house now and the keys jingled around your pocket as you tried to fish out the right one. 

“I agree…” Bucky said, letting out an exaggerated shudder. Despite the lights now populating your last few steps home Bucky’s protective presence did not waver, his shoulders brushing against yours now and again as you stepped up onto the porch and took out your keys.

Despite fumbling with them you finally manage to open the front door and take half a step inside, “Thank you for walking me home, Buck,” you smiled, “and threatening to beat up a rock for me...” 

That pearly white grin nearly blinded you despite the dark of night, “Of course, I’m always happy to rough up a pebble for you- but uh, I might draw the line at boulders, just so you know.” 

You bit your lip as you chucked, feeling butterflies bounce around your stomach uncontrollably, “Noted…. I should probably let you go before Steve does something stupid and heroic… But I’ll see you soon?” you proposed as you leaned into the doorframe, “Goodnight, Buck…”

He couldn't restrain the grin that parted his lips at the prospect of seeing you again so soon, and seemed to stumble over himself as he backed down the short staircase, “Right… right, I should- Goodnight, y/n…” His grin never left as he finally turned to leave…

… But something stopped him at the bottom of the stairs, “Wait-” He interjected into the silence. His lips tightened as he seemed to fight with himself for a moment, before finally turning back to you with a look of nervous determination in his eyes.

“Y/n, I…” his words paused as he searched for the next ones, his whole demeanor had shifted, not quite the suave confident soul you had always seen, but an endearingly awkward version of him. “I don't know if I’ll ever have the guts to say this again, but I- Y/n, I really like you…” Bright blue eyes met yours as you continued. 

“You’re thoughtful and genuine, and you always have paint on your face- even now-” He laughed softly, pointing to his ear.

“Oh, Shit-” you mumbled, rubbing it off quickly. 

“But it’s what I love about you. You do what you love and you pour yourself into it every time. And even though you’re quiet, when you do speak your words say volumes. You're funny, and kind, and just… so far beyond me that I know I don’t have a chance, but I just had to try why I still had the nerve.” He rushed to finish, ending with a deep breath as he urged himself to wait for your answer. 

Your face burned with the full heat of the sun as you tried to take in Bucky's words, He thought you were out of his league????

“You… I…. “ You had to laugh, your heart so unbelievably light as it all really hit you- he liked you!  You! 

“Bucky, are you serious..? I’ve had a crush on you from the moment I met you. You smiled and laughed and I haven’t been the same ever since.” You rubbed your blushing cheeks, trying to will away the embarrassing hue as you continued, softer, “But you could have anyone- there’s always people falling at your feet, I just figured I could never compete with the likes of them…” 

Wait, you liked him too? You said you liked him too?? With newfound confidence Bucky took another step forward, his fingers reaching out to you in invitation, which you gladly accepted. “You’re right… You could never compete with them,” he started, “ It simply wouldn’t be fair to make them compete in something they could never dream of winning.”

Your cheeks hurt from the sheer force of your smile and as you looked down at your linked fingers you swore your heart would fly away. 

“Um… Bucky, can I-”

“Please” He rushed, his own grin spanning from ear to ear as he leaned in for a kiss.

________________

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Teal Paint

Read here on Ao3!

Angstpril 2024 | Day 18 | Prompt 18: Left Behind

Rated: G | Word Count: 1526 | Summary: Memories left behind... | Character Focus: Hunter, Crosshair, Tech, Wrecker, Omega, Echo

*some slight spoilers at the very end for Season 3*

Tech finds a reasonably tame city to spend their brief period of downtime between missions. It took several months, but they’ve finally scraped enough credits together, and today is the day. The streets are crowded with evening traffic, the Batch walking close together to avoid being separated.

“Did you know,” Tech says, informatively, “that facial tattoos are among the most painful, depending on the location on the face?” 

“Thanks, Tech,” Hunter grumbles, “that’s really helpful.” 

“You’re not going to talk us out of it,” Crosshair adds resolutely.

Wrecker nods. “Yeah, we’re gonna do it no matter what you say, Tech!” 

Tech huffs. “On the contrary, I’m quite eager to observe the process. I just believe that being well informed is beneficial when making a life altering decision.” 

“Maker, Tech, getting a tattoo isn’t life altering,” Crosshair says. 

“It’s awesome!” Wrecker declares. “You should get one too, Tech.” 

“I prefer modifications that can be modified,” Tech retorts.

Crosshair leans close to Wrecker, puts his hand up to shield his mouth from Tech, and loudly whispers, “He’s too scared.” 

“That is not true.” 

“Aww, Techie’s scared,” Wrecker crows, throwing an arm around Tech. “I can hold your hand, be brave for the both of us.” 

Tech tries to extract himself from Wrecker’s grip. “I am not scared! I have stated my reasoning clearly and concisely. Fear has nothing to do with it.” 

Hunter rubs his hand across the left side of his face, a fist of apprehension balling up in the pit of his stomach. He isn’t having second thoughts, he’s almost positive that he’ll be happy with the results. He and Crosshair spent hours with a pad of flimsi sketching and scheming. Crosshair wanted something subtle, meaningful, a reflection of himself. Hunter, to his brothers’ surprise, wanted something bold. A statement. Memorable. Of the Batch, he most resembles, in appearance and speech, a reg. But he is no more a reg than any other member of his squad. He might not be able to easily change his facial structure or vocal pattern; however, inking half his face with the dark contour of a skull seems like a good start. 

“What do you think?” Crosshair asked, holding up the sketch he’d made of Hunter. 

Hunter grinned, taking the pad and admiring the simple lined likeness to himself, the skull motif shadowed deeply with graphite. He loved it. It was perfect. Exactly as he’d imagined it. “Looks good,” he told his brother.

Wrecker, at the last minute, decided that he also wants a tattoo, although his ideas are scattered and untethered to any sort of theme. Even as they approach the tattoo parlor, he is still undecided, claiming that it is going to be a surprise. 

“A tattoo is permanent,” Tech tells Wrecker again, having resigned himself to being tucked under Wrecker’s arm for the remainder of their trek. “You should at least have some sort of idea.” 

“I do,” Wrecker says, “My idea is that it will be the coolest tattoo in the entire galaxy.” 

“That is not an idea,” Tech sighs. 

At Tech’s direction, they turn off on a side street, the crowds petering off the further they walk. It doesn’t exactly feel like a bad part of town; however, it is less kept, the buildings showing their age and wear. Hunter is beginning to wonder if Tech got them lost when they turn another corner and a neon sign blinks the word “TATTOOS” at them, the flashing light practically searing into Hunter’s retinas. 

“They should get a brighter sign,” Crosshair snarks, “we almost missed it.” 

They step inside, and find the business deserted except for a human who stands up from a chair behind the counter. He is covered in colorful ink, his natural pigment completely lost under the tapestry of mismatched designs across every inch of his exposed skin. 

“Now that must’ve hurt,” Wrecker mutters to Tech, but he might as well have screamed it from the rooftops. 

Tech rolls his eyes. 

The man smiles, flashing white teeth. “Only hurts ‘til the pain goes away.”

“Naturally,” Tech agrees sardonically.

“I’m gonna guess you lot are here for some ink,” the man says. 

“They are, I am not,” Tech replies quickly. “I am here to observe.” 

“Not a fan of needles, huh?” the man asks. 

Tech opens his mouth to deny the accusation, but Wrecker gasps out, “Wait, needles?” 

Crosshair groans. “We went over this, Wrecker.”

“Yeah, well” Wrecker says, “it sounds different the way he says it.” 

“How?” 

Wrecker heaves his broad shoulders in a shrug. “I’ll just wait on my tattoo. Until I think of something good, ya know?”

Crosshair steps around Wrecker and jerks his head in Hunter’s direction. “He and I are getting tattoos. These are what we want.” He pulls two pieces of flimsi from his pocket with their chosen designs, pushing them across the counter. 

The man takes them, looking over the details. “Straightforward and to the point. I like that. C’mon around and we’ll get started.”

Hunter takes a deep breath. 

He’s not turning back now. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Hunter and Crosshair decide to add to their armor to coordinate with their new tattoos. The next time they’re on Kamino, they find their leftover paint and set to work, Tech and Wrecker joining them. Inspired by Hunter’s new half skull tattoo, they decide to incorporate the symbol into all of their armor in some way. 

“So help me, Wrecker, if you tip over another can of paint…” Crosshair mutters, snatching up the at-risk bucket from Wrecker’s proximity. 

Wrecker is sprawled out on their barrack’s floor, taking up far more than his fair share of space. His paint brush flicks up, sending a spray of heavy duty white across the room. 

“You’re cleaning that up,” Tech says from his place at the table.

“No one will notice,” Wrecker assures them. “Maybe they’ll look like clean spots!”

Hunter sighs. “That’s not a good thing, Wreck.” 

Wrecker ignores the comment, instead dropping his paintbrush onto the tray Tech ordered him to use and holding up his helmet. “What do you think? It’s a skull.” 

“Not a human skull,” Tech points out. 

Wrecker shakes his head. “Human skulls are boring.” 

“There’s supposed to be red on your helmet somewhere,” Crosshair gripes. 

Wrecker reaches over and plucks Crosshair’s fine tipped paint brush out of his hand, the bristles still dripping red paint. Crosshair sputters a curse as Wrecker happily begins painting with the stolen utensil. 

“Hunter!” Crosshair cries, “Tell Wrecker to give it back.” 

 Hunter doesn’t even look up from his work. “Let’s share our toys like big kids,” he coos, earning a chuckle from Tech. 

“I’m gonna give it back in a second,” Wrecker says. “Almost done.” 

Crosshair growls something rude in Huttese. 

“There!” Wrecker says, tossing the brush back at Crosshair, the sniper catching it from the wrong end, paint staining the palm of his glove. Wrecker turns his helmet again to the room. “See? It’s perfect.” 

The number 99 is brandished across the forehead of his helmet in dripping red. 

“Subtle as usual, Wrecker,” Tech says. 

Wrecker grins. “Thanks!” 

Hunter sits back and admires his own helmet’s new design, carefully imitating his inked face. It’s exactly how he imagined it. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“I like this color,” Omega says, pointing at a swatch of teal paint. “Oh, and this orange is nice.” 

Tech glances at Hunter, clearly questioning the decision to let Omega choose their new armor colors. Hunter shrugs. At least it will look…different. Which is exactly what they want. 

“What about this one?” Wrecker asks, pointing at the yellow swatch.

“Yes! I like that one too!” Omega cries. 

They purchase the three cans of paint and some brushes before heading back to the Marauder. Omega is beside herself with excitement. “Do you think the paint will work on my helmet?” she asks. 

“Sure, kid, ‘course it will,” Wrecker says cheerfully. 

“I’m gonna use orange on mine, then,” Omega says. 

That evening, spread out under the Marauder’s wing, the Batch set about repainting their armor. Wrecker can’t bear the thought of covering up the skull on his helmet, so he settles for removing the bright 99 from it instead, sanding it down and repainting the area white. With Omega’s help, he uses orange and yellow to accent the rest of his armor pieces. 

Tech and Echo decide to monopolize the orange paint, leaving very little to Hunter. With a sigh, he picks up the teal paint, and pries it open. Omega beams at him. “I think that will be a very nice color on you,” she tells him sincerely, and suddenly, the color doesn’t seem so bad. 

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“All the armor’s been stripped. But we’re still not gonna blend in,” Echo says, tossing Hunter his helmet. 

The colors of his past lives have been removed with finality. He knows it is necessary; however, he can’t help but feel the pang of loss as he stares at the familiar piece of himself he’s had for so long, devoid of the visible memories lingering like ghosts behind him. 

Maybe they’ll paint their armor again, when all of this is over. 

If they all make it back. 

END

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[yeet-me-dad-dy]

The Arcane - Chapter Six - Old Wounds

Summary: Viktor gets a little look at the things that haunt you, and you and he work on the designs for his back brace.

Characters: Viktor x Male Reader (Doctor Raven) x Jayce eventually maybe

Warnings: Nightmares

Words: 1,947

You were lying on your back on the hospital bed in your lab, tossing a small metal device into the air while you considered Viktor's dilemma. You had managed to get all of the scans you needed within a week, and while it was a grueling and often painful process for him, he hadn't complained even once. After receiving the scans, you had studied them until your eyes burned, mind racing with questions, theories, and ideas.

You caught the device and set it on the mattress beside you, then rubbed your tired eyes. Vampires didn't need as much sleep as humans, but they did still need sleep; six or seven hours each week. You had managed exactly thirty-two minutes for this week, and exhaustion was beginning to set in. You knew you needed to rest, and you honestly had tried, but calming your racing mind enough to fall asleep was an achievement not often reached.

You sighed and closed your eyes. If you could just get five minutes… Your consciousness hung in the abyss between waking and sleeping, and then, slowly, you began to drift off.

The trees were burning, the snow was stained red. Everywhere you looked, bodies with missing limbs and guts spilling from their bellies littered the battlefield, the heat of their corpses sending steam rising into biting midnight air. The blood painting your hands and face and drenching your clothes was pleasantly warm...

“Doctor?”

You whirled around, eyes blazing, teeth bared, to see a skinny young man with golden eyes reaching toward you.

I know you, the little voice in your head said. You’d known all of them. It didn’t matter. You lunged, teeth meeting the soft flesh of his throat.

“Doctor!”

You bolted upright in bed, eyes wide and searching, chest heaving. You weren’t sure where you were. Octagonal room, blue walls, tall ceiling… Familiarity sparked in your nightmare-addled mind.

The lab. You had fallen asleep in your lab.

There was a gentle touch on your shoulder, and you jerked away. That same skinny young man from your dream was watching you with concern. You looked him up and down, allowing your mind to match the face to a name.

“Viktor…” you breathed.

You flopped back onto the bed, covering your eyes with your arm, and pulled in a few lungfuls of air to steady yourself.

“What time is it?” you asked.

“Just after dinner,” he said quietly.

You swallowed hard, then tossed your legs over to sit on the edge of the bed with your back to Viktor.

“I came to show you the sketch of the back brace I’m working on… and to check on you. It seems it’s a good thing I did.”

“The brace, yes…” you mumbled. “I’ll need to take a look at that.”

You rubbed your eyes, ran a hand down your face.

“Are you alright, Doctor?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, I just… had a bad dream.” You rose suddenly, smoothed down your shirt, and rounded the bed to stand beside Viktor. “Let’s see it.”

You couldn’t seem to look at him, not without remembering the look of fear in the eyes of his dream-self and the feeling of your teeth sinking into his flesh. He handed you a piece of paper. Drawn in graphite were sketches of a mechanical back brace from different angles, as well as smaller drawings of individual pieces and some of the more technical aspects.

“Hmm…” your gaze flit from one drawing to the next, intrigued. “Have you eaten?” you asked, glancing at him for only a moment.

“No. You had been bringing me my dinner, so I was waiting for you. That’s why I came to check on you. You’re not usually late.”

You chuckled dryly.

“Sorry…”

“It’s alright. You needed sleep.”

“If only I had actually gotten some…” you let out another dry chuckle.

You returned his sketches to him, retrieved his file from your desk, then gently led him out of the lab with a hand on his lower back. You could feel the metal medical corset beneath his shirt.

“Let’s head down to the kitchen. We can talk about your design while you eat.”

He looked as tired as you felt as he shuffled along beside you. It must have been a long day for him, too.

“I thought vampires don’t sleep,” he said as you called the elevator.

“We don’t sleep much, but we do sleep. Seven hours a week is fine.”

“An hour a night,” Viktor nodded. “Or do you prefer to do it all in one lump?”

“Honestly, I’m lucky to get three hours a month.”

“I know how that feels,” Viktor sighed.

There was a comfortable momentary silence before he spoke again.

“Do you want to talk about your dream, Doctor?”

You considered a moment.

“There’s not much to talk about… There were a lot of bodies and a lot of blood. People I knew and loved.”

“I see.”

The elevator dinged and let you off on the bottom floor of the academy, where you wound your way through the wide halls to the kitchen. Viktor had a lot of questions he wanted to ask you, but there were certain things that there was never a good moment to bring up. Doctor Sammor had said “I know what you’ve done.” What did he mean by that? Was he referring to the unsavory ends of the people you’d tested your blood on, or was there something else? He’d gotten a glimpse of a darker side of you that day, and he knew nothing of your past. There was no telling what kind of things you’d done in your long life. What kind of horrors you’d seen… or perhaps even caused.

The kitchen was empty, but there were a few people in the cafeteria still doing school work. You made Viktor a sandwich with some carrots on the side and poured him a glass of orange juice, then sat with him at an empty table in the corner near a big window. Thankfully, the sun was on the other side of the building and couldn’t reach you here. You spread the scans of his body and his brace design out in front of you so you could see them all at once. You both gave the spread a once-over. Viktor’s eyes lingered on the x-ray of his spine.

“How does one go about straightening a spine, exactly?”

You pulled the x-ray closer.

“Rather forcefully. Two straight metal bars bolted to either side will force it into a more natural position.”

“That sounds… unpleasant.”

“Yes, but don’t worry.” You offered him a comforting smile. “You’ll be asleep, and you’ll be given the best pain medication available to help you through recovery.”

“And you’ll be the one doing the surgery?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather have someone else?”

“No. No, I think I’d be most comfortable if it’s you.”

“I don’t think I could trust anyone else to do it,” you admitted. “I have about one-hundred-and-fifty years more experience than the most experienced doctor. I was around when this surgery was still in its testing stages. I know what to do, but I also know what not to do.”

“I know I’m in good hands,” Viktor smiled.

You returned the smile, eyes lingering on his lips before turning your attention to the sketch of the back brace.

“The problem with our current methods is that it doesn’t leave much flexibility in the spine. The bars are rigid, so you won’t be able to bend. I’m hoping we can design something to replace the bars that will allow you more movement.”

You pointed to the main sketch.

“Honestly, this design looks really promising. This long spine piece here is articulated, right? One piece for each vertebrae… That could definitely work.”

Viktor nodded.

“Yes, and then the panels on the side and the chest piece will keep my ribs where they need to be.”

“Good,” you grinned at him, excited at the prospect of giving Viktor something more functional to wear.

The two of you lingered in the cafeteria for quite some time, going over the details of the sketch and the scans, tossing around ideas for different designs, and making sure that you could both work with what you’d come up with. The moon was well into the sky by the time you finally got Viktor to drop his pencil. You stretched and pushed yourself to your feet. A sharp pain ran up your hip and you stumbled forward, catching yourself on the edge of the table.

“Are you alright, Doctor?” Viktor asked, hand hovering just inches from your arm in case he should need to try and catch you.

“Yes,” you chuckled dryly and composed yourself.

“You are in pain,” he stated plainly.

You sighed and massaged your hip.

“Only sometimes,” you smiled softly, trying to reassure him. “Usually when I move too quickly.”

“Have you considered a cane?” he asked.

“I have, but I feel like I don’t need one enough to warrant getting one. I just need to move more carefully.”

He hummed, thoughtful.

“May I ask what causes the pain? I thought vampires were supposed to heal their injuries.”

You nodded and crossed your arms over your chest.

“We do heal, but sometimes old wounds still hurt.”

He was watching you with great interest, waiting for you to tell your story. You sighed and cleared your throat.

“It was during the Blood War,” you started. “There was an explosion and a building fell on me. Crushed me. I healed, yes, but I still have problems with my back and hips. Some days are worse than others.”

“I see.”

He felt stupid for not realizing that you were actually in the war four-hundred years ago. Had you been a doctor then, too, or had you been a warrior, fighting on the front lines?

“Viktor?”

“Hmm?” he blinked a few times. “Ah, sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“That’s alright.” You touched him gently on the shoulder.

Usually, he was averse to being touched. Your touch, though, he had come to find comfort in.

“Let’s head home, shall we?” you asked. “You need sleep.”

He chuckled and allowed you to lead him out of the cafeteria.

“I’ll sleep if you promise to, as well,” he said.

You sighed, but nodded.

“I’ll try.”

Viktor lived right across the hall from you, which it took you far too long to realize. You’d only figured it out when he was exiting his apartment at the same time as you one morning. You thought you could smell him in the hallway when you came and went, but you figured it was just his scent lingering on your clothes. To say you were delighted that he was so close was an understatement. You stopped him before he disappeared into his home.

“One more thing, Viktor. I almost forgot to tell you. I’m going to be heading up north in a few days to harvest more Snowbell root. I’ll be gone for… maybe two months?”

“Oh…” He didn’t like the thought of you leaving, though he couldn’t place exactly why. “You’ll… be safe, I hope?”

“Of course,” you smiled. “I’ll try not to be gone the whole two months, but those flowers are a pain to harvest, and even more of a pain to find.”

“I understand. I’ll be fine while you’re away, Doctor, you don’t have to worry about me.”

You nodded. You were worried. What if something happened while you were gone? What if he needed you and you weren’t there for him?

“Goodnight, Viktor,” you smiled.

He touched your forearm gently, mimicking a gesture he’d learned from you.

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

[skade32]

Inspired by ABBA’s “Slipping through my fingers” lyrics:

I read a fic on AO3 with these lyrics and I WISH I REMEMBERED THE NAME SO I COULD RECOMEND IT

I was inspired to like encapsulate some ‘childhood memories’ of the Fushiguro siblings that I like to imagine Gojo has reminders of in the form of drawings and objects and letters and photos in his office.

In my found family fantasies, Gojo would relate to these lyrics regarding Tsumiki (don’t come after me I know this is mostly copium idc) and her sudden disappearance from his life. Also a little bit for Megumi who is not so suddenly, but nonetheless moving farther away from him as he both becomes an adult and no longer needs Gojo as much as he once did.

This was not really planned to be a whole thing. I initially just drew the bottom panel for fun bc I’m extremely not normal about teenage-single-parent-gojo (again I’m aware of the copium please don’t burn me at the stake) and idk I just couldn’t tear myself away from working on it and the next thing I knew it built itself up to the whole page and I hope other people can enjoy it as much as I have.

Description:

A graph paper notebook page covered entirely with a graphite sketch of a quickly thrown together comic scene. Two panels are featured atop the background which appears to be a cluttered desk in the foreground with numerous kinds of papers strewn about from mission reports to a letter addressed to Tsumiki. Amongst the papers in the top right corner, just adjacent to the first featured panel, a traditional jar of ink supports a dark pen, gently resting at an angle against the ink well. The pen seems to have been carelessly put aside as ink still drips down into the well below. The small portion of the scene not taken up by the desk has the walls, covered entirely by nondescript talismans, loosely sketched so not to drive too much attention from the subjects of the piece.

Wax drips from long-neglected candles, leaving almost no remnants of the once smooth and unblemished form it must have held just hours earlier that day. The residues of the wax leave bulbous trails, stopping just before the edge of the candle-holder sitting just to the left of the first feature panel.

Within the first panel is a scene of a little girl, squatting down so her shorts sit just above the heels of her little rubber rain boots. She seems distracted, lost in thought, as the rain pelts her and the sidewalk beside her becomes more reminiscent of a canal rather than a pedestrian pathway. The overgrown garden of the small cottage she loiters by fades into the misty sky, dark leafy bushels obscured by the soft glow of a lamplight to her left shoulder which complains achingly to the deafened thoughts of Tsumiki’s mind, still lost pondering the butterfly that rests gently upon her outstretched fingers, lovingly sheltered from the oppression of each raindrop which could rip its fragile scales in an instant. Such danger seems to not affect Tsumiki as she endures the assault from the heavens to endure the butterfly gets not a drop on his fragile wings. Her left hand holds the umbrella at such an angle that tree butterfly’s safety is assured, her own soggy hair a small price to pay for preserving such a beautiful creature.

Connecting the edge of this panel’s bottom edge to the background, a small square with a slanted cursive script writes “Slipping through my fingers all the time…”

The second panel, shifted slightly to the right of the former, occupying the focus of the bottom half of the page, displays a simpler image. The bright smile of a certain white haired idiot grows brighter as black spikes hair brushes against his chin. His dimple’s grow deeper when he notices the camera flashing at him and his disgruntled child relenting finally to sleep against his collarbone— leaving no doubt to any onlooker that the smile reached his eyes, true glee racking the young man’s expression as he jokingly flaps a limp hand about in a greeting gesture towards the camera. Whether or not Megumi’s participation in this memory was unwitting or not, that was up for debate. Regardless, the boy was clearly exhausted. Likely from some kind of jujutsu training after a mission that day if his athletic shorts and Gojo’s uniform were any indication.

A text box yet again connects to the bottom left corner of this panel reading: “…I try to capture every minute…”

[alessabriel]

Of lipsticks and discoveries | Damian WaynexReaderFem

Cw. just fluff and doubt in the family.

✂ ⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋

One hand holding the lipstick lightly, he carefully followed the curved lines of the Cupid's bow of your lips, finding it difficult but not impossible. Like a particularly fascinating drawing that dazzled him in creating it, with his fingers numb and stained with graphite and oil.

There was a sweet and fresh air circulating in the large room with soft tones, both young people enclosed in a warm bubble.

Resting my arms and stopping touching your smooth skin for a few seconds, to admire the nude color on your lips, I hadn't done a horrible job but unlike when you did (remember seeing yourself out of the corner of your eye on those Saturday dates with a lipstick or gloss in hand painting your lips without the need for a mirror religiously following the line of your plump lips) was a bit mediocre, but I continued until I finally finished filling your lips with lipstick, and internally I knew that you were suppressing a smile because of your trembling lips, he felt your jaw making an effort not to move at the tips of his fingers and your brightly smiling eyes only confirmed it, and he himself couldn't help but smile.

"Beloved, stop moving your lips" Damián grumbled lightly, withdrawing in front of you to cover the lipstick correctly, giving you an affectionate look while waiting for an opinion.

"It's called smiling Dami and it's inevitable for me not to do it with you around" you commented lightly before sealing your lips without drying on your boyfriend's lips, stopping long enough to leave your mark on them even when the color went unnoticed by the tone " I am happy by your side my love"

Damian smiled against your lips before cupping your chin and directing the kiss to better fit together, urging you to part your lips and give him access to caress your tongue with his, savoring the nude lipstick that slowly dried against his lips but he loved it. I was more interested in tracking the taste of your mouth; sweet and fresh, like the chocolate frappe that you loved so much and that you always saw yourself buying spontaneously.

"This was your plan from the start beautiful?" Damian questioned, looking sideways in the mirror with the nude color on his lips, he was barely noticeable but if you paid more attention to him you could see it clearly.

You just smirked before chastely kissing your boyfriend.

"Any time planned or not, if it's by your side I'll adore it"

And there, admiring your smile, Damian felt his heart melt again for your words, for your love, for your actions and for you, for all that you were, limitless and naked. He was so happy and the warmth of him radiated in waves from his own chest, his heartbeat was racing and he could bet his heart was beating for you.

"I love you Beloved" was the loving whisper sealed by another chaste and innocent kiss, a brush of lips that would cause your smile. Damian loved kissing that smile, a smile that was reserved for him and his eyes, the same that his love made her appear on your always appetizing lips "And I will continue to love you as long as you allow me"

With some force and momentum of your magic you made Damian fall on top of you, barely allowing him to support his weight by his palms on your bed of pale yellow sheets, you gracefully wrapped your arms around his torso seeking him to cover you with his comforting weight on top of you. .

In a lonely house, two young people lived a tender love.

Damian, still holding his own weight by his hands, did not hesitate to place a kiss on your forehead, touching the line of your hair, reaching to smell the fresh scent of citrus and sweetness, you always smelled fresh and sweet, it was something that I loved about you at all times. couple that he still liked you just awake and disheveled, angry, upset, stressed and in every facet of you, each of them was something new to fall in love with and in that moment he found something else. He knew that when you were very happy you tended to let your magic speak for you, and he had never felt it more than at that moment when that warm and pleasant magic enveloped him to make them levitate. It was the second time that he passed you next to him.

"I want to share my life with you, keep loving you"

And if no one saw how two young men floated around each other, leaving soft and vibrant trails of a range of warm colors in the air.

[mootheloon]

Hozier, 11x17, all colored pencil, time spent: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ a few months?

Story time! A bit lengthy but bear with me. Picture it…Sacramento, 2015… Hozier was just starting to take off…I was excited to snag tickets to see him at a smaller capacity. I drew 2 portraits…one for him to sign for me, one as a gift, both in graphite. I met some lovely people in line and after the show (which was awesome btw) they waited with me at the end of the line hoping he’d come out. When it was my turn I was incredibly nervous…his mom is an actual artist and designed his album cover. I…didn’t really know what I was doing. So I babbled and stumbled over my words saying as much, that I hoped they were ok, that I was no artist, never having taken an art class,etc. He waited patiently for me to finish and then I handed both drawings to him. He looked, eyes widened, and really LOOKED at them. Seemed like forever and I remember it was long enough for me to look over at my linemates. Then he said words that have stayed with me ever since.

“Don’t you ever say you are not an artist because you absolutely are. These are beautiful.”

His tone was serious which further drove the point home. It’s been a few years but I still hear these words. And while it’s taken a while and still feels a little weird, when I show someone my page and they say “Oh you’re an artist!?” I say “Yes, I am.”

Thank you, Hozier❤️

[turndecassette2]

aah after seeing the title page for your newest comic announcement (congrats by the way it looks FABULOUS :> ) I have to ask what your approach to lettering is? your writing is really cool and each title ive seen is so unique!! I love how you can still read it while it also not looking out of place and just looking like apart of the piece :)

hope you're doing well!! have a wonderful day :-)

hey thanks! you too! never learned graphic design in any organised sense, my mom has been working as a freelancing graphic designer, design teacher etc for most of my life so I've absorbed some basic knowledge from her through osmosis, lamarckian evolution maybe? and also gotten a sense of how much I don't know ha ha. doing everything by hand & letting the result be not perfect is sort of a way to acknowledge I'm an amateur (trying and failing is more embarrassing than, uh, not trying, and failing because duh, you weren't trying) but I also think it has an advantage of harmonising with the drawn images. I try to match materials so graphite lettering for graphite pages, digital for digital etc.

inspo for the latest cover – fancy lettering on album covers? but less perfect because, see above –

+ 'japanese characters all over the place' type manga cover/splash page design, something like

(has hirako's short stories gotten any sort of translation? or I think the cover to the left is for a short story collection. actually I should google this myself)

the process itself is just sketching out the letters then filling them in like they're a drawing (thinking of them as drawings makes it easier since drawing is something I'm actually good at). the egg shape was traced from an egg shape that I found by googling 'egg shape' & warping it in ps until it fit inside the sketched outline. the lil guy inside was copy-pasted from a page later in the comic. this was all done on a train stuck somewhere between linköping & västerås.

OK this is very 'draw the rest of the owl' type advice but I hope someone finds it helpful.

[sister-hawk]

HEY LOOK AT WHAT I MADE!!! I whittled this elephant out of a block of basswood, and then painted it by hand, as a gift for my lovely girlfriend, @potsiefaerie 😘♥️💖🩵 When we were still getting to know each other, she mentioned that she collects white elephant figures with her mother (after they found one at a white elephant sale), and I was like, "Wait, I've done a bit of whittling before. Surely I could make one, right???" And then it became my mission all through the spring, summer, and fall. And after a bit of a mad dash to the end, I was finally able to give it to her the first time we met in person 🥰

While it was in no way easy, crafting this elephant was an absolute joy, and it really (re)awakened in me a love for the art of whittling. I had only done some very basic whittling before, close to a decade and a half ago. So with very little experience, none of which was recent, I really impressed myself with how well this thing turned out. And while I'm no stranger to painting, I've never done detail like this before. That is just natural talent babey. I have definitely found my calling in this craft.

It's roughly 2 and 3/4 inches tall, and probably around 4 and 1/2 inches long. I have absolutely no idea how many hours it took start-to-finish. But it was a lot lol.

Process:

The first step was to find reference images of elephants online, from various angles. I used those to create basic drawings of an elephant mid-stride from 5 different angles (left, right, top, front, and back). I printed and cut those out of paper to create a simple stencil to trace the shape onto the block of wood (that's what you see in the first image.

The second step was to actually cut the rough shape of it out of the wood with a coping saw. Then I divided the bottom (where the legs are) in half, and used the drawing as a guide for removing the halves of the legs that weren't needed (since it is not symmetrical in its stance.) That gave me an extremely rough and blocky elephant shape.

Next came the whittling, and that was by far the majority of the work. Months were spent slowly shaving away little bits of wood, occasionally glancing at my reference images, until finally the final shape was achieved. Then it was sanded down so as to smooth out the facets created by the carving process, and to refine the shape a little more.

I also must mention that I did drop it at one point on a cement porch and snap one of the legs off at the knee. But! A bit of wood glue and a rubber band fixed that fairly easily.

Then came the painting process. First I used a glaze to help seal the wood. Wood is a very absorbent material. I knew that, in order to ensure that this piece would last as long as possible, it needed to be sealed so that the wood did not absorb moisture from the air, which could eventually lead to cracking as it expanded and shrank. But paint itself also poses some risk in this way, and the wood really wants to soak it up. So the glaze ensured that that wouldn't happen.

Then I put down three coats of white paint (with another touch-up coat), and then sealed that with another coat of the glaze. This was to protect the white underneath when I started painting with the blue, so that if I messed it up, I would have the chance to remove the blue without totally stripping the white.

Next was the detail work with the blue paint. The designs were first drawn on using a 4h graphite in a mechanical pencil (4h is pretty hard, so it wouldn't leave much behind. That made it easier to erase mistakes and cover with the paint). I did reference a couple mandalas that I found online for the ones on the forehead and back, but all of it was painted by hand with an extremely tiny brush and an enormous amount of patience. It requires very steady hands.

And the final step was two part. First, another coat of glaze to protect the blue paint so that it would not get smeared (not after I did all that hard work!!!). And finally, four coats of varnish to completely seal everything off. My hope is this thing will still be sitting on someone's shelf at least a few generations from now, so I did everything I could to protect it as much as possible.

Materials and tools:

3x3x6in block of basswood, from some website idk lol.

Coping saw from Lowe's.

Whittling tools from Beaver Craft.

120, 220, and 400 grit sandpaper from Lowe's.

Glaze, paints, and varnish from Jo Sonja's.

[p-artsypants]

Blurb #62

I'm going to try to share 70 blurbs from my WIPs and unfinished fics to celebrate reaching 70 posted fics! To help with this endeavor, please feel free to send me a word or a fandom you know I write for, and I'll share the blurb. IDK if I'll get 70 prompts, but let's try it! Send as many as you want!

Near noon the next day, Astrid went over to Gobber’s shop. 

He seemed somewhat surprised to see her there. “Astrid? Uh…how can I help you, lass? Are you here to pick something up for ye mum?” 

“I would like two pounds of stew beef, please.” 

“‘A course. It’ll take me a moment to cut that up. But I’ll have it all ready for you if ya want ta come back later.” 

Astrid frowned. “But can I not just wait here?” 

“Sure,” he chuckled. “But the Rider will be here any moment.” 

“So?” She crossed her arms. “He can wait his turn.” 

Gobber barked a loud laugh and wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh that’s a good one. He’d love to hear that! Nothing says ‘part of the village’ like having to wait yer turn at the shops, eh?” 

The telltale shush fell over the village from outside, and Astrid heard the caws of several ravens. Goosebumps raised on her flesh, and she started shaking, but she refused to leave. 

“This’ll be interestin’…” Gobber said darkly, a little grin on his face. 

The clack of horse hooves outside told her all she needed to know. She had but a few seconds to dart out the back now. 

But no, she was determined to see this through. 

The Rider bowed, entering the little shop, before raising up to his full height. He was even more terrifying close up. His black cloak almost seemed to emit smoke. 

His horse sniffed her, embers flying out its nose. 

Astrid stood still, petrified, and unmoving as two sets of acid green eyes stared at her. 

Gobber cut the tension with a razor sharp knife. “Afternoon lad! What can I do for you today?” 

The Rider whipped his gaze back to Gobber, silent for a moment. Then he dismounted his horse. 

He was still tall. Maybe two feet taller than her. But he was thin and gangly. He leaned to one side, and Astrid could now see that he only had one leg. One side wore greaves made of a dark metal, while the other leg was made of twisted black wood. 

Once off, the horse walked past her, leisurely making its way to the back pen, and snacking on grass. 

Astrid only now noticed the singed spots of grass out there, as the grass smoldered under the horses hooves. 

The Rider just stood there, not saying a thing, but staring at her. 

“Well lass, guess I’ll get that beef cut for you,” said Gobber. “You’ll have to wait, Rider. She’s ahead of you in line!” He laughed. 

Astrid swallowed hard, and then raised her hand to the apparition. “Hello, I’m Astrid Hofferson,” she spoke, perhaps louder than intended. But her voice trembled mightily. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

The Rider tilted his head, then looked down at her hand. 

“Ohhh,” said Gobber. 

“What?” Astrid panicked. “Should I not have offered to shake his hand?” 

Before she could change her mind, fingers as cold as ice wrapped around her hand and squeezed. She looked down, searing the image into her mind. His hands were dark gray and shiny, like they were covered in graphite, and then slowly turned dark blue down at his fingertips. His nails were long, black, and pointed, almost like claws. He squeezed, sending a ripple of tingling energy up her arm. 

“You…” he spoke, his voice deep and gravelly, like it hadn’t been used in years. But there was a nasally quality that threw her off. Almost made him sound more human. “...are not afraid of me?” 

Oh she was. She was a hair away from crying, but she just smiled back and said, “should I be?” 

He shook his head. 

A wave of relief went through her as she sighed.

“At least,” he added. “Not now.” Then he released her hand.