#sorry not sorry for the stark white canvas ;;;;

[otterlykath]

Finally working on my own Kirin Mine design! I think he should be feathered 🕊️

[cumironi]

STARS AROUND SCARS : GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU

you were just trying to draw some stars on your boyfriend, not knowing simple things could be so hard when you have two needy boyfriends.

w/c : 8k (sorry, can't stop myself :'))

warning : lots, and lots of suggestive conversation, horndog! gojo satoru and fluff.

[☆] MASTERLIST

on a crystal-clear evening with the sky a vivid shade of blue, you and gojo satoru were enjoying a rare and cherished day off. the living room was bathed in the gentle, natural light of the setting sun, casting a warm glow over everything.

you were sprawled comfortably on the soft carpet, wearing a casual outfit that perfectly matched the relaxed vibe of the day: a short denim skirt paired with a white crop top, and ankle socks completing the look. gojo lay in front of you, his one arm lying flat as a pillow beneath his head, equally casual in a pair of short blue jeans and white socks, his posture relaxed and at ease.

while you two were savoring this peaceful downtime, your other boyfriend, geto suguru, was hard at work. he was busy attending an important meeting with the jujutsu higher-ups, his mind likely consumed by the demands of his role. it was a stark contrast to your serene afternoon, but you knew how dedicated he was, and it made these moments with gojo even more special.

colorful pens and crayon marks were spread out in vibrant disarray around you. the bright, vivid hues of the art supplies had left their playful imprints on the carpet, creating a whimsical, chaotic pattern that contrasted beautifully with the serene atmosphere of your cozy living room.

“oh, look at you,” you enthusiasly said as you carefully drew tiny stars around gojo's scars on his arm, adding a burst of color. “you’re like a living piece of the blue sky,” you giggled.

gojo chuckled, his lips curving into a charming smile at your words, “ah, so you think i'm a living piece of the sky, huh? well, i can't say i dislike that comparison,” he joked, his eyes watching your every move as you added the final touches with your colorful pens.

his gaze drifted to the colorful art supplies scattered around you, and his smile turned a tad more mischievous. “you're making quite a mess here,” he teased, gesturing to the mess of color covering the carpet, “i wonder what suguru will think when he sees this.”

you can't help but grin at gojo's comment, continuing to scribble playful little stars around his scars. “oh, come on,” you reply with a lighthearted roll of your eyes, “it's not a mess it's. . . creative expression.” you raise an eyebrow at his mention of geto, imagining the slight eye roll you'll get as he walks through the door and sees your vibrant ‘creative expression’ on the carpet.

“he'll probably just shake his head in faux disapproval,” you say with a soft laugh. “but secretly he'll think it's adorable,” imagining the look on suguru's face when he walked in to see the colorful chaos you'd created. “i'm sure he'll love it,” you replied sarcastically, rolling your eyes playfully. “he always appreciates a good splash of color.”

as you continued your whimsical artwork on gojo's arm, he couldn't help but watch you with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “you've got quite the artistic touch there,” he remarked, observing the swirling stars you'd added to his scars. “i'm starting to feel like a canvas.”

you flash him a cheeky grin, “well, you're the perfect blank canvas, with all these little scars.” your fingers move with careful precision as you artfully create tiny spirals and swirls around his scars with your pens. the way his skin was so pale and flawless made the scars stand out even more, creating a unique canvas for your colorful designs.

“and you're being such a good ’canvas’ too,” you chuckle, gently teasing. “no squirming, no complaints.” your eyes dart between the swirls and stars you've created on his arm, admiring your own work. “besides, it's not like you're complaining. you wouldn't be lying here letting me draw on you if you didn't enjoy it, would you?”

gojo chuckled, “you've got a point there. It does feel kind of nice, having a pretty girl like you drawing on me.” he glances down at his arm, observing the colorful designs you've created. “i just hope suguru doesn't get jealous,” he teases, a smirk playing upon his lips, “he might think I'm enjoying this a little too much.”

“but you do enjoy this a little too much,” you look at him for a second before looking down to where his hand lies under your chest— under your breast more likely. giving it a gentle squeeze from here and there since the start.

gojo chuckled, his smirk widening as you glanced down, well aware of the hand he had placed under you. “can you blame me, really? i have a stunning woman practically straddling my hand, and she's putting on quite the colorful show on my arm.”

his fingers involuntarily flex against your skin, the warmth seeping through your crop top, sending tingles down your spine. “especially when your hands are on me... touching me in all the right places.”

he gave your breast a light squeeze once again, his thumb slowly tracing a pattern on your skin as he met your eyes, a playful twinkle visible in his. “besides, i doubt you're complaining either, considering the location of your perch. but i swear, baby it's just for the art. completely art-related enjoyment,” he gives you a wink before chuckle.

“shut up!” you swat his hand lightly, trying to hide your embarrassment. “why do you have to say it like that? it sounds so inappropriate!” you then shift slightly, guiding his hand from beneath your chest to rest flat against the carpet, a playful scowl on your face. “just keep it where it belongs, okay?”

gojo chuckles, pretending to pout as you smack his hand away from your chest. “hey, i'm just being honest,” he replies with a smirk. “and besides, you were pretty much lying on my hand.” he lets his hand fall to the side, a hint of disappointment in his eyes, “now that you've moved it, i feel strangely empty,” he making a squeeze gesture with his hand, teasing you once more.

“it was nice having a little something to hold,” he adds, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards in a mischievous smirk. you roll your eyes at his pitiful expression, aware of his tactics to get what he wants. “don't give me that look," you chide playfully, “you're not getting that hand back, babe.”

yet, you can't help but feel a flutter in your stomach at the way he talks about wanting to hold something, his voice low and suggestive. “and quit being such a pervert,” you add, trying to mask the way his words affect you.

gojo feigns innocence once again, “me? a pervert? perish the thought,” he teases, the smirk never leaving his lips as he watches the subtle blush on your cheeks.

“i just appreciate beautiful things,” he continues, his eyes briefly roaming over your figure. “and you, my dear, are an absolute masterpiece.” his gaze drifts to your hips, admiring the way your short skirt rides up with each subtle shift. “and it's a damn good view from down here,” he mutters under his breath.

he reaches out towards where his hand was previously, only to snatch it back when you give him a firm look. “come on, don't be mean. i miss the company down there.” he gives you puppy dog eyes, his gaze pleading. “just one hand? for old-time's sake? i'll be good, i promise.”

you can't help but chuckle at his puppy dog eyes, the way they widen ever so slightly to make him look like a pouting child. “don't you start with that look,” you scold, trying to keep your resolve despite his adorable expression.

yet, as much as you enjoy the game of cat and mouse, you can't help but feel a tinge of yearning for his touch too. you bite your lip, considering his plea. “one hand,” you finally relent, “and you better behave yourself, gojo.” a sly smile dances on his lips as he hears your reluctant but consenting response, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you now. gojo slowly slides his hand underneath you once more, this time allowing his fingers to brush against your side, tracing the smooth curve of your waist.

his touch is light, like a whisper against your skin, as if he's testing his boundaries. “you’re so soft,” he whispers, his eyes darkened. “i don’t know how you manage to feel so soft and delicate, but also so strong and feisty at the same time.”

“stop tempting me!” you exclaim with a playful huff. “let me add these little stars to your arm without distractions!” you punctuate your demand with a light bite on his arm, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “i need to focus on my artwork, not on how you’re making this way more interesting than it should be.”

gojo can't help but chuckle at your attempted bite, his arm reflexively twitching under your teeth. “ow, ow, ow,” he exclaims in fake pain, “you're really getting into your role as a fierce artist, huh?”

his hand continues to slowly explore your side, his fingers gently tracing along the hem of your crop top, the tips dipping just slightly beneath the fabric. He watches the way you shiver under his touch with a mixture of amusement and fascination. “is that how you treat your canvas?” he teases. “well, if you weren’t such an irresistible muse, maybe I’d be more gentle,” you retort with a smirk. “but since you’re clearly enjoying this little performance, i might just have to give you an encore. how’s that for art?”

gojo lets out a pleased hum, clearly enjoying your playful banter. “oh, i'm enjoying it alright,” he replies, his hand still drifting lazily along your side, inching its way up to brush against the bare skin of your stomach, “i never knew being a muse could be this much fun.”

his touch becomes a little more insistent, his fingers now outlining the contour of your hip, enjoying the way your breath hitches at his touch. “keep going,” he encourages, “i want to see your entire masterpiece.”

your mind is a whirl of sensations. you try to focus on your work, continuing to draw the tiny little stars around gojo's scars, but his hand is a constant presence on your body, stealing your attention once again.

you try to keep your composure, to maintain the illusion of control, but the way his fingers glide across your waist, and the heat creeping up your spine betrays you. “i can't work like this,” you halfheartedly complain, your voice a little breathier than you had intended.

“come on, babe, let me just finish this,” you pouted, looking up at your boyfriend with a mix of frustration and affection. he responded with a gentle smile and a sigh of resignation. “alright, alright, i’m sorry,” he said, pushing himself up from the floor to give you a quick, tender kiss. afterward, he eased back down onto the floor, his free arm resting comfortably behind his head as he settled in with a relax expression.

gojo watches with a relaxed smile as you continue your work, his gaze shifting between the colorful stars and spirals on his arm and your concentrated expression. occasionally, his hand would sneak beneath your shirt or stroke against your arm, as if to remind you of his presence and the effect he had on you. you could feel the heat from his skin through your thin fabric, making you shiver each time he touched you.

“you're so focused,” he remarks with a hint of teasing, “it's quite adorable.”

just as you reach for another marker, the sound of the front door opening makes you look up. geto suguru has entered the apartment, his tall, lean figure filling the doorway.

“i'm home,” he says, his footsteps entering the living room after a beat. he looks surprised to find you and gojo sprawled on the carpet, surrounded by a chaotic array of colorful pens. his gaze flicks between the artwork covering gojo's arm to your flushed face. a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“well, this is a colorful sight,” he observes, stepping closer to the carpet, his eyes drifting over the markings on gojo's arm. the white-haired boy grins up at him, his hand still resting underneath you, “well, our little artist here decided to use me as her canvas.”

geto's gaze shifts to you, raising an eyebrow in amusement, “quite the masterpiece you've created there, love,” he looks down on you before crouching beside you.

you look up, smiling at your other boyfriend before kissing him on the cheek, “how is your day, baby?” you ask, soft and gentle as you continue to lie on your stomach and draw on gojo's arm. geto smiles warmly, his eyes crinkling slightly at your affectionate greeting. he leans down to return the kiss gently, his hand brushing against your cheek.

“my day was fine, darling,” he replies, his voice smooth and soothing. he glances down at the artwork you're creating on gojo's arm, his gaze flickering over the bright, vibrant stars and spirals. “i see you've been keeping our dear satoru entertained,” he teases, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

gojo chuckles, “oh, I'm very entertained, trust me.” he gives your breast a gentle squeeze for emphasis. “our little artist has quite the touch.” geto chuckles, shaking his head at gojo's antics. he crouches down beside you, his gaze lingering on your focused expression as you continue your artwork.

he reaches out and threads his fingers through your hair, gently tousling it. “and how are you doing, my love?” he asks, his voice low and affectionate. you smile, “my day is good, satoru can't stop squeezing my boobs but it was good.”

gojo lets out a laugh, feigning innocence, “hey, i can't help it. they're soft and pleasant to touch.” geto rolls his eyes affectionately, giving gojo a playful nudge. “control yourself, satoru,” he says sternly, yet there's a hint of amusement in his voice. he shifts his attention back to you, his hand still carding through your hair. “ignore this shameless man here. i'm glad your day was good, despite his. . . antics.”

gojo pouts petulantly, his hand still resting on your hip. “i can't help it, they're just. . . right there,” he defends, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

geto huffs, shaking his head again at gojo's unabashed behavior. “you're incorrigible,” he mutters, though his voice lacks any real annoyance. he gazes down at you, a tender look in his eyes, “don't let him distract you too much, dear."

geto watches as you continue to draw on ojo's arm, a small smile playing on his lips. after a minute, he turns his attention to you, his hand reaching out to touch your shoulder gently.

“can i have a turn too?” he asks, his voice is soft but hopeful. gojo's eyes widen slightly in surprise, his hand pausing on your hip. “hey, hey. what's with this sudden request?” he asks, mock-jealousy in his tone. but you can tell by the flicker of interest in his eyes that he doesn't mind sharing the spotlight a bit. geto simply rolls his eyes, a hint of amusement at gojo's reaction.

“of course, babe. you can have a turn,” you reply, shifting your attention to geto without paying attention to gojo for a moment. gojo makes a mock cry of protest, but there's a hint of a grin on his face. “hey, no budging in line!”

geto chuckles at gojo's theatrics, shaking his head at his childish behavior. “oh, hush, you had your turn,” he teased. you smile at them both, enjoying the playful dynamic between the two. “don't worry, he won't take too long,” you reassure gojo, glancing over at him with a playful smirk.

gojo pouts, but there's a glimmer of enjoyment in his eyes at the sight of you interacting with both of them. as geto peels off his uniform, revealing his lean, toned body, your eyes widen in appreciation. you can't help but admire his muscular frame, and a smile spreads across your face.

gojo lets out a mock-disgusted groan, clearly annoyed at how easily he's been replaced in your affections. “oh, come on,” he whines, “you're drooling over him already?” geto chuckles at gojo's complaint, taking a moment to flex his muscles, clearly teasing both you and gojo.

you roll your eyes at gojo's pouting, “oh, shush. you just don't want to share the attention, do you?”

meanwhile, geto is thoroughly enjoying the fact that he has your undivided attention, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and affection. “come on baby, lie here and let me put stars on you,” you giggle like a teenage girl who just got her first kiss from her crush. you pat a spot in front of you. geto grins at your giggling excitement, your enthusiastic invitation making him chuckle. he obliges, settling down in front of you, placing his head on gojo's stomach.

gojo, still feigning annoyance, huffs but can't help but also secretly enjoy the sight of the two of you together and the feeling of his boyfriend on his skin. “i feel like a piece of furniture here,” he complains jokingly. you puff a laugh, “come on, baby, don't be like that. i spend hours putting all these little stars on you,” you give him a peck on the lips, “i'll let you put stars on me too if you let me do him first, hm?” you caressing his arm that is now covered in colorful stars lovingly.

gojo's expression softens as you reassure him, his annoyance melting away under your gentle touch. “well, when you put it that way. . .” he mutters, reluctantly agreeing to your suggestion. he looks down at his arm, admiring the colorful stars you've drawn on it. “alright, fine,” he concedes, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “but you're not allowed to complain if the stars i draw are messy.” you shook your head, “i won't baby.” you give him another peck on the lips and arm before smiling at him, your eyes sparkling as you look at him.

“you're such a baby, toru,” geto comments before rolling his eyes.

gojo huffs at geto's comment, playfully sticking his tongue out. “i'm not a baby,” he protests, his pout reemerging. “i just happen to appreciate the work my lovely artist is doing.”

you chuckle at their banter, amused by their sibling-like rivalry. “let him pout, babe,” you say to geto, patting gojo's stomach gently, “it's endearing.”

geto shakes his head, amused by gojo's sulking, “you're such a drama queen, satoru.” gojo sticks out his tongue again, clearly reveling in the banter. “oh, shut up. i'm just adding some entertainment to this little art session.” you try to hold back a laugh, enjoying the bickering between them. “alright, you two, can you behave for a little bit so i can finish?”

“besides,” you continue, grabbing a marker and shifting your attention to geto's bare torso, “he's just jealous he's not the center of attention right now.” you begin tracing a few stars on geto's chest, your fingertips grazing over his skin as you work.

geto lets out a content sigh as you begin drawing on his chest. his muscles flex slightly under your touch, a soft hum escaping his lips. he glances over at gojo, who is watching the two of you intently. “jealous, huh?” he teases, a lazy smirk on his face. “is his giant ego feeling threatened again?”

gojo huffs, but there's a playful gleam in his eye. “hey, i'm not jealous,” he defends, “i'm just. . . observant? and i happen to notice when i'm not the center of attention,” he pout, slightly rolling his eyes, realizing how stupid he sounds.

he pokes geto's side, causing him to jump slightly, still ticklish even in his relaxed state. “don't forget who's the real star here,” he adds, giving you a wink. geto swats away gojo's hand, rolling his eyes at his friend's antics. “yeah, yeah, keep reminding us all how great you are,” he quips back, his tone affectionate yet teasing.

you can't help but chuckle at their banter, finding it endearing how they can go from flirting with you to bickering like siblings in a matter of seconds. you continue working on geto's chest, tracing swirling patterns and stars over his smooth skin. geto's gaze drifts up to you, admiring your focused expression as you draw. he smiles, enjoying the feeling of your touch on his skin.

“you really love doing this, huh?” he comments, his voice is soft and affectionate. his purple irises never leave your face, drinking every second of you drawing little stars around his scars.

you glance up at him with a mischievous smile, “oh, absolutely. it’s not every day i get to add a touch of sparkle to such a handsome canvas. besides, watching you enjoy it so much makes it even more fun.” you lean in closer, your fingers brushing lightly against his skin as you continue your artwork. “i might just make this my new favorite hobby,” you give his skin a little kiss.

gojo, sensing an opportunity to steal some of the spotlight back, pipes up, “hey, what about me? I let you paint all over me too, ‘yknow.” you glance over at gojo, a coy smile playing on your lips. “oh, don't worry, baby. i didn't forget about you for even a moment.”

you reach over and give gojo's arm a reassuring caress, your fingers tracing over the colorful stars. “and you look adorable with all these stars on you.”

gojo grins, pleased that he's regained a bit of your attention. geto rolls his eyes affectionately, commenting, “there he goes again, always needing the attention.” gojo sticks out his tongue at geto in response, before turning his gaze back to you. “hey, it's nice to be appreciated, ‘yknow,” he whines, pouting like a child.

you laugh at his childish behavior, shaking your head in amusement. “oh, you're always appreciated, you big baby,” you say, giving him another affectionate caress.

geto chuckles, commenting again, “he's such a spoiled brat.” gojo, fully embracing his bratty attitude, puffs out his chest in mock pride. “damn right i'm a spoiled brat. the brat who gets all the attention.” geto rolls his eyes again but can't help but laugh at gojo's antics. “and he's proud of it too. such a child.”

you shake your head, continuing your work on geto's chest, enjoying the friendly banter between the two. gojo rolled his eyes before drifting his eyes to your bare thigh as you were still lying on your stomach, making his face eye-level with your thigh. gojo's eyes narrow upon noticing the bare skin of your thigh, exposed as you continue working on drawing on geto's chest. he can't help but admire the sight, his gaze fixated on the soft skin.

gojo's hand slowly creeps its way over, tracing a lazy pattern on the inside of your thigh, just above behind your knee. you stop for a moment to turn your head and see what gojo were doing before looking at geto who's already looking at him at the same time.

“just let him be, at least he's quiet,” you tell the boy before he gets a chance to throw another comment. a soft laugh escaped geto's lips, chuckles at your comment as he watches gojo's hand travel farther up your thigh, his fingers tracing absentmindedly over your skin.

he can tell from the look on gojo's face that he's completely distracted and fixated on your thigh, completely entranced by the sight before him. “oh, he's definitely not quiet,” geto comments, a small smirk on his face, “he's just drooling silently.” gojo's fingers continue to trace gently over your skin, his touch becoming more purposeful as he slowly inched his way upward. his eyes are half-lidded, his attention fully focused on the exposed skin of your thigh.

he doesn't even bother to respond to geto's comment, too lost in the sight of your bare leg, his mind wandering to all the things he wants to do to you. you shook your head, a defeated sigh leave your lips, “he's such a pervert.” geto simply chuckled at your comment, his gaze flickering over to gojo's fixated expression. “that's an understatement," he quipped.

geto nodded, his eyes following gojo's movements with a mix of amusement and resignation. “that he is. always fixated on the most inappropriate things.” he watches as gojo's hand moves higher, now gently caressing the sensitive skin just above your knee. “i swear, he has the tact of a child sometimes.”

gojo, still entranced by your thigh, finally snaps out of his daze upon hearing your comment. “baby, I'm not a pervert,” he protested, almost whining, though his voice lacked any real conviction, “i'm just. . . appreciating the view.” geto couldn't help but roll his eyes at gojo's weak defense. “yeah, sure you are,” he snorted, not buying it for a second.

he watched as gojo continued to caress your thigh, his fingers gently tracing patterns on the soft skin. “appreciating the view, my ass,” he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“more like salivating over it like a starving man,” he added, shaking his head in amusement. geto rolls his eyes, “‘appreciating the view’ with his eyes all glazed over and not a single coherent thought running through his brain.“

gojo huffs, but he doesn't protest further, knowing that there's a hint of truth in geto's words. his hand continues to wander up your thigh, his touch feather-light as he slowly inches towards the hem of your skirt. geto chuckled again, shaking his head at gojo's lack of denials.

“exactly,” he agreed, a smirk on his lips, “he's just a man controlled by his primal urges. and right now, his primal urge is to cop a feeling.” gojo pouts a little, but can't argue with geto's assessment. his hand slowly travels higher up your thigh, his touch becoming bolder, his fingers tracing the edge of your skirt, gently inching under the hem. “baby it's ticklish,” you move your leg the gojo's touch slightly.

gojo pauses his movements, hearing your protest. he glances up at you, a look of innocent concern on his face. “ticklish, huh?” he says, his hand still hovering just under the hem of your skirt, his index finger tracing small circles on your thigh.

gojo feigns innocence, “oops, my bad. i was just... exploring.” geto snorts, clearly amused by the interaction. “yeah, ‘exploring.’ that's one way to put it.” gojo rolled his eyes, feeling called out, but he can't deny the truth in geto's words. his finger continues to trace small circles on your thigh, his touch a mixture of feather-light and purposeful.

“i can't help it,” he defends, his voice sounding almost whiny, “you just have such soft skin, and... well, it's right there, begging to be touched." geto laughs again, shaking his head at gojo's feeble excuse. “right, it's all my fault. my skin just magically calls out to your wandering hands,” you mock, the sarcasm in your tone clear.

despite your sarcastic remarks, your expression holds a hint of amusement, clearly enjoying the banter. you glance down at where gojo's hand is gently caressing your thigh, his touch still light and teasing. “you're like a dog with a bone, ‘toru. once you get ahold of something, you just don't know how to let go.” gojo pouts again, feigning offense at geto's dog comment. “hey, i'm not a dog,” he replies, his hand still wandering higher up your thigh, almost reaching the bare skin under your skirt.

“and i can let go... when i want to,” he adds defiantly, “i just happen to really enjoy holding onto this particular... bone.” you rolled your eyes before sighing, continue to draw a stars around geto's torso “i swear I'm gonna die young with all of this headache you two gave me.” geto chuckles at your exasperated comment, enjoying the banter between the three of you. “hey, don't blame us for the inevitable early grave,” he replies with a smirk, “we're just adding a bit of excitement to your life.”

gojo, not wanting to be outdone, chimes in with a wink, “yeah, think of us as your personal stress relievers.”

you snort a little before nodding your head, sarcastically replying, “yeah right, more like adding more stress.” geto chuckles, “aw baby, don't be like that, you know from the start we don't promise you this relationship will be stress-free,” he pushes himself upward to give you kisses before lying back.

you playfully roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you continue to draw the stars on his torso, feeling his muscles flex underneath your touch. “oh, i know,” you reply, shaking your head in mock resignation. “but a girl can still hope, can't she?”

“yeah, sorry to break it to you, princess,” gojo jokingly says, his hand now gently gliding from your thigh to your hip, caressing the skin just above the hem of your skirt.

“but you knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to date us,” he adds, his voice laced with playful confidence. you take a deep breath, “that sucks,” supporting your face with one hand as you lazily draw on geto's skin. geto smirks, enjoying your half-hearted complaint. “yeah, it's pretty rough,” he replies sarcastically, “having two handsome and charming boyfriends who love and adore you. oh, the hardships you face.”

gojo pipes up, his hand continuing to explore your hip bone under your skirt, “oh, shut up. she should feel honored to have us.” you let out a laugh, shaking your head at their banter. despite your faux complaints, you secretly loved their back-and-forth banter, finding their playful bickering amusing.

“oh, trust me, i feel incredibly honored,” you retort with an affectionate eye roll, “having two massive, needy babies fighting for my attention all the time. it's a dream come true. now my mansion’s ballroom is a bit too crowded, and my collection of rare art pieces isn’t fitting in my oversized vault,” you sarcastically joke.

gojo and geto both roll their eyes playfully at your sarcastic comment, but they can't help but smile at your clever quip. geto laughs, shaking his head. “oh, yeah, it's such a burden having two wealthy, successful sorcerer— not to mention, the strongest in your life. your poor bank account is suffering.”

gojo chimes in with a grin, “and your poor heart must be strained from all the love and affection we shower on you.” you feign a sigh, placing the back of your hand on your forehead dramatically. “oh, the struggles i face,” you say dramatically, your voice dripping with fake sadness. “having two handsome, charming men constantly pestering me for attention and showering me with gifts. it's absolutely terrible.”

gojo and geto exchange a knowing glance, both aware that you're laying on the sarcasm heavily. but they also know that deep down, you secretly love the attention they give you.

“oh, poor princess indeed,” geto says, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “it must be exhausting having two devoted boyfriends who worship the ground you walk on,” gojo sympatheticly said, tapping your ass. you let out a sigh, “i can't do anything about it, can i?” geto and hojo both give you playful grins, shaking their heads in unison.

“nope, not a damn thing,” gojo replies with a shrug, his hand still slowly tracing patterns on your hip under your skirt. geto chimes in, “you're stuck with us, princess. no backsies.”

“poor me,” you shook your head in defeat.

you tap geto's abs before changing your position to sitting, “now my turn,” you demand, giving the two boys a marker. pulling your crop top out of your body, leaving you on nothing but your pink bra and lying on your back on the floor. both boys stare at you with an almost predatory gleam in their eyes, clearly enjoying the sight before them. they take the markers from you, their gaze hungry and appreciative.

gojo twirls one of the markers in his hand, a sly smile on his lips, “oh, princess, you spoil us.” geto nods in agreement, his eyes roaming over your body, “you're giving us a blank canvas to work with. this should be fun.” both boys move closer to you, each taking one side of your body. gojo's hand begins tracing lines on your stomach, his touch firm and purposeful, while geto's fingers glide over your sides, drawing swirling patterns with the marker.

they work in tandem, their eyes occasionally locking with each other as they take in the sight of your body, their markers moving in perfect sync across your skin. “you're such a good canvas,” gojo murmurs, his voice low and husky.

“i know my love, now shut up and do your job,” you pinch his cheek softly. gojo and geto both chuckle at your demand, but they comply, focusing their attention back on your body, their fingers and markers gliding across your skin, their movements precise and deliberate.

“yes, ma'am,” gojo replies with mock obedience, his lips curving into a smirk. “we'll shut up and get back to work,” geto adds, his hand moving over your ribs, tracing small stars with his marker. they continue to draw on your bare skin, their eyes fixed on their task, their markers moving quickly as they fill in different areas. they occasionally glance at each other, exchanging secretive grins as they admire their work.

“you know,” gojo murmurs, his marker tracing the line of your hip bone, “we could do this every night if you wanted.” you raised your eyebrows, with a little smirk on your lips your replies, “or we could go to a tattoo shop and make this permanent,” you jokingly tells your boyfriends. gojo and geto both pause for a moment at the mention of tattoos, their eyes flickering towards each other. they exchange a glance, contemplating your suggestion.

gojo grins, the idea is clearly appealing to him. “you know, that's not a bad idea.” he says, returning his attention to drawing on your body. geto nods, a smirk playing on his lips. “yeah, we could mark you as ours permanently. make sure everyone knows who that gorgeous body belongs to.” they continue their work, their markers gliding across your skin, their touches becoming more possessive and claiming with every stroke.

“wouldn't it be hot?” gojo asks, his hand tracing an intricate pattern on your ribs, “you walking around covered in our marks, a permanent reminder that you're ours, body and soul.“ you chuckle, slightly amused by their reaction to your joke, “yeah, that's not gonna happen.” gojo and geto both pout playfully at your rejection of the idea, their eyes filled with mock disappointment.

“aww, come on,” gojo whines, his marker continuing to draw lines on your upper body, “why not? you'd look even hotter with a bunch of our tattoos all over you.” geto nods, a smirk playing on his lips, “yeah, imagine how jealous everyone would be, seeing all those ink marks on your body, knowing they can never touch you the same way we can.”

you snort, shaking your head while your eyes are focusing on the ceiling, “you're delusional, baby, nobody gonna feel that way.” both boys feign offense at your comment, their expressions hurt and indignant. “what do you mean, nobody's going to feel that way?” gojo protests, his marker pausing on your lower abdomen. “you're like, the most gorgeous person alive. of course, people would be jealous.”

geto nods in agreement, his fingers tracing a star on your hip, “yeah, you underestimate your own allure. you're a walking dream, princess.” you breathe a hearty laugh, ruffle your boyfriends' hair, “you guys are so sweet, you're making me feel good about myself, no wonder why i love you two so much.”

they continue their work, their markers and fingers moving in synchronized harmony, filling in the spaces on your body with their artwork. gojo glances up at you, his eyes meeting yours, his expression soft and loving, “you know we adore you, right? every inch of you, inside and out.”

geto nods, his gaze drifting over your body, appreciating every line and contour. “you're our world, princess. we're hopelessly smitten with you.” their words hang in the air, their sincerity and admiration for you clear in their voices. their markers continue to glide over your skin, their touch gentle and reverent.

they finish up their artwork, their markers making a few final strokes before they both sit back and admire their work. they move their gazes over your body, taking in every mark and design they've made. “there,” gojo says, a satisfied smile on his lips, “perfect.”

geto's eyes roaming over your body. “damn, you look even sexier covered in our artwork.” they both take a moment to appreciate their handiwork, their eyes roaming over your body, their expressions filled with pride and satisfaction. the artwork they've drawn on your skin is intricate and beautiful, a masterpiece of their combined effort.

“you really do look amazing,” gojo murmurs, his hand gliding over your hip. “we did a damn good job,” geto says, his gaze lingering on your stomach, “our masterpiece in the flesh."

you look down at the artwork adorning your skin, your eyes widening with genuine admiration. a playful smile spreads across your face as you turn to face them. “well, i must say, you two make quite the artistic team. if this is your idea of a masterpiece, i’d say you’ve outdone yourselves. i might have to start charging for these kinds of commissions!” you give them both a teasing wink, clearly impressed by their work.

you flash them a sly grin and say, “alright, art critics, i need you to snap a photo of your masterpiece. i’m sure you’ll want to show this off as much as i do. so, let’s get that camera ready—this level of artistry deserves to be immortalized, don’t you think?” uou strike a dramatic pose, making sure the artwork is front and center.

they both burst out laughing at your playful words, their eyes gleaming with amusement. they're both clearly pleased by your praise and appreciate your playful banter. gojo grins widely, his hands already moving to fish out his phone. “oh, princess, you have no idea. this isn't just a masterpiece, it's a work of art that should be displayed in a museum."

“damn right,” geto agrees, his eyes still wandering over your body, admiring the artwork he and gojo created. he leans over to grab his own phone, ready to capture the perfect shot of you and their masterpiece. “no need to tell us twice, we’ll document this masterpiece, alright. say cheese.”

gojo and geto both aim their phones at you, framing the artwork on your skin with the camera lenses. they snap a few shots, each from a different angle, making sure to capture every intricate detail of their masterpiece. gojo grins as he reviews the pictures on his phone, his eyes roaming over the image with approval. “damn, we've really outdone ourselves this time,” giving the boy beside him a high-five.

geto nods in agreement, admiring the pictures on his own screen. “that's an understatement. you look even hotter than i could have imagined.” they can't help but laugh as you strike a dramatic pose, clearly enjoying yourself. “that's right baby, just like that, look at you, you look like you're ready for a magazine cover,” gojo chuckles to himself, his finger hovering over the camera button.

“or the cover of a high-end art book,” geto adds, a smirk on his lips. “alright, smile pretty for the camera, princess.” you flash a radiant smile, channeling your inner supermodel as you strike a pose, knowing full well that you look absolutely fabulous.

gojo and geto both snap more pictures, clearly enjoying capturing your beauty and the artwork covering your body. “damn, you're a natural,” gojo says, studying the photos on his phone. “we should frame these and hang them up in our rooms.”

“oh? we're gonna hang it up in our rooms?” you ask, a glint of something flashing in your eyes. “well, we better make it worth it.”

so locking your eyes with them, slowly and sensually you take off your pink bra, holding it between your fingers while your other hand covers your breast. playfully, you throw your bra at them before laughing. gojo and geto's eyes widen in surprise as you seductively remove your bra and playfully throw it at them. they both can't help but grin, their gazes immediately locking onto your bare chest.

“damn, baby, you really know how to make a statement,” gojo murmurs, his eyes drinking in the sight of your exposed skin. geto smirks, catching your bra in his hand and hanging it around his neck, his eyes roaming over your chest. “you definitely make hanging up those pictures worth it.” you are lying on your side with your elbow kneeling on the carpet to support your head while your other hand is still covering your bare chest.

“come on, boys, take a picture of me,” you smile at them. they both raise their phones again, their gazes never leaving your form as you strike yet another provocative pose. their hands hold the camera steadily, their fingers poised over the camera button, their eyes still fixed on your body.

“fuck, you look incredible,” gojo breathes, his eyes roving over you, taking in every inch of flesh on display. geto grins, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, “you’re making us want to drop these phones and pounce on you right now, princess.” they both snap a few more photos, focusing on different parts of your body, capturing every curve and contour in all its naked glory. their expressions are filled with desire and admiration as they take in the images on their screens.

“you're a goddamn goddess,” gojo murmurs, his eyes lingering on a particularly risqué photograph of you before adding, “and remember to stay just like that, princess.”

“agreed,” geto nods, his eyes roaming over the photo of you, clearly appreciating every detail. “this is something to keep in our private collection for sure.” you give them a sultry smile, “well, if you’re this impressed now, just wait until you see what i have in store for our private collection. keep those photos safe—I’m planning to give you both plenty more to admire.” you strike a playful pose, teasingly adjusting your position to give them an even better view. gojo and geto exchange a knowing look, their eyes lighting up with excitement and anticipation. they clearly love your playful attitude and the promise of more to come.

“oh, we'll be keeping these photos very safe,“ geto chuckles, his eyes never leaving your body as he continues to take pictures, “and we'll be eagerly awaiting whatever else you have in store for us.”

gojo smirks, his gaze roaming over your body once again, “you really know how to work a camera, princess.“ you look up to them, giving your boyfriends doe eyes as you remove your hand— now fully flashing them your breast. “don't stop now,” you murmur. the tip of your feet moving slowly to geto's abs, purposely open your legs knowing you are wearing nothing underneath your skirt except your pink underwear.

gojo and geto both freeze, their eyes widening as you slowly stretch your feet to press against geto's stomach, your legs opening to reveal your skimpy panties. they're both momentarily speechless, their gazes fixated on your seductive pose.

“holy hell,” gojo gasps, his hands clenching around the edge of his phone as he struggles to take more pictures. “fuck, princess, you're incredible,” geto breathes, his voice low and thick with desire as he looks down at your legs. they both start snapping more pictures, their hands shaky as they try to capture every moment of your seductive display. gojo's eyes dart down to your open legs, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips as he admires the sight between your thighs.

“can't believe how damn shameless you are,” he groans, his gaze still fixed on your body. geto nods in agreement, his fingers gliding over his phone screen, “you're driving us crazy, princess. you know just how to push our buttons.“ gojo's hand moves quickly, his fingers grasping the edge of your skirt and giving it a firm tug, revealing the skimpy pink fabric of your panties. he quickly raises his phone and snaps a picture, his gaze fixated on the lacy material that's barely covering your most intimate parts.

“fuck, you're a sight to behold,” he mutters, his voice low and gravelly.

geto leans closer, his eyes locked on the photo on the phone screen as he adds, “and I didn't think you could get even hotter, but here we are.” they both can't help but admire the photo, their gazes taking in every detail of your exposed skin and the lacy underwear— already planning on their mind about making it as their home screen. gojo's fingers move over the phone screen again, zooming in to get a closer look at the delicate fabric clinging to your skin.

“you really know how to make things difficult for us, princess,” he mutters, his eyes tracing the contour of your hips and thighs outlined by the thin material. geto chuckles, a smirk on his lips as he adds, “we're not gonna be able to concentrate on anything else tonight after seeing this.”

“now, now, wanna try to make me see stars?” your toe slowly moving to the contour of geto's abs making their eyes light up at your words, their lips curving into wicked grins. they both know exactly what you're implying, and they're both more than willing to make it happen.

gojo's gaze darkens, a sly smile on his lips as he sets his phone down. “oh princess, you don't have to ask us twice,” he replies, stepping closer. geto also sets his phone down, a similar expression on his face as he moves closer to you. “we'll make you see the whole damn universe, sweetheart.”

“why don’t we take this party to the bedroom?” you suggest with a playful glint in your eye. gojo and geto both nod in agreement, their eyes filled with desire and eagerness. “i like the way you think, princess,” gojo murmurs, his hand already reaching out to take yours, his touch firm and possessive. geto brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your skin. “lead the way, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and suggestive.

they help you to stand from the floor. you take their hands, holding their finger before pulling them toward your shared bedroom. “come on, boys,” your voice is soft, sensual, like a siren singing for their prey. you turn around, once again flashing them your bare chest— a jeans skirt and a pair of socks are the only fabric on your body.

their gazes roam over your body as you flash them, their eyes hungrily taking in your bare chest, the exposed skin on your thighs and legs, and the soft fabric of your socks. they both make appreciative noises, their grips on your hand tightening slightly as they follow you towards the bedroom. gojo's eyes roam over your body, his voice low and gruff as he says, “you really know how to make an entrance.”

geto smirk, his gaze still fixated on your curves as he adds, “we're gonna have so much fun with you.” you reach the bedroom, and enter the room, the air thick with anticipation. the boys are right behind you, their hands still intertwined with yours, their eyes still trailing over your nearly naked body with hungry gazes.

gojo closes the door behind him, a sly smile on his lips as he locks it. “now that we're alone, princess,” he says, his voice dripping with desire, “we can focus all our attention on you.”

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Give Me Shelter, For My Heart | Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader | One Shot? 3k

Things are missing around the Avengers' compound and a newly returned Bucky is acting weirder than normal...Steve and Sam go to investigate and discover more than they bargained for.

Warnings: 18+ for language and suggestion of Hydra violence/torture/experimentation, omegaverse themes including alpha & omega, suggestion of pregnancy/pups, wolf shifting Rated F for Fluff and G for good friends

Challenges & Prompts: @buckybarnesevents Alpha Bucky April with extra prompts - word count, nesting, purring, beta characters, (I'll let mods decide if this hits the breeding/baby fever prompt). And @fandom-free-bingo 'forehead kisses'

Graphic by me and Canva, dividers by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

“Hmm,” Steve looked around the supply room, surveying the gaps and empty shelves, normally well stocked with blankets and provisions. It was the third time this week he’d found himself at a loss, not just for words but his things too. Everything seemed to be going missing. 

First it was a few plates and mugs from the galley kitchen by his office, then it’d been the lunch he’d left for him and Bucky in the fridge. Last night he’d gone into Bucky’s room to make sure he was okay and found the man sleeping on a bare mattress, all the sheets, pillows and blankets were gone and the newly revived Bucky refused to explain what had happened to them or even acknowledge that there was anything wrong at all. He hadn’t even addressed that fact that the window was wide open and it looked as if he was sleeping in his shoes. 

Which brought Steve’s thoughts to the man himself. Bucky had been so odd since he’d returned. For a day or two, he’d been something like his old self, despite the awful situation they found themselves in, he’d joked with Steve and reminisced with the few memories he had. They’d enjoyed a beer together and he’d even met with Tony during their mediation and patched things up. 

Then, they’d all climbed onto the jet and he’d become distant, pacing like a caged animal until they’d landed. As soon as the doors were open he’d vanished for forty-eight hours and sent the entire compound into mayhem before strolling back in as if nothing had happened, bruised and covered in blood. Judging by the bandages he sported later that day, his cuts and bruises spread under his shirt and trousers too. 

Steve knew that he’d changed during his time with Hyrda, back in the 30s they’d both been betas, happy to plod along ignoring the madness of the few alpha’s in Brooklyn. It had been a rare thing then, to be an alpha, now they were considered a dying breed, so when Bruce’s tests had revealed that Bucky was an alpha now, they’d tried to take it in their stride that he might go off on his own sometimes, especially since omegas were even rarer. But there was still so much they didn’t know, so much to unpack and discover about the Bucky they’d rescued, and Steve was so desperate to spend time getting to know this new man that all the time apart was making him worry. 

“You okay?” Sam asked from the doorway, leaning in to hand Steve a hot cup of coffee. 

“Just doing a stock check.” 

“He take something else?” Sam stepped into the small room, lined with shelves and shelves of tents, camping stoves, parachutes, it seemed to go on and on. The bare grey shelves where stock was missing was stark against the white washed walls. 

“He?” 

“Barnes,” Sam sipped his coffee, matter of fact, and Steve confronted the worry that had been plaguing him. 

“It’s Bucky, isn’t it?” Steve dropped his head heavily and Sam patted him on the back, still sipping his drink. 

“Sorry man, told you, he’s not right yet. He’s not hurting anyone though, if he hates his bedding, who cares, if he hates your lunches, who could blame him.” 

Sam sidestepped Steve’s halfhearted swipe with a grin on his face. 

“But what’s he doing with it, Sam? Where’s it all going?” 

“Hell, I don’t know, have you asked him?” Sam raised his eyebrows. 

Had Steve asked his best friend, who flinched at his touch and shied away from any conversations? Bucky who vanished for hours at a time and came back looking as if he’d been dragged through a hedge? No, he hadn’t. He’d been too scared to confront what might be going on, what latent part of his programming might be at play. 

“Look, if you’re too scared to ask why don’t I?” 

Now it was Steve’s turn to raise his eyebrow, it wasn’t that Sam and Bucky didn’t get along, they just didn’t get along yet. Steve was working on it. 

“What if we…followed him?” He offered instead and Sam laughed again. 

“Who knew Captain America was scared of his own friends,” he couldn’t contain the chuckles. “Fine, fine. Let’s keep an eye on him.” Sam turned to the ceiling, more comfortable with the AI than Steve was. “FRIDAY, if Sergeant Barnes leaves his room, please can you alert us - privately?” 

“Of course,” the soft voice answered and Steve gave his friend a weak smile. 

FRIDAY’S alert went off twice a day, every day, over the next week. But despite their best efforts neither Steve nor Sam managed to catch up with Bucky. 

It wasn’t until the following Saturday that they managed to follow him. Bucky was supposed to be at a training session to get his official certifications but they’d both had a feeling he’d try and skip it. As predicted they’d spotted the blue of his new henley edging around the side of the compound, a full backpack strapped to his back. 

Bucky ran across the grass and towards the thick forest. His still uncut hair was tied back but tendrils fell out as he sprinted into the wind. 

He was surprisingly loud, as he strode quickly between the trees, snapping twigs and branches that Steve knew he could’ve dodge even before the serum and his training. Sam looked at him, both of their feet silent as they followed. 

Bucky’s speed increased as he turned his face up into the breeze, his backpack jostled against the trees, bouncing when he began to run. 

Steve kept up, sending Sam wide, into the breeze, in case Bucky doubled back. 

Just as he was starting to feel lost in the repetition of trees and ferns, Bucky burst into a clearing and Steve slammed to a halt. 

The pine trees gave way to a small patch of clear sky, shining down on an old shed. Unlike the other abandoned guard houses, this one had obviously been cleaned recently. The small porch was swept and a pair of Avengers camping chairs were arranged neatly facing into the forest. A line had been strung between the cabin and the trees where one of the missing blankets fluttered in the gentle wind. 

Steve crouched down, motioning to Sam on the other side of the clearing to stay out of sight. 

Bucky approached slowly, “Cățeluș, are you here?” 

At first there was nothing and then a wolf nosed its way out from behind the door, it’s chestnut brown fur almost gold in the sunlight. It leaped forwards from the porch and shot across the clearing, leaping into Bucky’s arms. 

Steve whipped his head up to try and find Sam and by the time his eyes found Bucky again the wolf was gone, replaced by a woman pulling on a large t-shirt from Bucky’s backpack. 

“James!” Her sweet voice rang out in the otherwise quiet forest. 

Swamped by Bucky’s familiar red henley, you shot from the door and into Bucky's waiting arms, the back pack dropped to the floor and forgotten. 

She was swamped by Bucky’s red henley and he wrapped you in his arms, one large hand on the back of your head, tucking you into his neck. The other supported your legs, now wrapped around his waist. 

In the clearing Bucky's shoulders relaxed as he sank into your embrace, kissing and nipping at your neck. In return you tipped your head, practically purring at the attention and wriggling in his arms. 

“Have you been okay, baby.” Bucky asked, pulling away enough to look you over. 

“I'm okay, I missed you though, James, please don't leave me again.” You begged cupping his stubbled cheeks in your hands. 

Bucky turned into your palm and kissed it, “I know, I know, I’ve been making sure it’s safe for you.” 

Steve's heart sank. Bucky didn't feel safe? 

“You trust me, don't you, my little omega.” Bucky rubbed his nose into your cheek and you giggled, holding him even tighter, your hands in his hair. 

An omega? 

Sam stared over at Steve, eyes wide. 

It was clear to them both that this was no chance encounter and all Bucky’s odd behaviour suddenly started to make more sense.

Steve motioned for Sam to leave, they could sneak back to the compound and perhaps bring this up tentatively. Perhaps leave some items you might like lying around in the hopes that Bucky would take them and understand that his secret was out, but it was safe. 

Sam moved swiftly round the clearing as Steve continued to watch Bucky. 

Bucky vanished into the cabin, leaving you on the porch alone, snuggled into his shirt and pressing the collar to your nose. 

“She’s cute,” Sam whispered, squeezing up against Steve, still hiding in the overgrown ferns that lined the edge of the cabin. 

“We can’t let her sleep out here. She must be hungry and cold.”

Bucky emerged from the cabin carrying two of the missing mugs, balancing them carefully on the railing before scooping you up into his lap. His hand hovered by his mouth, sipping in slow motion as his eyes scanned the tree line and Steve took a breath, sitting back quickly. 

“Stay here, Cățeluș,” he was up in a flash, eyes always on the tree line even when he reached into his boot to pull out a familiar gerber knife. 

Instead of flipping it into his palm, he balanced it on the arm of your camping chair. Eyes still on the trees he placed his metal hand on top of your head, “stay here and stay safe, follow the plan, do what you need to.” His voice was low, series, almost a growl. Far away from the happy, loving tones he’d been speaking to you with before. 

You nodded, and as soon as he felt your head move he was up and off the porch. 

Steve and Sam looked up in time to see a wolf leap towards them. 

It was true then, the experiments had worked and Steve had the cold feeling that returned every time he discovered something new about his friend during a fight, but he had no time to worry about it now. Not when the wolf was closing in on them. 

It was huge, its white fur dusted with fallen leaves, but its teeth gleamed in the afternoon sun as he pounced, snarling. His paws the size of dinner plates slamming into the ground in front of them, teeth bared and snarling. 

Steve rolled away, pulling Sam with him and covering his body, regretting not bringing the shield. 

“Bucky!” Sam shouted from under Steve’s arm

“Bucky it’s us we don’t want to hurt you!” 

The wolf pulled back from the two men pinned beneath him, and something like clarity passed over Bucky’s icey blue eyes and he sat on his haunches, head cocked to one side, ears floppy. Then it stood, rounding the bushes and, in a blink, the man had reappeared still hiding before the foliage to cover his naked body. 

“Steve -” Bucky looked thoroughly confused, 

“Bucky, we’re so sorry we shouldn’t have followed you.” 

“What are you doing here?” Bucky’s voice wavered, his body cold without his fur and with his clothes left behind in the cabin. 

“We were worried about you, man, you’ve been so weird - stealing stuff, going missin’, can you blame us for getting creeped out?” Sam raised his eyebrows and Bucky’s brow furrowed. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I just had to -” he gestured back towards the cabin and, as if remembering he’d left you behind with no way of knowing he was safe he turned and ran back to the clearing. 

Steve and Sam jumped up, chasing after Bucky once more. 

The cabin porch was empty when Steve picked his way down the slope of mud and rocks into the clearing. 

A howl rang out as he got closer to the little house, a high, pained sound and then the response came, low and level. 

There were two wolves now, hidden at the side of the cabin in the shadows.

The white wolf kept itself half turned towards Steve and Sam, who kept quiet and still, barely daring to breathe, allowing its companion to approach slowly. 

The brown wolf dropped in front of the white, ears flat back against its head, and then rolled over, showing a soft belly that the white wolf nuzzled gently before turning back to Steve and barking sharply. 

Steve held his hands up and the wolf barked again, turning tail and returning to the cabin. 

It took only moments for Bucky to show himself on the porch, pulling his henley back down over his now dirt streaked belly. 

“Come in,” he gestured up the stairs and vanished again. 

The cabin, though run down, was well kept. The porch was swept of leaves and there was even a little mat by the door. 

“Shoes,” you whispered, pulling on Bucky’s sleeve as you entered the main living space, making an attempt to hide behind him. You’d dressed again too, also in one of Bucky’s henleys and a pair of leggings that Steve recognised as Avengers recruit issue. 

“Do you mind?” Bucky asked while Steve and Sam stared between you both. 

“Shoes,” you turned to look up at Bucky again, eyes pleading in one moment and then flicking to the two new men treading mud into your home. 

“Your shoes, take them off.” Bucky helped them arrange their boots neatly by the door while you pottered around the fireplace. “This is her nest,” he whispered, making sure the doormat was straight and the little curtain was neat over the window. “It’s important to omegas, to her,” you turned shooting a glare over your shoulder, “to us-that it’s kept just right and she hates shoes inside.”

In the small living space a camping stove had been set up with a kettle, a portable fridge, and an assortment of mugs, both Avengers field regulation and novelty, which were set neatly on the mantel. You chose four, and placed them next to the kettle while it steamed happily away. 

Bucky spoke softly to you in a mixture of English and Romanian, but you didn’t come any closer to the strange men. You’d seen them before, on the television and in Bucky’s notebooks, but now that they were here, so large and imposing, you couldn’t bring yourself to even look over. 

“This is Cățeluș, well, that’s not her real name but we couldn’t find that. She - uh -” you watched Bucky struggle for words and lay a hand on his cheek, smiling warmly up at him. Your Winter, your James. “-I don’t want to say the word, it upsets her, but she was with me when I was - him - part of the experiments.” 

You poured the tea quietly, watching the steam rise into the darts of sun making their way through the broken knots of wood in the wall, and you took a deep breath. With shaking hands you gave the first man, Sam, a cup. He had a gentle face, a wide smile and he didn’t look at you with pity, as you feared, only interest. 

The second man held his breath as you approached, keeping his hands as close to his body as possible until you pushed the cup towards him. Steve. Bucky had lots of pictures of Steve in his notebooks and had told you more stories than you could remember, but he didn’t look sickly, he looked too big for the space, his shoulders drawn in, slouched. You appreciated that he was trying not to look scary, even though your every nerve was on edge.  

Bucky took the proffered mug from your hands with a kiss to your forehead and you sighed, allowing him to steer you to the only arm chair in the room and then passing you your own tea. 

“We got out, eventually and - I brought her here.” Bucky sat on the rolled arm of the chair, draping his own arm over your shoulders and fitting you into his side. 

Steve and Sam could only stare. 

“Why didn’t you bring her to the compound? She can stay -” Steve turned to you, “you can stay, either in Bucky’s room or you can have your own room if you’d prefer.” 

It took you a moment to process the offer, but eventually you shook your head, turning into Bucky’s side. 

“It was awful - in there, with them she, we both -” Bucky struggled for the words, the desire to protect you rising inside 

“It’s okay,” Sam said carefully, “I know the transition’s been rough on you, Bucky, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for her, how you even got her out here. But there’s nothing to be afraid of, maybe she’ll come with you? If you suggest it?” 

Sam kept looking at you, his eyes soft and encouraging but you turned away, pressed your face into Bucky’s ribs where his scent had soaked through his shirt, reassuring and primal, chanting in your head Alpha, safe, Alpha, safe. You did miss him, when he was gone, but how could he keep you safe in that place. 

You’d seen it, once or twice, through the trees when you took a walk, looking for whatever you could find in the forest. Guards left lots of things behind, bottles and coats and jackets, useful things. You collected them all, skirting around the edge of that horrid white building and hoping to never see the terrifying things that flew out of it, men in suits and robots, it was too much. 

“You can bring whatever you like with you, and maybe Nat and Wanda could help you with some new things, if you liked?” Steve followed Sam’s lead, keeping his voice steady and low. 

“James - my nest.” You mumbled, gripping his henley in your fist. 

He dropped a hand onto your head, “we can do whatever you like, baby. You want to stay here, we can stay, you want to go to the compound, we’ll go.” 

You felt Bucky’s heart rate pick up, its beat hammering and your anxiety grew too, your breathing more ragged, you turned even further into him, practically climbing into his lap, the henley you’d taken from him riding up. 

Instantly you knew it was a mistake, the scars of your time in Hydra were still visible, raised on your skin, yellowing patches of healing bruises and calloused skin from repeated bouts in the chair. 

Sam and Steve could barely conceal their inhale of breath. 

“Bucky, did you get her checked by a doctor or…” Sam trailed off, Bucky looked angry again, his arms fully surrounding you. 

“And what would I have said, Sam?” He growled, “I know she looks like she’s been kept in a cage and beaten but please don’t arrest me, I promise it wasn’t me? Her social security number? Sorry, I don’t have it, we don’t even know her name. I did the best I could.” His anger tipped over into a resigned sadness. Bucky cupped your face in one hand and forced you to look up at him, “I did the best I could, baby, I really did.” 

You nodded and his grip loosened so you could nuzzle into his chest again, your own tears running down your cheeks at the memory of those early days. Bucky’s shaking hands patching up your burns and cuts, the whisky you’d slugged before he pulled out a stray bullet from your arm and stitched it with floss. Every touch had been gentle though, every time he’d changed your bandages or cleaned you up, it had been gentle. It had been everything he could give you. 

“We didn’t mean it like that, Buck,but we could help, get her checked over and then you can come back here.” Sam’s voice was plaintive, deliberately soothing and it made Bucky’s blood boil. 

“I’m not taking her to that place.” He bit back, there was no mistaking the way he curled you into his body, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his arms around your back. 

It didn’t hurt anymore, to be touched, but then it’d never hurt to be touched by James. His hands had always been careful with you, his strength used only for protection and it was for that reason that you lay your trust in him completely. 

“Don’t make me go, Alpha.” You whispered, your lips brushing the base of his neck where you’d marked him, right over his scent gland, your teeth marks an eternal brand. You nuzzled into him, your chest rumbling again. 

“I won’t make you go,” he looked back at Steve and Sam, the finality of his decision sat heavily in the air. 

“Can we at least bring some medical things here? Would you let Sam check you out?” Steve offered, he was increasingly concerned by the way Bucky had retreated into the chair, his own legs now curled up on the overstuffed cushion.

Above you, James nodded once, “just you and Sam, don’t tell anyone else. I’ll know if you tell anyone else.” The panic edging Bucky’s voice had Steve raising his hands in surrender. 

“I promise, Buck, just Sam and I.”

Sam and Steve left the cabin at dusk while you and Bucky watched from the deck. As soon as they were beyond the trees he pulled you even tighter against his chest, his heat warm. 

“Everything is going to be okay, baby, I promise, no one’s going to ever, ever, hurt you again.” His hands slid down your arms and across the slow swell of your belly. “But we should consider their offer, make sure we’re making a choice that’s good for you and me, as well as them.” His palm pushed up under your shirt, splayed on your tight skin and, deep inside, your pup pushed back. 

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 3

Masterlist

Chapter 2 // Next (Chapter 3) (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, nonsexual and sexual nudity, implied prior noncon, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan stared down, transfixed on the boy kneeling at his feet. The starkness of it all washed through his blood like ice. His eyes swept over the pale, naked skin, a canvas covered in scars that spanned hues from pale white to deep red. Fresh bruises overlaid the scars, a similar patchwork of purples and blues that belied the shape of handprints and bludgeoning tools. As he drank in the carnage, it dawned on Rowan that the boy was even scrawnier than he’d suspected when peering through the bars of the cage on the sales floor. Now, in the bright lights of his condo, he could see frail that ribs showed through the taut skin of the boy's back.  

Then, Rowan’s eyes locked on the thick, standard-issue leather collar, the only item resembling clothes this boy had been afforded for transit. It was tight around his neck, a small padlock affixed in the back. Rowan knew that the key had been secured somewhere in the box, likely in a packet along with the rest of the paperwork. The paperwork, of course, that was affixed to the lid of the empty box just a few feet away.

“Hey there,” Rowan said, using the same voice he would if he were speaking to an injured child. What else could he do? He was in a position of undeniable power and influence, and the least he could do was try to reduce the threat of his very presence. “My name is Rowan Bailey, but uh, you can just call me Rowan. Welcome home. Well, it doesn’t have to be your home forever, but uh, for now, yeah? Oh, man, I’m getting ahead of myself here. I’m already talking too much, I know, I’m sorry. I just want you to know that you’re safe now. That’s the most important part. You’re safe now, and you’re going to live here for a little while, and I’m going to help you. You’re safe, I promise”

The boy didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t lift his head. Rowan bit down on his lower lip, still tender from where he’d worried it raw overnight. Part of him wondered if even a single word of what he’d just said had gotten through, stirred any understanding, instilled any comfort. How could it, when Rowan didn’t even believe in himself?   

---

The pet strained to make out what Master was saying. There was a warm buzz of words above its head, but it couldn’t discern a single one. Master had certainly said a lot, and the pet could only hope that there hadn’t been any important instructions. Its first impression with its new master was important, it knew that. Its old master had discarded it for this same insolence, this same tendency to ignore his words and to exist only between the ringing of its own ears.

So the pet strained further, titled its chin up just a little bit, hoping that it could steal a glance upwards and to Master’s lips. Then, only then, it might be able to discern the commands from the other rambling words. And if it failed to do so now, it would certainly feel the sting of its disobedience in short order.

---

The boy didn’t move, much to Rowan’s disappointment. He felt almost certain that he’d said something wrong, or otherwise not said something that he should have to get his attention. It’s not like he could ask the boy’s name – he knew that the so-called pets were expected to respond to their ID numbers, but there were no proper names given – and it’s not like they could speak as equals until some serious deprogramming had taken place. As far as the boy was concerned, Rowan owned him body, mind, and soul. There was no conversation to be had.

Rowan took another breath to muse over his current situation. He wrung his hands together to hide the fact that his fingers were shaking, body buzzing with adrenaline. All he’d done so far was talk, rambling and tripping over his words, a directionless prattling of platitudes. Since he hadn’t issued an explicit command, perhaps, it was possible the boy wasn’t going to move or respond until Rowan gave him something more to work with.

For all his time and effort invested into the PLF and its mission to liberate people from oppression, Rowan had never spent much time with victims in active rehabilitation, and certainly none in the early stages of rescue like this. He was trained to blend into the crowds of buyers, of skeptics, of men poisoned by lechery, lust, and power. His mission was to capture the horrors, the abuses, to steel his stomach against the cogs of the system and the bodies it crushed as they turned. And with the coolness of an undercover operative, he’d sit at this desk into the early hours of the morning, stitching together the footage and audio that he’d spent his weekends capturing. It was the niche in which he’d thrived, and it was one that he’d never had an interest in moving beyond.

Facing the victims that had been pulled out of hell was a different skillset altogether. Rowan believed it wasn’t just a different skillset, but an entirely different personality type, that was required to do such important work. To try and heal the victims, to see them clawing their way to personhood from brokenness, had always put a deep discomfort in his bones.

But now, his own discomfort would have to be secondary. He’d made the decision to bring this boy into his home, and now it was his solemn duty and obligation to bring the boy from where he knelt now and into a future of freedom. Rowan knew that it would take the heart of a man much stronger and braver than himself in the moment, but for now, he was all the boy had.  

“Alright,” he said out loud, hoping his voice sounded steady despite his nerves. “I’m going to head over to the box you got here in, yeah? I’m going to grab the papers there and find the key to undo your collar. Once I get that off, I’ll show you your room and some of the clothes I got for you. I think- well, I know that the papers lied about your weight, so I’m sorry if the clothes are a bit big. You can get dressed and then I’ll make us lunch. I’m sure you’re hungry – have they fed you? Oh, that’s a stupid question, of course they haven’t, they never give food or water before transport. Right. That’ll be our second order of business, then. Collar off, bedroom and clothes, then food and water. That sounds like a plan, yeah?”

Rowan thought he could see the boy’s head perk up just slightly, almost imperceptibly, eyes peeking up between thick black eyelashes and unkempt hair. But as soon as Rowan peered down at the boy’s face, that same gaze darted back down.

“Oh, it’s okay, you can look at me,” Rowan continued to ramble as he fished the key to the collar’s padlock out of the black bag that included another standard-issue collar, an ID tag with Rowan’s contact information and the boy’s WRU number, and a referral card to WRU-sponsored electric collars. Once the collar was off the boy’s neck, this whole bag would be disposed of, Rowan was sure of that. He’d never have to wear such a cruel device again, not so long as Rowan was breathing.

Despite his attempt at reassurance, the boy kept his eyes glued to the floor. If they were going to make any progress, Rowan knew he couldn’t let it bother him, and he certainly couldn’t take that behavior personally. They had to take this at the boy’s pace, not his own. However slow that would be, Rowan had to be okay with it.

“I’m going to touch your neck now,” he said as he leaned down towards the collar. “You can let me know if I need to stop. I’m just going to unlock this collar, and then I’m going take it off.” Just as the rehabilitation materials had encouraged, Rowan walked through every step of what he was going to do, using plain words and reassurances.

He also knew that he’d receive no protest. Resistance and the concept of refusal were trained out of victims of the system, so he just had to hope that he was doing right by the boy in removing the collar right from the start. Part of him wondered if this action was for his own comfort rather than his new guest’s comfort, but he couldn’t stomach such a blatant sign of the system binding this victim. There was no way he could hope to begin rehabilitation with a mark of ownership sitting heavy on the victim’s neck.

The padlock came undone with just a slight twist of the key, and the collar came unbuckled just as easily. Rowan eased the collar off and stuffed it in the bag, tossed the key in after it, and cinched it shut. It would go in the bin just as soon as the boy was settled in.

“There, how’s that feel? It must feel nice to let that skin breathe a bit. I’ll take care of that – I promise you’ll never have to see that collar again.”

---

The pet felt more naked without its collar than it actually felt from its true nakedness. The collar from its old master had been exchanged for a standard-issue collar once it had been processed through the facility, but it seemed that Master had no intention of fitting it for a new one at the moment. That was okay with the pet, of course it was, because its job was to abide by its new master’s preferences. If that meant that it would go without a collar, so be it. Perhaps Master had a different mark of ownership that he preferred.

Master was talking still, going on and on, a soft hum of sound that wrapped through the hall. He’d stepped to the side, so the pet couldn’t try to read his lips even if it dared to look up. Given that there was no shouting, or no blows against its body, it figured that there hadn’t been a command yet. It strained its senses for the sharp bark of a command, a change in tone that would indicate the pet’s attention was needed, but none came.

Instead, Master began to walk down the hall, spilling words into empty air. After a moment Master’s footsteps stopped, and turned back towards the pet.

Oh, the pet realized with a jolt of fear up its spine, Master wanted it to follow.

So, follow it did. It did so on its hands and knees, as was expected unless given the command to stand and walk, and it followed Master down the hallways of its new quarters. Something inside its chest tightened, a sensation of both fear and excitement. What awaited it down this hall? What would its first few hours here with Master bring? Its skin puckered with the lingering chill of transport, and its body ached with the final bruises and scars of the latest refurbishment cycle, but it could bear whatever lessons Master was going to imbue. After all, it wanted nothing more than to serve Master with all of its being. It wanted to be good.

---

“You, ah, can walk if you’d prefer. Upright, that is, on your feet. Or, uhm, if that’s more comfortable for you right now, that’s fine too.” Rowan felt like he was tripping over his words as he looked back at the boy crawling behind him. It was enough to make him feel like he was going to be sick.

This isn’t about you, he reminded himself again. This isn’t about you and your comfort level. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

The second bedroom was the first door past the kitchen, a door which Rowan had left ajar. He’d purchased a two-bedroom condo with the intention to use the second bedroom as his office, which it had been for the last three years. That was, of course, until the early hours of the morning as he’d prepared for the boy’s arrival.

In many ways it was still more of an office than a bedroom. A few hours had only given Rowan so much time to redo the space in preparation for his guest’s arrival. There were some things – including way too many boxes of old AV equipment piled in the far corner – that wouldn’t have a place in the condo otherwise. But Rowan had still managed to take out the desk and his main workstation so the futon would fit comfortably. He’d also filled the filing cabinet drawers with the clothes he’d purchased for the boy, a temporary fix that would have to be sufficient until he got a proper dresser set up. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It was certainly more than the boy would have been afforded in the training facility.  

“Here we are,” Rowan said as he swung the door fully open and turned on the light, “this is your room. I know it’s really messy right now, and that there’s a lot of junk in here, but I’ll have that moved out in no time. But, yeah, the futon is yours, your bed I mean. All of those blankets are yours too, but you don’t have to use them all, just however many you want. I didn’t have more than one extra pillow, but I have another one on order. I’ll get around to ordering you a proper bed this week, you know, a mattress and all, plus some new sheets. Those sheets there are clean, I promise, but I didn’t have time to patch the holes or deal with the fraying. I mean, okay, I didn’t have time to do even half of what I wanted before you got here. But this was kind of a last minute thing. I know that doesn’t make it right. But, I mean, those clothes are yours, feel free to put them on. If you don’t like those, there are some more in the filing cabinet over there, some different options for pants and shirts and stuff, maybe you’ll want to layer up. I bet it’s a little cold in here for you, yeah? I can turn up the heat. Or if you’re fine, I won’t. It’s your call, yeah.”

Rowan wished he had the ability to shut up. He was usually more composed, more succinct in his words, concise and direct. Silence and attentiveness was his trade. Now, with the world shifting beneath his feet - the feet at which a young man knelt - he felt like he was coming undone. Words came freely from an otherwise tightly-sealed mouth. But the boy crawled into the room with fluid determination, clearly indicative he’d retained something from Rowan’s rambling.

Instead of going to the bed, and instead of proceeding towards the filing cabinet with the clothes, the boy crawled to the center of the floorspace that Rowan had cleared and resumed his kneeling position there. Motionless.

---

The pet tried to glimpse what it could of the room as it moved forward, head bowed, eyes supposed to be on the floor. There was something resembling a bed to its left, and piles of boxes to its right. There was some furniture further into the room it couldn’t quite get a good look at, not from this angle. Still, it could sense the room was small, furnished as though it were an afterthought.

Master was much chattier than its old master, a continuous hum of noise that should be words, but words that the pet couldn’t quite hear. It was still all too distant through the ringing in its ears. Fear replaced frustration, it always did now, ever since the last of its hearing had started to fade. Its attempt to obey any commands, even at the training facility, were usually its best guesses. Only when its old master or its trainers would raise their voices, bringing their yells to a fever pitch, could it reliably decipher what they wanted.

Of course, it couldn’t raise the issue with them. For as much as hearing had been taken from it, speaking had been taken from it as well. A pet was seen, and not heard. Its old master had commanded complete and utter silence, and since the pet had failed to obey that simple principle, it had paid in its hearing.

Silence. And so now, as it knelt and prostrated before Master, it ensured its breath was level. No errant wheezing, no sobs choked up in the back of its throat, no whining or whimpering. Silence, beautiful silence, and listening as best it could for whatever command might follow.

---

“You go ahead and get dressed, yeah? I’m going to head to the kitchen get us both something to eat. I’m not really sure I have the stomach for it – hell, I’m not sure you do either – but it’ll be easier to tackle the day with some food in our systems. I’ll make sure to get you some water too, you’re probably parched. I’ll shut the door so you have some privacy, and I should be back in just a little.”

Rowan still wasn’t sure whether any of his words were getting through, but he knew he had to try. A few steps back and he shut the door, giving the boy enough time to cover himself in private. In the meantime, Rowan turned his attention to making something resembling a meal. He had picked up a smattering of ingredients from the supermarket last night, as much as he could grab in the fifteen minutes before it had closed. That haphazard grocery haul had included a few varieties of jams and breads. Rowan had no idea if the boy had any personal preferences for his sandwiches, and he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to learn any time soon.

“Can’t go wrong with a PB&J, right?” He muttered to himself as he opened the fridge to grab the bright purple grape jelly. “That’s a solid meal, shouldn’t upset the stomach, palatable by most people’s standards. Yeah, some peanut butter and grape jelly for me and him, that’s the plan.”

The sandwiches came together quickly, although Rowan paused to put an extra spoonful of peanut butter on the boy’s sandwich, and then another. It looked like he was at least thirty pounds lighter than had been marked in his WRU papers, and likely at least twenty pounds lighter than he should be for his size. Although Rowan wouldn’t be able to tell for certain until he convinced the boy to stand, it seemed that there would be a lot of dense and calorie-rich meals in the boy’s future. But as with everything else, healing from starvation would require time and the intervention of professionals much better equipped than Rowan. A sandwich would have to be a good enough start.

Rowan fished his phone out of his back pocket and glanced at it. The screen was blank – no missed calls, no missed texts. It seemed that the rehabilitator hadn’t called him yet. After double-checking to make sure that his ringer was on so he wouldn’t miss the call when it came, he grabbed the plate with the boy’s sandwich, as well as a fresh glass of water, and took it back to the bedroom.

A knock on the bedroom door elicited no reaction, not even a creak of the floorboards. Rowan hadn’t exactly expected an answer, but he still paused an extra moment before pushing the door open.

To his disappointment, but certainly not his surprise, the boy was kneeling in the exact same position he’d been left in almost ten minutes prior. The blankets hadn’t moved, the drawers hadn’t been opened, and the boy was still naked. He clearly hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Alright, you don’t have to get dressed, I guess,” Rowan tried. Again, he would certainly feel better if the boy got dressed, but he wasn’t going to push his luck. Not yet. Clothes would come in due time, and as long as he was meeting the boy’s needs, discomfort was survivable.

Instead of pressing the matter further he knelt and placed the plate and glass of water within his new guest’s reach. Even this didn’t elicit any movement. Maybe, just maybe, Rowan thought he saw the boy draw in a slightly deeper breath, skin shifting over his stark and visible ribs. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

Before Rowan could speak again, his phone rang.

Ah, shit. A quick glance at the screen confirmed that it was the call he’d been waiting for.

“I’m real sorry, I have to take this call,” Rowan said while scrambling to his feet. “I’ll be back soon – you can go ahead and eat and drink, yeah? That’s all yours.”

A few seconds later and he was out the door, phone up against his ear.

“Hello, this is Rowan Bailey.”

“Mr. Bailey, this is Angela Herrera, the PLF Rehabilitation Specialist assigned to your case. Mr. Greyson Valentine reached out to me personally to make sure you had immediate support for this unexpected intake.”

Again, just as with Grey’s call, Rowan felt an immediate sense of relief. He wasn’t in this alone. Not now, not ever. There were people that were going to fight for this victim with the same zeal and enthusiasm as they had for so many others. It didn’t matter that Rowan fucked up by taking this on so brazenly, not in the grand scheme of things. Help was on the way.

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear your voice. And, please, Rowan is just fine. Did Grey – I mean Greyson – tell you the details of our situation here?”

“Rowan, got it. As for the details, well, I got the Clifnotes version via email. It seems that you brought a ward home from a liquidation event with no prior notice or planning. You’re currently lacking any advanced rehabilitation training, and no rehabilitation training with high support cases like this one. You’ve held a primarily investigative job with little to no interaction with victims in rehabilitation at all. And, if I can make a guess from your voice, I’d presume your new guest has already arrived?”

“Yeah,” Rowan said with a wry chuckle, “you’ve got the gist of it. And now I’ve got a naked man in my spare bedroom, and I’m trying to get him to eat a sandwich or get dressed without either of us crying. I’m in over my head here, if I’m being honest. I just wanted to do a good thing, but now all I can think about is how much I’ve fucked up.”  

“You did a good thing. I promise, no matter how ill-equipped you might feel right now, you still did a very, very good thing. Rescues aren’t always as clean and well-prepared as they seem in the rehabilitation materials and training modules. For every perfect rescue, the ones where the ward is painstakingly selected based on their best chances at successful rehabilitation and reintegration, there are scrappy, impulsive, and unexpected rescues from well-meaning individuals like yourself. And let me tell you upfront, most of those rescues get happy endings too. That’s where I come in. My job is to support you and make sure that this goes as smoothly as possible, and we can work together to get our new friend healthy and confident in their personhood.”

Her voice was level and soothing, as though she’d practiced these words dozens of times. Maybe she had. It was her job, after all, wasn’t it?

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said, and Rowan heard the faint shuffle of papers. “And I’m already getting materials prepared so I can come over and do an assessment and get you guys started on the path to recovery. What does your availability look like for a visit today or tomorrow?”

“I’m completely free until next Monday, which is when I have to go back to work. I took a few days of PTO to handle this whole… situation.”

“I can work with that. It looks like you’re not too far from me, so how about I head over in a few hours? I want to make sure I have all of my materials here in order for you first, but after that, I’m ready to get this case opened and some progress started for both of you.”

“Please,” he said, and he hoped after the words left his mouth that he hadn’t sounded as desperate as he felt. “Today is great. Any time, as soon as you’re ready, we’ll be here.”

“Sounds like a plan, then. I’ll finish getting my things together and then I’ll be on my way. Focus your energy on surviving the next few hours, get him as settled as you can, and then we can take it from there together. I’ll see you soon.”

Can’t be soon enough, Rowan thought, casting his gaze back to the closed bedroom door.

---

The pet stared at the food lingering just within its reach. Its stomach growled with a painful gnawing sensation, a hunger that it felt in its very soul. It couldn’t remember the last time it had eaten a full meal, even a proper serving of the standard issue nutrient shakes at the facility. The last time it had real food, proper food like this, had been with its old master. And even then, it had been many, many months. Maybe it had been years. Only good pets got proper meals, and its old master had been certain about one thing: the pet was not a good pet.

Even after Master had left the room, the pet knew better than to touch either the water or the food. It hadn’t been given permission to eat, not yet. No matter how thirsty, and no matter how hungry, it knew that if it were to survive under Master’s rule, it would have to be obedient. That meant that until it was explicitly allowed to touch this food, until it was given the order to eat and to drink, it would continue to wait patiently.

Hunger was a familiar companion by now. Food was denied as part of its training, often one of its first punishments, and its continued disobedience now showed in how frail the pet had become. It had watched as its ribs began to appear, first barely perceptible across its abdomen, and then so sharp that they caught shadows in the low light. Then came the dizziness, the shakes, the difficulty with its memory. The skin over its collarbones had been pulled tight, and it felt like coldness sat in the hollows between its shoulders and its neck. Its fingers had always been thin, but now they were skeletal, the tendons of its hands dancing like the strings of a marionette whenever it moved.

Those same hands rested patiently on its thighs now. The aesthetics of its body had never bothered the pet, and it knew that its hair and body were to be kept according to its masters preferences. Maybe Master would expect it to keep this particularly lithe form, which the pet wouldn’t mind. It only hoped, a hope that was brief and fleeting, that it would be permitted to eat enough that the incessant shaking and dizziness would finally cease.

The sight of feet reappearing pulled the pet from its wandering thoughts and ever-present hunger.

---

Much to Rowan’s disappointment, both the sandwich and the water remained untouched. Again, just as the first time he left the room, it appeared that the boy hadn’t moved at all.

This second instance of inaction gave Rowan immediate pause. This behavior was exactly what the paperwork had said about the boy, hadn’t it? He’d been sent to the liquidation floor because of apparent selective disobedience to commands.  

But Rowan hadn’t given a command, not in the sense that most people did when they spoke to their pets. His suggestions had been conversational at best, his best attempt to emphasize the importance of the boy’s autonomy from the very beginning. The rehabilitation handbook had said this method worked for some individuals who were eager to grasp that first bit of freedom.

Others, however, would sometimes require the familiarity of commands and hierarchical structures before they were comfortable enough to come out of their shells. It seemed that maybe this boy would be a part of the latter group.

Rowan had hoped that he would go his entire life without feeding into the depravity of the system, that he would never issue a command to another human being, that he would treat all persons as equals to himself. But his own choices, his own rash decisions that brought the boy here in the first place, meant that this philosophy would have to change.

It wouldn’t hurt to try gentle persuasion one more time, though, would it? For his own sake, Rowan knew would have to try.

“Hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft despite the lump in his throat, “I need to make sure you’re eating and drinking, okay? I don’t know when they fed you last, or if you’re even feeling okay right now, but can you at least drink that glass of water and eat that food? Please?”

Nothing. Not so much as a blink or a twitch that showed any recognition of what Rowan was asking. The boy hadn’t even acknowledged Rowan’s presence besides following him to the bedroom.

Fuck, he groaned internally. There was no use in putting it off any longer. He’d gotten himself into this mess, and now he was going to have to get them both out. It was time to grow a spine.

“You need to eat and drink,” Rowan said, raising his voice ever so slightly. He winced in spite of himself. “You’re going to drink that full glass of water, and eat all of the food on that plate. Now.”

To his horror and surprise, it worked.

---

Master’s voice split from its warm murmuring to a tone that was sharp and commanding. It was the cue the pet had been waiting for.

Cautiously, ever-so-carefully, the pet raised its eyes to meet Master’s lips. It peered through the web of its greasy-thick hair and tried to make out exactly what Master wanted it to do. Lips moved, sharp words cut, and the pet thought it understood.

Drink the water, eat the food.

There would be no second chance to get this right. The pet was incredulous that those were truly the words that Master had uttered. But that increase in vocal pitch, paired with the movement of Master’s lips, was all that the pet could abide.

Even if it was wrong, and even if it had mistaken the precise command Master had issued, it was hopeful that it would at least get a mouthful of water to soothe its parched tongue before the punishment came.

The pet slowly moved its hand from its lap and towards the glass of water. It braced itself for a kick to the ribs, or perhaps another blow to the head, but none came. Hand trembling, both from the fear it couldn’t mask and exhaustion of the last few days, it grabbed the glass. Just as methodically, still waiting for a correction, it raised the glass to its lips. A final pause. No correction came.

It drank. It drank with a ravenous thirst, one that one single glass wouldn’t quench. It could have easily drunk another glass, no, three or four more glasses. The taste of the cool water over its tongue was heavenly bliss. The relief and release of the drink was enough, just for a moment, to dissolve the fear of being in a new place with its new master.

Fear returned as it reached out to grab the sandwich. Eating this would be more challenging, requiring just enough grace so that not even a single crumb spilled from the corners of its lips, but still demonstrating the swiftness and efficiency that was expected of a good pet. Wasting food was a sign of disrespect, and the pet was absolutely grateful for a meal like this. It had no intention to disrespect Master and his generous offerings.

As carefully and daintily as it could, the pet tore its teeth through the bread and the thick spread of peanut butter and grape. It was so hungry that it didn’t pause to appreciate the flavors or textures. Instead, it focused on devouring as neatly as was possible in a near animal state. Without its training it might not have accomplished such a feat, but somehow, it managed to eat the entire offering without a crumb dropping to the floor.

A rumble came from Master’s lips, that same warmness that he’d been using since the pet first emerged from its box. Although some part of it expected some punishment for eating, it didn’t come. Instead, all the pet could feel was some queasiness: it had been so long since it had eaten a meal of that size, and its stomach was soured by the heaviness and a lingering hunger from the recesses of its mind. The signals in its body were conflicting between hunger and nourishment, and the pet could only hope it would keep the meal down long enough for it to make a difference in its foggy mind.

Maybe the meal had been the punishment in and of itself? Maybe, just maybe, keeping itself together after the meal was its first test?

Then another command, a sharp voice, and Master’s feet turned towards the door. The pet hadn’t had the opportunity to look up at his lips, but the options were to either stay or to follow. It paused to think, a moment in time to decide its fate. Master had left the room before, but hadn’t issued a command, and the pet had done right by staying. Now, Master was leaving, but had clearly spoken a command. It paused a moment, but could intuit that the command had been to follow, rather than to stay.

And so it followed.

---

“Follow me to the bathroom, let’s get you cleaned up,” Rowan barked out. He still tried to speak gently, but it seemed that a sharper, more commanding tone was the only thing that was going to work for now. It felt too much like shouting for comfort, and the act of issuing commands itself was disconcerting, but the boy didn’t seem bothered. Still on his hands and knees, the scarred houseguest followed Rowan’s every step.

It was a short walk across the hall to the bathroom. The smell of bleach still lingered in the air, but at least Rowan had been able to mask the stench of mildew and weeks of neglect. For now, though the white tiles didn’t gleam, it was serviceable for a shower.

Rowan patted the new towels he had folded and placed on the toilet tank. Although he wasn’t issuing a command, because the boy hadn’t looked up, Rowan raised his voice slightly nonetheless. It was the only thing that seemed to get through to him.

“These towels and washcloths are yours, so use as many as you need. Soap, shampoo, conditioner, it’s all in the shower. Go ahead and clean yourself up, yeah? Take as long as you want, use hot water, use whatever is in there. It’s not much, but I’m going to pick up some more things that are just for you later this week.”

He stepped towards the door, lingering for just a moment to see if they boy would respond. Instead of verbal recognition, the boy’s frail frame clambered over the lip of the bathtub and into the newly-cleaned porcelain. Hands started to reach for the knobs to turn on the water, head still bowed, so Rowan took his leave.

---

The pet tried not to wrinkle its nose at the heavy stench of powdered bleach lingering in the air. It could already feel the burns that would form on the skin of its palms as it scrubbed the bathroom clean with the caustic chemicals. It knew it shouldn’t have preferences, but it did anyway. They couldn’t beat the preference out of it, no matter how hard they tried. There were so many cleaning products that were easier to work with, that didn’t burn its lungs and throat, that didn’t make its hands raw and red with pain the way that powdered bleach did.

But the bathroom wasn’t the thing that Master had asked it to clean, at least not yet. There was no use dreading an uncertain future. Instead, Master had asked it to clean itself, make itself presentable.

There was no surprise there. The fear and discomfort had served it well, and would continue to serve it well as it learned what Master expected of it. It had shown restraint in waiting to eat until a command was issued, and it had showed obedience in following Master’s commands to follow and to shower. But now, the pet was being asked to read between the lines. A good pet was not only responsive, but could anticipate its master’s needs with effortless grace.

There were few things that a new master would want to explore with their pet on their first day, and the pet was well-acquainted with what likely came next. It certainly wasn’t as clean as its old master would have required before such activities, having only received a quick hose-down before it was loaded into its box. There was still some dried blood stuck to its skin, and its scalp was thick with grease and dandruff that it hadn’t been able to wash out since it began its refurbishment those many weeks ago. Its nose was blind to it by now, but the pet was certain that it smelled faintly like the fear and sweat that clung to the training facility walls.

If it had any hope of pleasing its new master, it would have to spend the time and effort to clean itself up a bit more. First impressions, particularly first impressions of its primary skillsets, were of the utmost importance.

After a few moments of scrutinizing the silver knobs on the wall, it eased the showerhead on. It flinched as the cold water hit its skin, it always did, but then it relaxed into the gentle stream. This was better than any of the rough hose-downs it had received while at the facility, and better than the showers provided for its old master’s pets. The privacy felt like an unearned privilege, and the pet was determined to enjoy the luxury while it still could.

Nerves made it hard to hold steady as it climbed to its feet. Without Master present, it didn’t have to kneel, and standing would make it easier to clean itself. Its head swam with a familiar blackness and ringing in its ears, and it leaned on the tiled wall until the dizziness passed. The food that it had just eaten would help, even if it would take some time to feel the effects of the nourishment. And maybe, just maybe, it would steal some water from the tap now, drink a few mouthfuls as the cold water ran down its face…

No, it reminded itself with a sharp correction, balling its fists up as though Handler Green had shoved the cattle prod into its ribs. This was its first day with Master, its first chance to prove its worth, and it was already thinking of disobedience. Master had already given it something to drink, and it should be grateful. There was no need to steal even a single mouthful now, not even from the freely flowing showerhead, not even in the privacy of solitude.

It banished the thought from its mind and got busy with scrubbing itself clean. First came its hair, so much longer now than when it had entered the refurbishment program, the curls heavy with water and shampoo. The shampoo was light, faintly floral, and the pet relished in the sensation of soap pulling the grime and blood away from its scalp. When it glanced down at the floor of the bathtub it saw that the water was rust-colored as it flowed down the drain.

Once its hair was clean, shampooed twice and rinsed thrice, it took to scrubbing its body down with determined and practiced vigor. Every inch of skin was worked over, even the skin that was heavily bruised and covered in scabs. It allowed itself the grace to wince as it pressed down on the bruises and still-healing wounds, but it still scrubbed away at them with the same determination.

Mostly, it tried not to think about how much its ribs had begun to stick through its skin, and how easily they would break under the slightest application of force. It was fragile now, filthy and covered in the marks of its disobedience. Its insolence was captured by the permanent paint of scars from head to toe.

It scrubbed, and rinsed, and then scrubbed again, until the water turned from copper, to pale pink, to clear. Its arms had begun to pucker with goosebumps under the steady flow of cold water. But finally, with a final rotation and a check that the water was indeed flowing clearly now, it shut the water off.

The towels waiting for it were warmer and fluffier than anything it could remember being given at either the training facility or by its old master. As it wrapped itself in the terrycloth it sighed a small sigh of relief, an exhalation it was sure made no sound. Even if it couldn’t hear such quiet breaths itself, it had learned when others could from its old master’s many corrections. A sigh, by itself and behind a closed door, would likely go unnoticed.

After it had dried itself it carefully folded the towel and placed it on the floor. It would have to figure out where Master kept his dirty clothes and towels sooner or later, especially since it would be responsible for the laundry. There would be time for that soon. But now, since it was clean, it was time to get to work.

The pet settled back down onto its knees, carefully selecting the tiles of the floor to kneel on rather than the rug in front of the sink. It wasn’t going to seek out small pleasures and privileges that it had not yet earned, not on this first day. Everything it did would show that it was good, that it was obedient.

The tiles were better than cold cement it was accustomed to, anyway.

A few moments later the door pushed open. Master was back, here to fetch it, take it back to the room it had just come from. That soft murmuring of Master’s voice came again, the conversational tone like water lapping on a white-sand shore, not the hot knife of a command. The pet still tried its best to listen attentively through the ringing of its ears.

Then, the command came, cutting sharp through the susurrus. Follow. And so the pet did.

As it expected, it was led back to the same room it had just come from. Its heart fluttered in its chest. It remembered where the low-lying bed had been pushed against the wall, and how far it was off the ground. Climbing up on the bed from the ground would pose little difficulty, a single fluid motion enough to situate it comfortably atop the flat surface.

Master walked towards the bed with broad strides, and with a rush of adrenaline, the pet climbed up onto the bed beside the towering pile of blankets. Fabric and plush bedding were soft beneath its knees, and it gave a small sigh of relief that the bed was so comfortable.

There was no time to relish in the comfort, however. The instinct of its training and prior service took over. There were multiple options for it to begin, to entice Master’s senses, but one came to the forefront of its mind. That one, it decided, would show off both grace and the care it put into its servitude.

It placed its hands evenly apart, symmetrical and in line with its knees, forming carefully orchestrated lines throughout its body. Once it found its balance it arched its back, pushed its hips firmly into the air, and lowered its chest towards the bed. Weight shifted forward, onto its forearms now, and it felt confident it would be steady despite its latest wave dizziness and nausea. Although it couldn’t quite see itself from this angle – there was no mirror here like there was in the training facility – it was confident that its posture was perfect.

There were many things the pet had failed at during its training, and during its time with its old master, but this had never been one of them. Of its many tasks and duties, the pet was certain that it was able to pleasure its masters. And despite its fear, it was certain it could do the same for Master now. This was its chance to prove itself, make a good first impression, show Master that it was more than its inability to hear his commands.

All that remained was to slowly, carefully, turn its head to the side, look up at Master and push its lower lip out ever so slightly- And as soon as its eyes met Master’s, Master shouted with a roar of what the pet knew was fury.

A/N: And in this chapter, we spend 8,000 words to eat a sandwich, make a phone call, and take a shower. I wonder what happens next!

Taglist

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@maenr @whump-enthousiast

[kakuvibez]

One shot; Seven Lords

requested by ; anonymous/ @user / none,,

fandom(s) ; Obey Me,,

fandom master list(s): master | specific

character(s); Beelzebub,,

outline; " You and the demon Lord of glutinous, Beelzebub, have been dating for a couple of centuries..."

warning(s) ; eggs, mating, sex,,

The air crackled with a potent blend of lust and power. You, a magnificent dragon, dominated the Demon Lord Beelzebub, his form sprawled beneath you like a fallen angel. His usually pale skin was a testament to your passion - a canvas of crimson bites, bruising purple where your grip had held him fast, and an angry green where your claws had raked him.

His face was a mask of exquisite torment, eyes glazed over, pupils dilated to the size of full moons. His mouth hung open in a silent, panting moan, drool tracing a glistening path down his chin, a stark reminder of the primal pleasure you were inflicting. A predatory smirk curled your lips as your tail lashed against the bed, a silent rhythm echoing your movements.

"Beel~" you rumbled, your voice a low, seductive growl that vibrated through him. "Are you still with me?"

You tugged on his nipples, eliciting a strangled groan that tore from his throat. "Beel~ Didn't you boast about your endurance?" you teased, your movements growing more deliberate. "Seems your bravado has met its match."

His body convulsed beneath you, his hips arching involuntarily as you drove deeper. He whimpered, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to the earth. "Come on, Beel~ Release," you urged, your voice a low, guttural growl.

He erupted, a torrent of thick, white fluid exploding within you. You held him there for a moment, savoring the sensation of his release, the raw power of his climax. Then, you threw him back against the pillows, a satisfied grin gracing your lips.

You resumed your assault, your movements relentless, your thrusts deep and powerful. Beel's body shuddered beneath you, his hole slick with his own juices, the white foam of his cum coating his entrance.

"Good job, Beel," you praised, your voice a low rumble. He spasmed again, another wave of pleasure washing over him, his body trembling with the force of it. You could feel the familiar tightening within yourself, the urge to release building.

You began to withdraw, but Beel stopped you, his legs wrapping around your waist, pinning you in place. You stared at him in surprise. This was unprecedented.

"Beel, I'm sorry, but I can't do that this time," you apologized, gently prying his legs apart.

"Why?" he groaned, his voice thick with frustration.

"It's mating season, my dear," you said, the last word a low growl as you cum spilling, your non-habitable eggs cover in sperm. Your clan would be upset if they showed that you were wasting future generations, but who cares?

"Why not?" he persisted, another wave of pleasure washing over him as your tip grazed his entrance.

"Well, for one, I can't get you pregnant yet," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. "And for two, your brothers would likely attempt to incinerate me if I did."

You gently pulled out, a single, pearly egg glistening at the entrance of his hole. Beel seemed stunned, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and longing.

"Don't worry, my insatiable one," you whispered, your breath warm against his ear. "I'll ensure you're overflowing with my seed until you appear quite...pregnant, shall I say?"

You gently caressed his nipples, a playful smile on your lips. "Besides," you added, "mating season is nearly over." the words appear next to his ear as you whisper as fingering you playing with his nipples, kissing him.

Beel let out a low growl, his eyes burning with a primal desire that would not be easily extinguished. You knew he wouldn't forget this. He never did.

[vodika-vibes]

would it be okay if i request something from the gentle care please? i was thinking "It's okay if you fall asleep." with shaak ti where the reader (gn please) is their padawan?

A Mother's Love

Summary: Master Shaak is the best Master you could have asked for. She’s so kind and so patient, and you want to be just like her when you grow up. But that’s still ages away.

Characters: Master Shaak Ti, Jedi Padawan! GN Reader

Word Count: 1070

Warnings: None

A/N: So, ngl, this almost ended up as an Order 66 fic, where Shaak is telling her padawan that it's okay to fall asleep after they were shot bt a clone, but that's a level of sadness I'm not prepared for today, so you get this instead.

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You’re fairly certain that the planet you’re on is nothing but forest. And you’d think it was pretty, if not for the fact that you’ve been sneezing almost nonstop since landing nearly an hour ago.

At this point your nose is running, your eyes are watering, and your throat hurts.

All in all, you are a very miserable Padawan.

Another violent sneeze nearly sends you toppling backward, and it’s only your Master’s gentle touch on your shoulder that keeps you on your feet. You blink up at her through watery eyes, and she smiles kindly at you as she crouches so she’s closer to your level.

Gentle, yet calloused, fingers wipe a tear off your cheek. “You’re not having a good time at all, are you?”

“‘M sorry, Master,” You say as you wipe your nose with the sleeve of your robe.

“Nonsense, we had no way to know that you were going to be so allergic to those flowers,” She pulls a handkerchief from inside her robe and uses it to wipe your eyes, “It’s hardly your fault.”

“But I’m slowing us down,”

“Oh, my little one,” Master Shaak draws you closer and smooths her hand down your head, lightly moving your tiny padawan braid back behind your ear, “This is not a life or death mission, we’re just here to collect some data from the researchers who live here.” Her smile is kind, “We don’t send 10-year-olds on dangerous missions,”

Oh. That makes sense.

Master Shaak scans your face for a moment, and you can feel her gentle force-touch wash through your body. Someday you’re going to learn how to do that too, but you can’t do it yet.

“Hm, the reaction is getting worse,” She murmurs, “Your eyes are starting to swell. I bet it’s getting hard to see, isn’t it?”

You sneeze three times into your sleeve, “Yes, Master,” You reply, miserably.

“How’s your breathing?”

“It’s fine.”

“Alright, you must let me know if that changes,”

“Yes, Master.”

Master Shaak scoops you into her arms, and continues walking, “We’ll be at the camp shortly, Padawan. I’m sure they’ll have something to help you.” 

True to her words, less than fifteen minutes later she steps into a camp.

It’s not like any camp you’ve ever seen before. You expected canvas tents, or maybe a mobile home that wealthy people own, but this looks more like a temporary village than anything else.

A series of violent sneezes draws attention toward you and your Master, and you utter a miserable apology as a researcher hurries over to the pair of you. 

The man, a twi’lek wearing a stark white lab coat, takes a long look at you and nods, “Your Padawan appears to be allergic to the native flora, Master Jedi. We should have sent warning.”

“A warning?” Master Shaak asks as she lowers you back to the ground and hands you another cloth to wipe your eyes with.

“We’ve determined that human-based species have a 75% chance of having an allergic reaction to the native plants.”

Master Shaak’s eyes narrow, “And when was this determined?”

The Researcher has the grace to look ashamed, “A month ago, Master Jedi.”

You feel your Master release her annoyance into the force, and she sets her hand on your head, “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it now,” She says, her voice a little colder, “Is there someplace where my Padawan and I can wash the pollen off?”

“Yes, of course!” He gestures to a white building near the edge of the camp, “The showers are there. And I’ll get a dose of allergy medicine for the child.” He pauses, “And a mask.”

He hurries off as quickly as he can and Master Shaak guides you to the showers. She claims two showers near the end of the line, allowing you to take the one furthest from the entrance.

“Make sure you take your braid out as well,” She reminds you before she steps into her shower, “I’ll rebraid it later tonight.”

“Yes, Master,”

You step into the stall and look around. It’s decently sized, with an area separate from the actual shower. A place for you to store your clothes, you figure. There’s also a clean towel sitting folded on the bench, and a basket with shampoo, conditioner, and body soap.

By the time you finish showering, rush a brush through your hair, and pull on the clothes that haven’t been covered in pollen, Master Shaak has already finished and is waiting for you in the hall.

Everything is still a little blurry since your eyes are still swollen, but the sneezing has finally stopped. Master Shaak’s hand brushes over the top of your head, “I have some allergy medicine for you,” She says lightly, “It’s a liquid, so you don’t have to swallow a pill. I know that’s hard for you.”

She hands you a small cup and you scrunch up your nose but take the dose of medicine. The taste is foul enough that you shudder and you hear your Master laugh softly.

“Everyone is waiting for us around the campfire,” She continues, once she’s sure that you took all of the medicine, “Seems that that’s how they like to share their research at the end of the day.”

“So we’re staying for longer?”

“I’m afraid so,” Her hand moves to the back of your head, and she guides you out of the shower and over to the campfire.

Gracefully, she folds herself so she’s kneeling on a thick blanket on the ground, while you, much less gracefully, drop next to her, trying to mimic how she’s sitting.

You don’t quite pull it off, but warmth and pride radiate from her down your training bond.

As the adults around you start talking, you feel your eyelids grow heavy. You guess that the allergy medicine wasn’t non-drowsy.

You try to fight the sleepiness as much as you can, but it doesn’t take long before Master Shaak’s hand is resting on the top of your head. “It’s okay if you fall asleep,” She reassures you in a soft voice.And, slowly, she guides you so that your head is resting on her lap. She gently rubs your back while pushing warmth and comfort through your training bond, and you quickly sink into slumber, secure in the knowledge that none will harm you so long as Master Shaak is standing watch.

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[lunarcrown]

So about that last ask do you draw with those filters on or put them on top at the end? If you said that in the post, sorry, I am a little tiny bit dumb and couldn't figure it out

I draw with them on usually, because it's less stressful on the eyes than having a stark white screen, and then I toggle them on and off if I need to pick a certain color from another spot in the drawing! Almost all of my drawing files are just duplicated so I don't have to keep adding the filters over and over! I just copy the file, delete the drawing that's on it, and tah-dahhh, fresh new canvas with filters~

[cupcakeslushie]

hi slushieeeee!! random question, but is there a specific reason you use the light blue for your blank backgrounds instead of white or gray? it doesn't look bad or anything, i was just wondering if blue made it, like, easier to draw? sorry, bit of a silly question, lol.

Mmm no reason really. It’s more for the viewer. Drawing on white doesn’t bother me, cause I have a blue light filter in my glasses, but I’ve definitely gotten people in my inbox worried for my eyesight 😂

I know some people have more sensitivity to that kind of thing. I used to try and draw with like, a warmer background, but it was so bleh lol, that I changed to cool. I usually try to switch it up between various cool neutrals, every now and then, if I’m not putting color everywhere. I know a lot of my stuff being black and white can be intense on the eyes.

I’ve also read some people feel intimidated by a completely white canvas? Idk I’m sure there’s many reasons ppl don’t like starting with stark white.

[glittervame]

It matters to me

Warnings: I couldn't tell what my depression was telling me so I wrote it out, sorry my feelings suck

The first thing I noticed about him was his voice. It was like listening to a lonely violin playing a sad tune in an empty theater. It was the kind of voice that could make your heart ache, even when he was just ordering a cup of coffee. His eyes were the color of the sea on a stormy day, constantly shifting between hope and despair.

And then there was his face. Oh, his beautiful, sad face. It was like a canvas painted with all the colors of sorrow: the deep crimson of heartbreak, the faded blue of loss, and the stark white of loneliness.

His features were chiseled, his jaw strong, his lips full and sensual. But there was something about the way he held himself, the way he moved, that told me he had seen more pain than any one person should ever have to bear.

So I grabbed his chin and made his face turn towards me, I could see the tears in his eyes, the ones that had been there for so long they had become a permanent part of him. I wiped them away gently, feeling the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his stubble against my fingers. And in that moment, I knew I couldn't just stand by and watch him suffer anymore.

I rubbed my thumb over his cheekbone, feeling the slight ridge of a scar I hadn't noticed before. "What happened?" I asked him softly, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He looked away, his gaze flickering somewhere beyond me. "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "It was a long time ago."

But it did matter to me, and I wouldn't let it go that easily. I reached up, cupping his face in my hands, forcing him to meet my gaze. "It matters to me," I told him, my voice steady and sure. "Tell me what happened."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and then his eyes weirdly meet mine.

"Tell me every terrible thing you've done, Percy, and let me love you anyway"

[beneathsilverstars]

sorry for a repeat question, but how do you add texture to your artwork again?

hi sorry this took so long! i was waiting until i had a good example drawing but i haven't been drawing much lately lol.

tl;dr: add the texture file as a new layer. then change its layer mode to something you like; i use "overlay" most often and "soft light" occasionally, but it's fun to play around with other stuff too. then adjust the opacity until you like it. repeat with as many textures as you want. then look at the finished piece to make sure the final color of everything feels correct, especially skin tones, and if anything seems wrong, adjust the base color until it seems right.

here's a download link for my watercolor textures.

now here's a detailed step-by-step of how i did the textures for this piece!

OK first here's my base flats. historically i usually use a plain circle brush to do neat flats, but lately i've been going sloppy using the same textured brush that i line with, which is a ton faster and the messy bits end up looking nice with the watercolor textures.

then i pick out a watercolor texture png that i think will compliment the artwork, and add it to the canvas. i use pink/purple/golds a LOT because they tend to look best with human skin tones (vs anything green-adjacent can make people look sickly, as one might expect). but sometimes i try to match a mood instead, like a cool teal-green forest or warm orange-yellow sunshine. in this case there's no scene so there's no lighting to consider, and it's sort of a ref sheet so i didn't want to get too whacky with it. so i thought that a yellow-orange would nicely compliment both the brown and the teal. however, i've found that using watercolors that are entirely bright red-orange-yellow turn out kind of flat, like everything is brightened to the point of not having much contrast within itself? so if i want yellow i usually go either yellow-green or yellow-pink or something, and in this case green seemed like the natural choice.

so, a predominantly yellow and green watercolor! i add it to the canvas, turn the layer mode to "overlay", and move it around until i think it looks okay — no stark high-contrast edges right across a character's face, for example. if there's a background i need to make sure it covers the whole canvas, but "overlay" layers don't effect white so it's fine to only cover the bunny here.

then i slide the opacity around until i think it looks nice — high enough to create visible variation, but not so high that i lose the original colors too bad. sometimes i'll change the layer mode to "soft light" for a softer effect, or "multiply" if the drawing has gotten too washed out and i want to darken it instead of brightening it, or even "hard light" or something if i want to get funky. but i use "overlay" like 95% of the time. my opacity usually ends up somewhere in the 20-50% zone.

sometimes at this point i'll notice a section that seems funky. if there's a hard high-contrast edge across somewhere distracting, i'll go in with a textured smudge tool to soften up that bit of the watercolor layer. or if the colors are bad in a spot, i'll lightly paint on the watercolor layer with a textured semi-opaque brush — like hey, this shoulder is way too bright orange compared to the rest of the body, so i'm gonna even it out with some cool green. however, if you do either of these things too much you'll lose the watercolor vibes, so i only do it in one or two spots if it really seems necessary.

depending on how it's turning out, i'll add more watercolor layers, probably averaging 2 or 3 but sometimes up to like 10. in this case i decided i wanted a little more texture and the colors were a little too yellow-green. so i tried a blue to cool it down but that was too cool, so then i tried like a pink-orange as well, but it still wasn't turning out so then i was like fuck it back to trusty purple. so i ended up with just the yellow-green layer and the purple-pink layer! same process here with adjusting the opacity, and then fixing any bits that were distracting. (the versions shown here are already fixed bc i didn't think to screenshot beforehand — i can't even tell where i did the fixes, which goes to show how subtle it is — i'm using low opacity and high texture brushes for these fixes)

at this point i liked the amount of texture and the balance of colors, so i was almost done. but my last step is always to take a look at the final colors of the objects and make sure they turned out right — sometimes a color will end up too light or too saturated or something. in some cases it doesn't really matter, like these teal pants would be fine as any shade of teal, but it's super important with skin tones, and it's common for blacks to end up quite washed-out. final colors definitely don't have to be eye-dropper-identical to the element's official, objective color, but you want it to look right within the context of the piece! if anything needs adjusting, i'll either go back and change the actual flats, or i'll add an overlay or multiply layer of a flat color.

this time, i thought the dark browns of her fur turned out a bit too bright orange-brown, when they're supposed to be a cooler grey-brown. so i made a new layer and roughly colored in some grey-blue splotches over the darker browns, and set that to overlay. it's a subtle difference but i was happy with it!

in pieces with backgrounds, i'll often add some additional texture layers to only the background, for a couple reasons. first, tinting the bg with a different color helps the character's colors pop out. second, bgs tend to contain more elements that are inherently varied and textured, like bricks and bushes, as opposed to character elements like skin and fabric that are mostly one smooth color irl. third, heavier textures de-crisp the details of linework and base color, turning it all into a more-consistent mush; i don't want to do that to a whole piece, but it really helps when i want the bg to, well, fade into the bg; and if i was sloppy while drawing and coloring the bg bc i don't care about it as much, that messiness feels more purposeful when it's messily textured as well.

sometimes i'll even add a texture layer to just one element, like if i want to make the shirt look rough and dirty. to make the texture apply to only one element, you can either use a "mask" on the texture layer and color in the mask shirt-shape, or use "clipping mask" to clip it to a layer that contains only the shirt's base colors. look up a tutorial for your program to see how to use masks and clipping!

i use watercolor textures most often, but i'll also sometimes use a paper texture or a "grunge" texture. i don't remember where i got these so you'll have to search for your own, but to give you an idea of what i find useful, these are my favorite non-watercolors:

i like the colors of the yellow/purple paper and it does give a nice parchment feel, the dark blue grunge is great for caves and stones and dramatic lighting, and the black/white grunges are good for adding a more consistent noise-like texture as opposed to a dramatic blotchy texture.

and here's the link again to all the watercolor textures that i made! not every watercolor texture i use was made by me, but, i do use mine the most often bc i have good taste.

[bartonbones]

the whump march madness prompt was bruised ribs and I’m deep in thought abt my nebulous Declan Lynch torture au and now it’s your problem

Sleeping, Declan didn’t look that bad. 

It didn’t make sense that way. With his eyes closed and jaw slack, he should’ve looked dead—like roadkill, peeled off the side of a Henrietta scenic byway, imprints of headlights on his sternum. But his chest was rising in tandem with the waves on the screen next to him, tidaling gently in and out without alarm. He should’ve looked dead, but instead looked something somehow even more jarring: relaxed. 

Likely by nature of the amount of sedatives they kept telling Ronan they were given him. Not seeking permission, necessarily, just informing, in passing, as an afterthought. There were more drugs in Declan’s system than possibly ever were Kavinsky’s, an insane and unbelievable thought that would horrify Delcan once he was off of them long enough to think about it. Ronan could imagine the face he’d pull—tight and almost imperceptibly different, except for the pull of his mouth and the wrinkle in between his brow.

At least all of mine were legally obtained, he’d say, shrugging as if it didn’t bother him (it would’ve).

But now—nothing. With the sheets pulled up to his shoulders like a morgue drawer, and his hair washed and dried, he was almost excruciatingly un-Declan-like. Ronan itched to prove to himself that it had happened, that he’d been hurt, and then he’d been rescued. That he was alive, beneath the seemingly endless parade of syringes and saline bags, and that he was angry, and that he was too good to show it until he wasn’t, and that everything was going to be okay. 

“Declan,” he said, aloud, low. “Dee.”

His voice was hoarse. He’d done a lot of screaming, Matthew had told him, partly at him and partly something apparently between a war cry and a wild animal, which was unpleasant and also unhelpful. And after the crash, when he’d been unconscious, Matthew had said he'd slept with his mouth open, which was gross. Also, he hadn’t brushed his teeth in five days, although he wasn’t sure if that was related or not. 

Declan didn’t answer. He got close enough that he should be able to smell his terrible breath. 

“Declan,” he said, again, short and loud. 

Declan didn’t respond, but shifted, a little. Too drugged up to speak but not, apparently, to escape halitosis. In the movement, the sheet covering him fell from his shoulder. The crisp white of the bleached linen was not in stark contrast to the sick, pale canvas of Declan’s chest, but made a frame of the bruises which ran across his ribs and side like spilled paint. Some of them were still boot-shaped, others bleeding out and blurring into concentric shapes of purple and green. Pinpricks of bright red burst capillaries dusted against the wine dark sea of them. 

Ronan felt immediately unwell. 

Obviously, Declan was not his first beaten body. 

Bruises could be a kind of art form, if you were given the right medium. Portraits in Declan’s own national gallery. Bruises, beautiful on someone who deserved it, or the forgiving flesh of your own outer thigh. Even on Declan, shamefully, the pride in a bruised cheek, the thrill of a split lip: fuck you, Declan. Hard swings with closed fists and no apologies needed. 

But for the first time in a decade, all Ronan can think is sorry. 

Sorry for the bruises. Sorry I wasn’t fast enough. Sorry that you didn’t know I was coming for you, sorry that it got this bad, sorry I didn’t hurt them worse, sorry about the lack of balloons and flowers and tears, sorry about all the injuries I don’t know about, sorry, maybe most of all, sorry about the car wreck. Sorry, probably, about every wreck.

Thinking it is one thing. Ronan presses a shaking palm against his lips, presses hard, doesn’t cry, doesn’t say it. He inhales, sharp, and shakes out his hand like it was aflame.

“Declan,” he says, again, inexplicably angry, suddenly furious. “Wake up.” 

Declan doesn’t stir. It would be better for him to be asleep, until everything healed, probably. The doctors tell him about all sorts of damage, more than the bruises: burns. Welts. Bleeds, internal and external. He’d be in unbearable pain just for opening his eyes, but Ronan wants him to wake anyway, almost demands it, stamping his foot like a child. 

Hell of wreck, the police officer had said, when they’d  finished checking Ronan out. An impeccable cover story, if no one looked too close—driving, frantic when the realization hit, that he had no explanation for Declan’s state. Pulling over next to the bridge, screaming at Matthew to get out, call 911, and give them a wide birth. Buckling himself in, revving the engine, driving, without apology, 45 miles per hour off of the bridge and directly into the nearest wide oak tree. An expert at crashes, Ronan hits the side of the Volvo with violent precision, enough to hit all the most fantastic crumple points but not to do anything drastic like flipping them or exploding the engine. The kind of crash that Ronan only knows to leave bruised knees and whiplash, but makes the paramedics pull Declan out for treatment without question, mission accomplished.

Hell of a wreck. Ronan, dipping in and out of consciousness, more from exhaustion than blunt trauma. The Volvo, crumple points exploited, crunched around the tree like metal ribbon, tied in a neat, smoking bow. 

The police officer had examined the damage on the photo on his tablet, so obviously shocked that Ronan was sober during the crash that he came up with little else to question him on. He zoomed in on the point where the front bumper met the shattered bark and glanced up at Ronan. 

“So, just to be clear, you swerved to avoid hitting the deer, which resulted in the head on collision with the tree?” 

His voice was clear but drawn back, incredulous, judging. The implication in his face is obvious, even for Ronan: between an unknown deer, a wild and worthless animal, and your eldest brother, you chose…? Declan, always, in someways, an unwitting sacrifice.

Ronan had shrugged. 

“I really love animals.”

The idea now that he wanted any of this to happen makes his nausea worse. Sickly, shifting feeling that resonates across his whole body as he leans across the hospital bed, close to Declan’s sleeping face. 

“I crashed your Volvo,” he says. Sin, confessed. All he needs now is absolution. “If you die, you won’t be able to kill me for that.” 

[the-voice-beckons-below]

down, down, down below

miguel o’hara / trans masc reader (+anyone who uses he/they pronouns).

warnings: angst, break up, miguel being held accountable, minor injury, no happy ending.

Miguel’s silhouette crowded into the doorway, the mass of it practically shaking with stress and unresolved anger as he began to collapse into his home. The spider’s shadow pooled into the room, and darkness practically unfurled from him with how much he was seething.

beaten by a kid. hundreds of spider humanoids all failing to catch one fifteen year old. And now once again, that stupid kid was weaving the fate of the multiverse carelessly. Atleast, that’s how he saw it.

His partner was parallel, not that he was aware of it yet.

The only light in their apartment was a kitchen lamp, illuminating a face that held no warmth. Beneath the isle chair they sat on, laid a suitcase, heavy and packed.

“mi corazón, you would not believe the day i’ve had.” he sighed, sliding towards the kitchen island. When a harsh beat of silence rang through the space they occupied. Miguel paused, “¿Qué pasa? are you alright?”

at another breath’s silence, he stilled. Angling his gaze to the partner he cherished, who appeared anything but loving in that instant. “cariño?”

The other spider-man finally spoke, eyes levelling to meet Miguel’s coldly. “I came to give you lunch.”

“you did? i’m sorry, i didn’t-“

“i’m leaving you Miguel.” his voice quivered for just a moment as he stood up abruptly from the raised stool. Fists clenching until they turned stark white.

at first, Miguel just faltered, breath hitching in disbelief. it had been the last thing he had expected to come home to, his partner declaring he was leaving him. abandoning their relationship. he lurched forward in an attempt to beg. “no - cariño, what do you mean? we can talk about this. where is this coming fro-“

“you don’t understand?” he started with a scoff, silencing miguel abruptly. the light from the counter sprayed on his skin, showing a canvas of bruises and small cuts. miguel could see the deep purple and red splotted over, and he instinctively edged closer to fuss over them.

“what is this? who hurt you?” his voice, a usually deep and confident timbre was shaky and uprooted. it looked like the other man had been in a fight - countless actually.

they shook their head, gaze softening only slightly before hardening to sharpened steel once again. “this is the work of just about every spider person in that headquarters. i was an obstacle in their mission, to chase down a-“ he almost choked on his words, “a..a kid.”

“i’m sure this was a misunderstanding, don’t do anything brash, it’s the middle of the night.” He pleaded, beginning to realise the root of the anger directed towards him. Life had been loss after loss, until Miguel had found one particular arachnid who didn’t inconvenience him. Who in fact, blossomed some hope within the previously grief ridden man. Now, he was terrified of losing the only thing he had gained since the worst events of his past.

“No. you listen to me Miguel. Today i went to give you lunch, and do you know what i saw? i’m pretty sure you know. I saw the manhunt for a boy!” His voice began to raise in volume. “You set a bounty on him. He was all on his own and you told him his father was going to die and he could do nothing. And then, you pinned him down. and what did you call him miguel? what did you call that boy?”

the words felt too heavy to say.

“tell me. tell me what you said to Miles.” The partner pressed, eyes flashing with vitriol.

“I..i called him an anomaly.” miguel turned away at his partner’s fury, unable to swallow the lump developing in his throat.

“but you didn’t just call him that did you?” he inhaled like it hurt to breathe, miguel thought then, that maybe there was some evidence the relationship was salvageable with that. that they were affected, that they still cared despite miguel’s actions. “You said he was a mistake. That he didn’t belong here. You trapped him, hurt him. Blamed him for something that was out of his control.” This time, resentment flickered in their pupils. “I looked into it. it was a scientist that got hold of an anomaly, a spider. it escaped. miles had no choice in the matter, and you treat him like he did, like he’s to blame.”

miguel’s lips curled automatically, “he is to blame! it all started with him, you don’t get it.”

as soon as the words left his mouth he awkwardly froze, attempting to backtrack and smooth over the cracks in his exterior.

their jaw ticked, the light catching the faintest sight of watery eyes. “no i really don’t. because you never would’ve treated gabby this way.”

with that, he dragged the suitcase by the handle, wrenching open the front door. Despite his speech, and the venom laced within in, tears still lapped at his ducts. There was a sadness buried in his bones, and an anger rising in his gut. Miguel wasn’t the man he fell in love with. This version of Miguel was twisted, in some sense of moral justice where people still lost their lives and apparently nothing could be done.

gabby had been miguel’s world, he had loved her so dearly, and had had a natural affinity with children, before…it had all went wrong. miles was not to blame for a freak accident, and miguel should’ve known that.

he had sat back, supporting miguel with keeping universes in check and safe, but everything with miles, it was where he drew the line. there was once concrete evidence with miguel’s theories, but then again, a lot of information was withheld from him, as much as he had previously trusted miguel, who was to say they had gone down every avenue? what if there was a way to save everyone?

“don’t look for me. you won’t find me.” He pressed on his watch with twitching digits, a portal beginning to open jaggedly, before he vanished into it. Leaving their history, and now a broken travel watch on the ground. Crumpled and beaten, much alike to his body.

By the time Miguel unfroze from shackles of shock, he was far too late. Managing to kneel in the hallway, hands cupping the broken device ever so softly. It would be the only piece left of him. As much as he wanted to deny what was said, he couldn’t. He had lost his everything once again.

It was all his fault. No excuses. and yet, the hatred for miles only trebled, finding another reason to blame him.

all of it stung. Just like a spider’s bite.

author’s note:

i rewatched ATSV yesterday and so desperately wanted to read a fic where miguel was held accountable. but they’re a little hard to find through all the thirsty posts. So i wrote my own :) it was done in a rush so no mean comments or criticism!!! there’s beauty in imperfection lol.

Miles deserves a hug and someone who immediately supports him. So in my head, this oc/reader insert sees what’s happening and is on Miles’ side almost instantaneously. Mf does NOT let it slide.

anyway, this was technically the first post on this account but it has been re-edited and reposted, because fun fact, when i made this new account tumblr marked me as a bot and i was shadow banned. i was so sad at first i genuinely thought people just hated my writing LMAO, i hope this scratches an itch for any angst lovers, ily.

have a great day or night <33

divider credits @strangergraphics

[deepdisireslonging]

Surrender

Pairing: Ricky Starks x Reader

Warnings/Promises: Angst, canon-level violence

Word Count: 850

Note: Doing a bit of a character study for a larger work thats about to come out. In the words of the Dread Pirate Roberts: "To the Pain" ->

The roar of the crowd echoed in your head like a pack of wolves baying for blood. Just feet from you, caged in by ring ropes and across a desert of canvas, the love of your life battled for you.

Already you could see the bruises forming on his skin. The bright welt across his chest from the slaps. The dark gelatinous forms around his ribs from punches and kicks. But what worried you the most was how Joe’s elbows were hungry to catch Ricky’s throat. If he did that, it would end the match.

Every so often, Joe glanced your way. The match progressed, and Ricky’s offense moved slower and slower. And Joe’s face slid with ease into a smug grin as the end glared inevitable.

“I need to ask you something.” You twisted the traitorous cloth around your fingers. Small enough to hide from Ricky on your way down to the match. Large enough to weigh like a boulder of guilt in your pocket. You swallowed as Britt waited for you to continue. “What do you do? When Adam is going to far; when you both know he won’t return to you in one piece?”

She tasted several answers on her tongue before answering. “You be there for him. Stand there. Watch the pain, feel it burn in your lungs. And you give it back to him as a strength that will motivate him either to the finish or the end. But my experiences… they’re not like what you’re going to have to endure. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

“That’s alright. Thank you.”

The ring shook as Ricky bounced off the ropes, hurtling towards his target. His eyes gleamed with focus and determination. Despite what advice Britt had given you, the cheers and praise you wanted to give him died on your lips. Mostly you could manage a smile when he looked your way. One that he would return. And then shift back to the matter at hand.

Still, your lungs quaked.

If he won: he was number one contender. If he tapped out: Joe was number one contender. And you would work for him instead. No pinfall. No count-outs. No disqualifications. Submission only.

You knew him. His match with Danielson was before you joined the roster as Ricky’s valet. And before the feelings developed. You hated how you longed for his touch after matches now. Wanting to feel and know that he was okay like you had never needed before. Ricky wouldn’t tap. He had passed out instead of tapping to Danielson’s brutal victory. The recovery period had, apparently, been more brutal than what the cameras revealed.

Would you be able to survive them with him?

Would the potential championship be worth it?

Then, your nightmare came to fruition.

Joe’s grip caught Ricky’s wrist. With a quick tug, your love was in his arms. Joe turned so you could see his face contort, so you could see him gasp for air. And behind him, like a grinning gargoyle ready to spill a waterfall of brimstone on your dreams, Joe watched you. He waited. Listened. Patiently paused his malice to see what you would do.

“Here.” Joe drifted out of the shadows and handed you a small square of white. “He’s going to need it.”

The fabric seemed to burn your hands. But Joe refused to take it back.

“We both know him. You better than most. He won’t tap. To keep you near he’d rather hold hot coals than let me borrow you.” He stepped near, trapping you against the wall. “I won’t need you long. I promise. Once the title’s mine, you can go back to him. But he’s in my way of getting my title back. If he wants to have a bit of a rematch after I hold gold, he’s welcome to it. Until then,” he nodded at the cloth, “think about it. And what’s best for him.”

Biting your bottom lip, you dragged the surrender out of your pocket.

Ricky’s eyes, already drooping shut from wont of oxygen, widened. He did his best to shake his head. Holding out his hand, he rasped, “reach for me.”

Your hand slid between the ropes. Though your fingertips would never be able to touch, maybe your closer proximity could help him find a way out?

The grip tightened around his throat, and Joe fell to one side. His leg pinned down Ricky’s flailing limbs.

You watched the glow fade from his eyes. His gaze, glazed and empty, never moved from where he knew you to be. But his lips were already taking on a purple hue.

Joe nodded at the square in your hands.

Against your will, it dragged your hand up to the bottom rope, draping the white fabric where everyone could see it.

“No! Y/N, I’ll-” Ricky coughed, forcing a smidgen of oxygen into his lungs. “I’ll be alright. Don’t.”

Without sound, you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Y/N!”

Before you could think about it, your knees bit into the apron and you caught the attention of the referee. Eyes brimming with tears, you tossed in the towel, ending the match.

[loojii]

Sorry if this has been asked before but I was wondering how you do the outline lineart effect in paint tool sai? (The stark white with the black outline)

I don't know what you mean exactly but you have the outline option in SAI 2 (not in the original SAI)

On the layer you want outlined you select the outline option under the Layer tab. You can adjust the width and color of the outline here. It is then added to the layer and you can not remove it. That's why I always copy the layer and put the outline on that layer instead of the original one, so I can still change the color and remove it if I like (to get an outline of your whole drawing, simply merge all your layers and copy that, undoing the merging afterwards)

You also have the effect of water fringe, which can be found above the layers and underneath the canvas viewer. Unlike the outline you can undo this one, and it will show up live when you draw (every stroke you make will automatically have an outline). However, it is always a darker color of the original color and can not be changed.

I use the outline for things like an outline around the whole drawing, or sparkles and bubbles. And water fringe is used for shadows and hair in my art! To give an example :) Hope this is what you meant!

[lis-muerta]

“You tried and that’s what counts.”

Sorry, this took so long! I didn't know what to write and decided to play with an idea, again and idea I just like writing what-ifs. I didn't edit as much so I'm sorry if it's hard to read also.

The evening sky bled into shades of deep purple and mauve pink, casting a somber glow over Republic City. Lin stood alone on the balcony of her high-rise apartment, overlooking the sprawling urban landscape that buzzed beneath her. The city lights flickered like distant stars, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within her.

Lin's hands gripped the cold, metal railing, her knuckles turning white. She had always been a pillar, an inflexible protector of the city, but tonight, she felt the weight of her own world pressing down on her shoulders. The decision had been made decades ago, yet the heaviness of its reality was just beginning to sink in.

Inside, the soft sounds of Yun's laughter filtered through the open door. He was listening to the radio shows while painting the new spirit portal, his youthful mind blissfully unaware of the complexities that clouded his mother's heart. Lin watched him for a moment, her heart swelling with love yet aching with a silent grief. Yun, who could barely walk on his own, relaxing in the living room, his hands moving skillfully over the canvas, his laughter a balm to her weary soul. She had chosen this path for him, for her, believing it was the only way to balance the scales of her ambitions and her responsibilities. But at what cost?

A cool breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the faint echoes of Aang's wisdom, reminding her of conversations long past. Lin closed her eyes, letting the wind caress her face, as if seeking counsel from the spirits that seemed to murmur just out of reach. She remembered Aang's gentle warning about the sacrifices leadership entailed, about the delicate balance between personal desires and the greater good. How right he had been, and how naive she had felt now, thinking she could escape the inevitable.

—

Lin recalled the early days of her relationship with Tenzin, filled with laughter and stolen moments between their responsibilities. They had walked through the parks of Republic City, hand in hand, dreaming of their future together now that they were married .Those memories were tinged with the golden light of young love, so stark against the complexities they faced now.

Life at the air temple had grown increasingly chaotic over the past few years. Between Su's troubles and Toph's abrupt retirement, Lin found herself caught in a whirlwind of change. The new police chief was more accommodating of Lin's dual responsibilities, but even that small mercy did little to ease the strain. Her body was betraying her.

Then there was Yun an, the thirteen-year-old legs kept giving out, a frequent agony he was in, that they slowly realized he would never become a master despite his extensive knowledge and strong spirit.The image of her son, grappling with tasks that other children found effortless, weighed heavily on her heart.

Lin was late. She hoped it was just the stress, the relentless pace of her life as a protector and a mother. Tenzin had shared his concerns with her, mentioning how Katara had seen Aang struggling with Yun. Avatar Aang was getting weaker and more ill . The fact Aang wouldn't live forever caused her to tremble with fear.

One particularly trying day, Lin found herself donned in an acolyte's uniform, leading a meditation circle because there was no one else available. As she attempted to guide the acolytes, her mind raced with doubts. Could she truly embrace this life of spiritual leadership? Was she destined to be the island mother, leaving her fate to the universe? The session ended disastrously, a wave of nausea overwhelming her, a battle she had been staving off until that moment.

The realization hit her hard. If she were pregnant again, it would jeopardize her chance at a promotion. How could she manage a newborn when Yun already required so much of her attention? It would be unfair to bring another child into this chaos, potentially replicating the strained relationship she had with Su. Each day brought sickness, a relentless reminder of her predicament. She had tried to see if she could fit into the role of a spiritual leader, but her heart longed for the action and command of police work.

Lin curled into a ball, tears streaming down her face after another bout of sickness. She knew she had to make a choice. She had only decided to have Yun because it aligned with her goals; she could stay home, finish school, and still ascend to police chief back then. But with Aang's life spinning down the drain and Tenzin's expectations of expanding their family, she felt trapped between her aspirations and her responsibilities.

—

the day she told Tenzin she couldn't walk the path he envisioned, filled with more children and spiritual duties. She loved him, yes, but she loved her career and herself too. "I won’t forgive myself if I toss my dreams for yours," she had said, her voice steady but her heart breaking. Tenzin had looked at her, his expression a mix of understanding and sorrow, a silent acknowledgment of the diverging roads before them. Lin left the rest to fate, silently hoping he would bend for her as she had for him, but instead their home turned into a battlefield and Tenzin made his decision when his father died and he abandoned her to figure it out. Leaving her with a huge mess and later a messy divorce. That he decided he didn't need or want them anymore was how she felt when he walked down the aisle with a girl half his age, who saw him like a all powerful being and not her loser she had loved endlessly.

—

Opening her eyes, Lin looked out towards the horizon where the ocean met the sky, the dark waters reflecting the last light of the dying day. She thought of Tenzin, his dreams of a family intertwined with the spiritual duties of his heritage. She loved him deeply, profoundly, yet knew in her heart that their paths demanded different sacrifices. She couldn't be the partner he needed, not while her own dreams pulsed so fervently within her.

The realization was a quiet wraith in the twilight, a shadow that no amount of city light could dispel. Lin knew she was choosing a path filled with what-ifs and might-have-beens. The thought of failing Yun in some unforeseen way, of not being there when he needed her most, gnawed at her. Yet, surrendering her aspirations, her very essence, would be a different kind of failure altogether—one she wasn't prepared to face.

"You tried, and that’s what counts," she whispered to herself, a mantra to soothe the storm inside. But the words felt hollow in the cool evening air, a feeble shield against the tide of doubt and regret.

As night fell over Republic City, Lin remained on the balcony, a solitary figure etched against the backdrop of a world she vowed to protect. The future was a landscape shrouded in mist, paths uncertain and fraught with shadows. But Lin was no stranger to hard choices. With a final, lingering look at the new spirt portal, she turned back inside, to the life she had chosen, to the son who she loved more than she loved herself, ready to face whatever storms might come now that the world has changed again.

[cowboydisaster]

can i pls request Daddy Dutch finding out somebody is treating reader real bad and finding them and killing them thank you love you xoxoxoxo

Tutelar

-(n.) serving as a protector or guardian.

pairing: Dutch van der Linde x fem!reader

word count: 3.8k

summary: you come home hurt, and Dutch sets the world ablaze to damn the men that have done this to you.

a/n: I kind of took this idea and ran so I hope it is along the lines of what you were hoping for, and sorry this request took so long!

warnings: graphic violence, very graphic please read this

They had wanted to send you home as a message.

"Don't fuck wit' Colm O'Driscoll." One of them had said, kicking you in the ribs when you were already down. You could barely breathe as they took turns, kicking and hitting you until purple and black bruises blossomed along your ribcage, and blood spattered up from your mouth, landing on the dirt below. Your nails dug into the ground, accumulating dirt as you attempted to grip onto anything to find some leverage. 

"Go easy on her, she's a woman, and don't kill her." Another man said, holding the others back. They hadn't touched you. Thank God, they hadn't touched you. But they beat you, and as you weakly tried to fight back they humiliated you, made you feel weak and small and stupid for traveling through The Heartlands alone at night. You should have stopped and sent up camp, but you were tired and you missed home. You recall traveling through Twin Stack Pass when they'd spotted you:

"It's gotta be a Van der Linde! Grab him!" One had screamed from horseback, and they had chased you, lassoed you from your stallion to the ground. You'll never forget the look on their faces, the satisfied smiles and the chuckles when they realized who they'd captured, "Dutch's piece" they'd called you. 

They'd left you on the side of the road with none of your belongings except your horse, ensuring that you had a way to get back to camp and deliver their message. They wanted to get back at Dutch, to stab at him for stealing the train job. And what better way to get back at him than through the person he loves most?

It was a grueling ride home.

— — — —

You're almost afraid to part the white canvas into yours and Dutch's tent. Afraid because you know what his reaction will be. You should be thinking about the gang, about lying low and not causing scenes, but you don't care, because you're hurting and you need him. 

"D-Dutch?" You all but whisper, parting the canvas enough to slip through, limping and holding your bruised ribs. As soon as you're inside the tent, the little strength you have left shatters and you crumble, landing on your knees. The adrenaline wears off and you just can't find the strength to hold yourself up any longer. Everything hurts, especially as your knees buckle against the wooden floor. Your arms wrap around your twitching, aching torso where fists and rings have marked you, where steel toed boots have left their imprints on your skin. You can't help but cry because you're home, you're safe, they can't hurt you anymore. 

Dutch is awake in an instant. He hadn't been expecting you until the morning, and as soon as he hears you he knows something is wrong. And then, god- he sees you. A heap, a puddle on the floor of pain and sadness and hurt, and he wants to mend you together immediately, even not knowing what's wrong. As soon as the fog of sleep is cleared from his mind, he's scrambling to the floor in front of you.

"My dear girl, what happened?" He asks, eyes wide, scanning over your bruised form. His hands hover over your arms, afraid to touch you for fear that he will break you even further. He can't see your face, as it is hidden in your hands, but he wishes to look into your eyes, and find answers. Dutch's index finger rests under your chin as he pulls your gaze up to his own. 

Your sniffles quiet once he sees your face, and his warm eyes and worried features fall away once he sees the bruises there. They're replaced by a stark coldness, a rage. It's not directed at you of course, but whatever scum has hurt you. You see the way his jaw sets, locking as he grinds his teeth.

Dutch brushes some hair from your face, seeing the purple marks on your cheek there. His eyes slip shut in an attempt to keep control of himself as a low rumble resonates from his chest, and when his eyes open again, they are cold, threatening.

"Who did this to you?" He asks, fingers brushing over your arms, wondering if you adorn the same bruises under your shirt. 

"O'Driscolls… They told me to tell you that- that this is a message, not to mess with Colm." You whimper, lip trembling as you lean against Dutch, clinging to the lapels of his shirt.

"I'll kill every last one of those repulsive maggots." Dutch growls, formulating a plan, but then you hiccup a cry, and his eyes flicker down to you, sniffling and hiccuping against his chest and his eyes soften. The O'Driscolls can wait. 

Placing one hand on the back of your head, and the other on your back, he pulls you closer to him, realizing he needs to take care of you first. 

"Let me tend to you first, my love." He whispers, arms wrapping around your waist as he helps you to your feet. You wince, gasping lightly from his hands on your twitching ribs. 

"How bad do you hurt?" Dutch asks, heart breaking when you wince as he helps you to your feet. You don't respond, figuring it will just be easier to show him.

Feeling numb inside, your fingers come to the buttons of your muddied blue blouse, and as soon as Dutch sees your intentions, he brushes your fingers away. His eyes are dark, pained, as he begins to undo the buttons. As more flesh is revealed to him, more discoloration is evident. He breathes heavily through his nose, saying nothing as the last button unclasps and he pulls the shirt down over your arms, leaving your torso bared to him.

Goosebumps arise on your skin as his fingers ghost over your bare torso, and he swallows thickly, taking in your body. He has seen you bared like this so many times before, but never has it felt this damning, this aggravating.

He can't believe that they've hurt you like this. They've hurt you. He won't let them get away with it, he will not let them live after this. Dutch will tear the O'Driscolls limb from limb if that's what it takes. He wants to ensure that they never spoil the air again with their wasted breaths. They don't deserve to live in a world in which you exist. He will ensure that they don't. 

Dutch runs his fingers over your aching ribs, and down the valley of your breasts as he inspects the purple, swollen skin there. His eyebrows are drawn together slightly from focus, and you see the moment that the question enters his mind. It pains your heart to see the fear in his eyes as they flicker up to you.

"Did anyone touch you…?" He asks, voice quieter than his usual booming tone. Immediately you shake your head no, face crumbling as you realize how much worse it could have been. 

Then he's wrapping his arms around your shoulders, pulling your head to his chest with a heavy, pained exhale. 

"It's okay, shh, my dear, I have you now." He coos, shushing your cries as he leads you to the bed. You cling to him until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and he urges you to sit on the plush cot. 

He cups your cheek, planting a kiss to your forehead before he backs away, going towards his wooden chest. He grabs a white shirt of his own, the pin striped one that he always wears. He certainly won't be needing white tomorrow. Then he grabs a bottle of tonic, bringing both back towards you.

He brings your chin up lightly with his fingers, bringing the bottle of tonic to your lips until you've drunk down enough to please him. And then he slides the shirt down over your head and arms, not bothering to unbutton it as it swallows you up.

"Tonic should help with the pain." He mutters, sitting down next to you on the bed. It dips under his weight as he lies down on the cot, gently pulling you into the crook of his side so as to not hurt you. Sniffling, you nuzzle against his chest, reveling in the warmth and safety that he provides. 

"They'll never lay a finger on you again." He growls to himself, eyes fixated on the ceiling as an instinctual, primal rage burns in his gut, "I'll make sure of it."

Dutch comforts you to sleep, knowing that he won't be getting any slumber tonight. Once your eyelids are fluttered closed, and your breaths grow slow and quiet, he looks over your arm draped across his chest. He sees the finger prints there, where some lowlife bastard has left his mark on your body. He sees the blossom of yellow and purple along your cheeks, and the fire in his eyes burns. 

The O'Driscolls can harm Dutch in whatever ways they wish. They can beat him, hang him, ship him to the gallows but touching even a hair on your head is a step too far. You're his, his family, his love, his life and he will be damned if someone gets away with harming you. Colm intended to get under Dutch's skin and it worked, now all the O'Driscolls will have to pay the price. 

The same O'driscolls that hurt you have moved camp, sitting comfortably under the stars, joking of the praise they'll receive for finding the Van der Linde. Little do they know that come morning, the devil himself will be on their doorstep, commanding death. Hurting you will be the last thing those bastards ever do. 

— — — —

You wake up to the sound of quiet rustling. It's still dark out, most likely very early morning. You roll onto your side, wincing slightly. Dutch is not in bed, but is fastening his gun belt over his hips. He's fully dressed, even adorning his black bowler hat. 

"I didn't mean to wake you." Dutch whispers at the sound of your rustling, and your eyes flicker up to his own as he turns to you. 

"Where are you going?" You ask, as if you need to. You already know what he's doing, and anxiety pangs in your chest at the idea. 

"Just have something I need to take care of. Don't you worry about it, my dear." Dutch responds, walking to the side of the bed. He cups your cheek, pressing a slow kiss to your lips before letting you go. 

"I have more tonic here, and Arthur is outside in case you need anything else. I've ordered him there until I return." Dutch says, sliding his ivory-gripped pistols into his holsters. You nod, wishing he would stay with you, but also wanting him to take down those monsters. 

"Dutch?" You whisper, watching as he steps towards the door, turning around at the sound of your voice. 

"Yes?" 

"Please be careful… and please hurry back to me." You say, hand extending out to him. He smiles, gripping your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

"I'll move mountains to get back to you quickly, miss." Dutch offers, squeezing your hand lightly before letting it go. 

And then he's gone, walking through the exit with haste.

He stops at the front of his tent, addressing Arthur who is sitting in a folding chair outside with a leg propped up. 

"If she needs anything at all, you get it for her. If something happens, if she even gets a goddamn papercut, send John to get me." Arthur nods, glancing up from his journal to take in his instructions, "And son? Thank you." Dutch tips his hat to Arthur then, stomping up towards The Count who is already saddled. 

He wastes not even a second, swinging his leg over the stallion and spurring him into the night. Tonight he's grateful for the Arabian. There's no animal that could get him across the plains faster. Dutch is nothing short of a force to be reckoned with, barreling across The Heartlands on his snow white Arabian. His pistols glisten in the moonlight, as does the growing rage in his eyes. It doesn't take long for him to take in his surroundings, and in the distance on top of the hill he sees a shouldering billow of smoke, rising up through the trees. With his eyes fixated on the smoke, he digs his spurs into The Count, urging him to pick up speed. In half a second he's close enough to see the outlay of the camp. It's the O'Driscolls alright. 

From a distance far enough to not be spotted, Dutch sees three O'Driscolls, clad in green scarves. They're joking around a campfire, laughing and talking loudly, toasting bottles of liquor. With a bubble of rage coming up in his throat, Dutch rides The Count straight towards the camp, not bothering to sneak. Drunk or just idiots, they don't see him coming until he's nearly in the camp. 

"Boys!" Dutch hollers, smiling as if greeting old friends. He's switched that famous Dutch van der Linde charisma on, smiling and raising his hands up in the air. The Count strides straight up to them, stopping once he's a handful of feet away from the fire. 

"That's Dutch van der Linde!" One yells, raising his revolver up, pointing it at Dutch with a downright panicked expression on his face. The other two shy backwards, raising their weapons with trembling hands. They had not expected Dutch personally, and certainly not so soon. They were expecting him to go after Colm, but Dutch wants these boys, the ones who hurt you. 

Dutch only raises his hands up in further surrender, sliding off The Count as he approaches the fire slowly.

"Now I don't want no trouble." Dutch says, taking a seat at a log by the fire. The O'driscolls look at eachother afraid and nervous, gauging what he's going to do. 

"Fine night tonight, isn't it?" Dutch asks, looking up to the moon with a chuckle. He rests his hand on his leg, keeping a charismatic demeanor as he does so. 

"Sure, now what you want? We ain't got no business with you." One spits out, revolver wavering from where it's pointed at Dutch. 

Dutch chuckles deep in his chest, a threatening glance landing over the three men across the fire.

"Is that so?" Dutch asks, taking into account that two of the three men have bruised, bloody knuckles. He squints his eyes, growling at the sight of your blood on their hands. 

"Which one of you is in charge?" Dutch asks, looking between the three, deducing that the man with no blood on his hands is most likely the one giving orders. 

"We only answer to Colm." The smaller of them speaks up. 

"Colm's not here… now I'll ask again, which one of you is in charge." Dutch growls, growing irritated with their lies. The two bloody-knuckled boys glance to the biggest man, and Dutch smiles. 

"Your name?" Dutch asks the large man. The leader is looking Dutch in the eyes, unwavering unlike his lackeys.

"Nicholas." The leader offers, not giving his last name. Dutch nods, leaning back on the log. 

"Tell me, Nicholas, would you condone your men here hurting a defenseless woman?" Dutch's gaze turns into knives, "Hurting my woman?" Dutch asks, standing from his position on the log. It's then that Nicholas sees the rage in his eyes, the unbridled ferocity that is about to be cast upon him. Nicholas stutters, standing up and backing away from Dutch slightly. 

"I ain't got no idea what you're talking about." Nicholas spits, keeping his gun raised at Dutch as he takes a step back with every one of Dutch's steps forward. 

"I think you do, boy. And let me tell you, you're gonna have to pull that trigger if you plan on stopping me." Dutch all but growls, stepping closer to Nicholas until he can see the fear in his eyes. Nicholas is ready to fire, but with the proximity, Dutch whips the revolver out of his hand, tossing it towards the treeline in one swift movement. Colm never worried about hiring good gunmen, the men are pathetic in their weapon skills, and Dutch knows this.

Dutch unholsters his own pistol then, ivory grip tight in his hand as he pulls the hammer down, aiming it towards the smaller men. 

"I suggest you drop those weapons." Dutch hisses, no room for argument as they toss their weapons aside, trembling. 

Then his attention is back on Nicholas, black eyes boring into the suddenly weak-statured man. 

"Now Nicholas, I'm not about persecuting an innocent man. So I suggest you tell me right now and I'll know if you're lying. Did you order these lowlives to put their hands on her?" Dutch growls, coming forward again until Nicolas stumbles backwards, back hitting a tree. 

"No! No goddammit, I didn't even see a woman!" Nicholas yells, afraid for his life and regretting all the decisions that brought him here. 

Dutch chuckles humorlessly, backing up from the men while keeping his gun at the ready to kill any of them. He backs away to a pile of blankets and food by the campfire, kicking it with his foot until he finds what he saw earlier when he was scouting the camp. His boot toes at an empty, walnut colored saddlebag, and he kicks it across the dirt, sending it straight down towards the O'Driscolls. 

They all pale, looking down to the saddlebag with your initials sewn into the leather with red thread, lined with ruby colored roses. Dutch fumes, watching as the boys' eyes flicker down to the pack they had stolen from your horse and then back up to Dutch.

"I thought I told you not to lie to me." Dutch hisses, holstering his gun before coming forward and gripping Nicholas by the collar, he slams the man against the tree, getting up in his face. The other two O'Driscolls dare not to move, shocked into a state of fear as they watch on. 

"We was just following orders-" Nicholas begs, whimpering before Dutch grips the handle of his knife from its holster and in one swift movement he plunges it into the man's gut. Nicholas gasps, gripping at the knife in his gut, but Dutch holds it steady, grinding it deep in his guy and turning the blade. Dutch holds eye contact with Nicholas, growling as the life begins to drain from the other man's eyes. Blood spews from Nicholas, all over Dutch as the weaker man gasps and grunts. Dutch leans into the other man's ear, making sure his voice is the last thing the bastard ever hears. 

"This is for her." Dutch growls, twisting the knife until he hears bones crunching before ripping the knife back out of him. Nicholas slides to the ground, guts and blood falling out as he slides down against the tree. Dutch kneels on the ground, wiping his bloodied knife on Nicholas's jeans to clean it off. 

"I'll see you in hell." Dutch growls, sliding his knife back into its sheath before turning to address the men off to the side. 

"You." Dutch growls, unholstering his pistol and aiming it at one of the boys' heads. 

"Where is Colm?" Dutch asks, voice as cold as ice. 

"S-six point cabin, up in Cumberland forest! Just please don't kill me!" The man rambles, trembling with his hands in the air as he tries to save his own life. With no hesitation, Dutch pulls the hammer down and in quick succession shoots twice, hitting both men in their chests. 

With the barrel still smoking, Dutch shoves his gun into its holster, looking around at the now quiet camp. It's still dark, and he glances down to his pocket watch. There is blood smeared on the golden chain, and he wipes it away to check the time. 

It's only been an hour, and he's satisfied that he still has time to join you in bed before the sun rises. Dutch whistles for The Count, rummaging through the camp and carefully stuffing your saddlebag with your stolen belongings. Once he has everything, he mounts up, glancing back to the three bodies only momentarily before spurring The Count back home to you. 

— — — — 

You perk up at the sound of his voice outside the tent. Resting up on your elbows, you listen as Dutch thanks Arthur and bids him goodnight. He doesn't come straight to the tent, instead you listen as he splashes his face in the water barrel outside, likely washing away the blood that is on his skin. He dresses down into his union suit, placing his stained clothes in a neat pile by the washing bin. 

You pull the blankets around yourself tighter, smiling as Dutch steps into the tent, quickly coming over to you.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, leaning down to brush a stray hair away from your face. 

"Better now…Come to bed with me." You plead, wincing as you slide over to make more room for him. 

He climbs in beside you, laying on his side. Facing him, you nuzzle into his chest as he wraps his arms around you. He's so warm, so strong and solid against your chest. You're sure that you can face anything with him by your side, protecting and loving you. You glance up at him through heavy eyelashes, seeing that he is lost in thought. 

"Hey?" You whisper to him, pulling his attention down to you. Immediately when his eyes land on yours, his lips break into a smile, and you can feel his chest thrum against yours. 

"I love you." You tell him, and though he's heard the words fall from your lips countless times, it still pulls in his chest. 

And then you lean up to him, ignoring the pain of your split lip as you press your lips against his, kissing him softly. He kisses you back, lengthening the intimate moment by placing his hand on your hip. When you pull away, catching your breath, you can see that Dutch is relieved, reassured that you're still here with him. He presses his forehead against yours, leaning in to press one gentle kiss to your nose. 

"I love you too… and I won't let anyone hurt you, not ever again." Dutch growls, pulling your head against his chest and holding you there. 

You know he will do everything in his power to protect you, but you also know that things like this are inevitable. You're going to get hurt, it's inescapable, and it's a thought that haunts Dutch often. But for now at least, you're safe, tucked into his arms, and he has no intentions of letting you go.

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