ABOUTâDIVIDERS I USE
MY SPOTIFY
Please read my DNI under âaboutâ

titsay
One Nice Bug Per Day

blake kathryn
No title available
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Acquired Stardust

Kaledo Art
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
No title available
Keni
occasionally subtle
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸
$LAYYYTER
noise dept.

Origami Around
Sweet Seals For You, Always
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Aqua Utopiaď˝ćľˇăŽĺşă§č¨ćśăç´Ąă

Kiana Khansmith
Jules of Nature
seen from South Korea
seen from Germany
seen from Indonesia
seen from United States

seen from Portugal
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Australia

seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from Romania
seen from United States
seen from Morocco
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@passelofopossums
ABOUTâDIVIDERS I USE
MY SPOTIFY
Please read my DNI under âaboutâ
X / X / X
X / đ§ / X
X / X / X
âď¸ Warning: Horror/Gore themes below (all fake)
âď¸ None of this is real gore/blood, all of it is fake
X / X / X
X / âźď¸ / X
X / X / X
House Tour?
Holland March x Male Reader
3.1k words. not betaâd
part one here
3 hours you lasted, before you rang the number heâd given you.
You go to meet march at his âŚapartment above the comedy club?
Warnings: 18+, NSFW minors do not interact. reader is written with a penis, but no other appearance descriptions. no use of y/n. plot what plot? blowjob, frotting (YAYYYY). holland mentions his wife because heâs stupid. giving and receiving hickeys (these boys like to bite), drinking. healy makes an appearance
a/n: boss makes a dollar, i make a dime, thats why im writing porn on company time. most of this was written at work because they do not pay me enough. once again i havenât posted smut properly since i was 13. be gentle with me . I LOVE YOU JACKSON HEALY
Hello, can I request Scott Summers x Male Reader?
The reader went on a long mission and came back to the mansion and is now exhausted mentally and physically. But the reader still has things to do after the mission, maybe some reports, but Scott sees how exhausted the reader is and argues that he should stay in bed and catch up on rest. The reader is stubborn at first, but after stumbling around for a bit and brain fog, the reader hesitantly agrees to basically be on bed rest. The reader is still grumpy though, with Scott being overly worried and watching his every step.
Burnout
Scott Summers x Male Reader
Summary: Mental and physical exhaustion was something you were used to, unless Scott had something to say about it
CW: Fluff - Stubborn reader - Mutant reader - Reader has telekinesis/telepathy - Established relationship
Words: 2.2k
A/N: Finally a Scott request! My boy deserves so much love that isn't just smut, and by gods anon you did it! Honestly though, I fucking love Scott and I appreciate the request.
May I request a Remy LeBeau "Gambit" x (Scott's brother) male reader fic, with the one of them getting sick trope? I have literally got two directions this could go, either:
Remy is the one who's sick, so the fic is just him being fussy/needy/bratty(?) for male reader to take care of him (maybe even cuddle himđŤŁ). Scott doesn't really play much of a role in this branch as, what is he going to do, play doctor for Remy in male reader's place? Never. Maybe just some scoffs and comments from Scott as the rivalry between the two X-Men has made some slight progress in mellowing out;
Or, male reader is the one who gets sick and, of course, Remy wants nothing more than to play nurse for his sick boyfriend. Scott, putting aside that he wants to maintain the distance between he and his brother, steps in and says he will take care of male reader since he believes Remy will only make male reader's condition worse. Chaos ensues with fluff! (Literally all male reader wants is some warm soupđđ).
Under The Weather
Remy 'Gambit' LeBeau x Male Reader
Summary: Mutants didn't really get sick, so when Remy got sick you were obviously worried.
CW: Fluff - Sick trope - Needy Remy - Reader is Scottâs brother - Mutant reader - Energy absorption powers
Words: 4.1k
A/N: I really wanted to do sick reader simply because of Remy in the maid dress, but there's so many sick reader fics that I decided against it for now. I've been putting this off for too long, it is time. Not a huge fan of how this turned out.
[ immune system of a skittle. ]
draped over the back of tim's chair, gaze following his cursor as he clicks through files, one arm under your cheek while the other rests at his shoulder, pushing through slightly sweat damp hair. "you know you have, like.. the worst immune system on the planet, right? you remember that? the amount of medical atrocities that have left you more vulnerable than a newborn?" you ask, gaze shifting to the tissue that's pressed under his nose, then back to the screen. "one sneeze in this god awful city and you're already half way to your death."
he gives you an unimpressed side eye, that same one that makes most people look away or change the topic, before shifting it forward again. "my immune system is perfectly fine," he mumbles, and it would be convincing if he didn't sound like he ate rocks and cigarettes for lunch, "that.. is just a conspiracy against me."
"i've literally seen your medical records, tim," you snort, arms moving to go around his shoulders, straightening so your chin rests atop his head. for once, he doesn't sigh or shrug you off, doesn't tell you to drop it. he brings a hand up to hold onto one of your forarms, thumb brushing against it.
"a ridiculous invasion of privacy, now that you mention it," he points out, and you can practically feel the way he wants to roll his eyes, but can't, because it'll just make his head feel worse. "besides.. if i go down every time someone sneezes, you'll just keep taking care of me. which, it's not rocket science to see you clearly don't mind." he finally shifts, leaning back in his chair, head tipping so he can look at you.
you look down at him, nose wrinkling up at how close you are. "i'm not trying to bury you because of germs, drake," you mutter, pressing a kiss to his too warm forehead.
"well, aren't you so lucky that i'm obsessive enough not to die and leave my boyfriend unsupervised? i can already imagine how tragic that would be. what would he possibly do if he couldn't spend his days fussing at me?" he grinned, just barely, but you could see the amusement behind his tired eyes.
"is your boyfriend lucky or do you just tell yourself that to feel better?" you ask before sighing deeply, uncurling one arm to reach and close his laptop. "come on. meds, water, sleep before you lose said boyfriend and, god forbid, another vital organ."
LEANING ON THEM
requested | by anon as part of my gestures of affection series pairing | garth x gn! reader
It starts simple, small.
The occasional brush of your body against his back as you lean over him to see something. The weight of your shoulder digging into his side as you reach across the table for something. Your back resting against his shin from your spot on the carpet in front of the couch during movie nights.
You donât seem to realise youâre even doing it, the casual touches, brushing your body against him and even lingering sometimes.
But Garth notices, each instance leaving him rigid and suddenly alert of your skin on his. The heat of your body seeping into his until heâs all tingly and fuzzy feeling.
It escalates from there. From draping yourself over his lap as you whine about Nightwingâs training, to resting your head on his shoulder as your eyes shutter closed after a long day.
He feels like heâs going insane. Surely you canât be unaware of what youâre doing? What youâre doing to him? Kicking up a swirl of butterflies in his gut whenever you so much as touch him.
Youâre resting on his lap, eyes closed and a contented smile on your face, the common area of Titans Tower empty bar the two of you when you murmur, âYouâre such a good pillow, my favourite pillow.â
You donât elaborate further, nor can Garth bring himself to pry. Not if it will disturb the careful balance of what youâve constructed.
So for now heâll let you lean on him, however you needed, even if you left him a confusing puddle of giddy emotions.
TREATING INJURIES
requested | by anon as part of my gestures of affection series pairing | cole cash x gn! reader
âOw! Careful with that!â Cole hisses, flinching out of your grip as you shoot him the nastiest glare you can muster.
âSit still.â You seethed, jaw clenched as you reached for his side again. To your horror, your gloved hands tremble minutely as you shakily inhale, desperately fighting back the wave of tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks all of a sudden.
âHey, wait, I was kidding, don't cry. It doesn't even hurt anymore!â His face dropped, panic shining in his eyes at the sight of you so clearly upset.
Hearing him speak only makes it worse, a sob tearing from your throat as you abruptly stand, ripping the gloves off, struggling a little when the nitrile sticks to sweaty skin.
yearner!dick who goes quiet whenever you laugh, not because he doesnât have anything to say, he just wants to memorize the sound like he needs it to survive.
yearner!dick who keeps every voicemail youâve ever left him, even the ones that are just you rambling about something mundane. he listens to them when he canât sleep and pretends youâre right there beside him.
yearner!dick who pretends he isnât looking for you in every crowded room, even though his eyes always find you first. like gravity works differently for him when youâre around.
yearner!dick who rearranges his schedule without telling you just so he can walk home with you, claiming it was âon the wayâ despite it being absolutely not on the way.
yearner!dick who always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, subtly nudging you closer to safety with the gentlest touch on your lower back.
yearner!dick who writes down little things you mention wanting to try so he can surprise you with them weeks later like itâs nothing, even though heâs been planning it meticulously.
yearner!dick who buys two of everything. drinks, snacks, little trinkets âjust in case you wanted one,â acting casual as if he hasnât actually been thinking about you all day.
yearner!dick who keeps an extra toothbrush for you at his place even before you start dating, hiding it away in a drawer like a tiny secret wish.
yearner!dick who gets jealous in the quietest ways,his fingers tapping faster, his posture a little straighter, his smile a little tighter. all because he never wants to make you uncomfortable by showing it outright.
yearner!dick who melts when you reach for his hand for the first time, his fingers curling around yours slowly, reverently, like heâs holding something sacred (he is).
yearner!dick who stays up late staring at the ceiling, wondering if you know how much of his world you take up. and hoping, quietly, that he takes up even a tiny part of yours.
yearner!dick who kisses you for the first time like heâs afraid youâll disappear halfway through, one hand in your hair and the other gripping your waist, holding you like a promise.
yearner!dick who becomes even softer after you get together, constantly brushing his thumb over the back of your hand, tugging you closer by the loop of your jeans, smiling whenever you say his name like itâs the sweetest sound heâs ever heard.
yearner!dick who still canât believe you chose him, who sometimes pulls you into his chest out of nowhere, pressing small kisses to your temple, grounding himself in the reality that youâre here, and youâre his.
Š đđđđđđđ ďš est 2025
SHOULD WE REALLY TRUST HIM WITH A KID?
PAIRING: PLATONIC! Jason Todd x Male Child Reader SYNOPSIS: Bruce was no stranger to taking in kids and raising them as his own, but this one was different. It was biologically his. He expected the child to bond with Dick more (because let's be honest, he could be kind if he wanted), but not Jason. Never Jason.
The rumor spread fast. Gotham had a new Wayne. It wasnât unheard of, Bruce adopting another child was practically a yearly headline, but this one wasnât adopted. This time, the kid was his.
His biological son.
A toddler. Barely two.
Jason wasnât supposed to care. He really wasnât. But after three texts from Dick, a phone call from Alfred, and a voicemail from Bruce himself asking him to âcome by if you have time,â he was curious enough to drag himself to the manor.
The house felt the sameâcold but familiar. The kind of silence that made you feel small. Except this time, the silence was broken by the sound of soft sniffles echoing from the sitting room. Stepping inside, Jason found Bruce, seated on one of those massive armchairs like a painting come to life, and, on his lap, sat a tiny boy.
The kid was cute in that fragile way newborns were: delicate wrists, long lashes, rosy cheeks that still had the fullness of babyhood, but instead of wonder in his eyes, there was fear. He flinched at the smallest sounds. The tick of the clock, the creak of floorboards, even Tim whispering softly to Alfred made him whimper and hide his face in Bruce's suit jacket. Damian stood in the corner, arms crossed, glaring like the toddler had personally offended him.
Jason leaned against the doorframe. âSo the rumors are true.â
Bruce looked up, shoulders tensing. âJason.â
yooo I really like the way you write for Bruce so I was wondering if I could request a male reader x Bruce Wayne
Reader who is another Gotham elite, they met at boarding school at a young age and havenât seen eachother in awhile. Reader is now also a lot more cold and snappy, but still harbors softness for Bruce
old money, same ghost
wc: 2.5k+
You come back to Gotham the same way everyone with too much money doesâquietly, like you never left, even though you did.
Your name still means something here. Old Gotham elite. Generations of wealth, a family name etched into buildings people walk past every day without looking up. You grew up in townhouses with ceilings too high and hallways too quiet. You were raised to sit straight with your chin raised high and never let anyone see the flaws.
Boarding school was where they sent kids like you. Kids like him, too.
You hadnât thought much about Bruce Wayne on the drive back into the city, but Gotham has a way of dragging memories up whether you want them or not. Every corner feels familiar. Every streetlight feels like itâs watching you.
You remember him first as a boy with bruises he never explained and eyes that were always a little too tired for someone your age. You were both young when you metâtoo young to fully understand grief, but old enough to feel it sitting heavy in your chest.
The school was cold, old stone and strict rules. Everyone wore the same uniforms. Everyone pretended they were fine.
You and Bruce ended up sitting next to each other in class. Last names close enough in the alphabet. Wayne and yours. Two Gotham families that teachers treated carefully, like glass that might crack if handled wrong.
You didnât become friends right away. It was more like⌠orbiting. Sitting near each other at meals. Walking the same paths across campus. Sharing quiet looks when things got overwhelming.
Eventually, that turned into late-night conversations whispered in dorm rooms. Sneaking out to the library after hours. Talking about Gotham like it was a place neither of you really belonged to, even though it owned you.
Bruce didnât talk much about his parents. You didnât push. You had your own family problemsâcold dinners, expectations piled on you until it was hard to breathe. You both understood the weight of a name.
Then life happened. Graduation. Different paths. You left the country. Bruce disappeared into the world and came back⌠different. Sharper. More reserved. Gotham whispered about him for years.
And now youâre back.
Bruce doesnât see you at first. He hears about you the way he hears about most things in Gothamâthrough whispers, passing comments, careful mentions at events. Your name comes up in rooms full of people who pretend not to watch each other closely.
Youâve changed, they say.
Sharper. Colder. More precise.
Not cruel, just⌠edged. Less patient. Less forgiving. Thereâs a stiffness to you now that wasnât there before, like something inside you locked into place and never unlocked again. You still say âplease.â Still dress impeccably. Still move through rooms like you belong in them.
But you donât soften.
Bruce tells himself it makes sense. Time does that to people. Pressure. Expectations. Gotham itself. Still, the thought sits strangely with him.
Because he remembers you as controlled and calmânever hostile. Never sharp for the sake of it. The idea of you being openly cold catches him off guard more than heâd ever admit.
He wonders what happened overseas. Wonders what kind of life turns politeness into precision, restraint into something that cuts.
You havenât reached out. Neither has he.
You exist in the same city again, breathing the same air, circling the same social spaces without crossing paths yet. Old acquaintances turned distant strangers, connected only by memory and a shared past neither of you ever fully unpacked.
Bruce knows itâs only a matter of time before you run into each other.
And he isnât sure whether heâs bracing himself for a reunion or for the realization that the version of you he remembers may no longer exist at all.
                 ༶â˘ââŕ¨ŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
One night, Alfred mentions you over dinner.
âYour old schoolmate has taken up residence again,â he says casually, pouring tea. âQuite nearby, actually.â
Bruce looks up too quickly. âYouâve met him?â
âBriefly,â Alfred replies. âAt a committee meeting. He was⌠composed.â
That word again.
Bruce nods, pushing food around his plate. âThatâs always been his way.â
Alfred studies him for a moment longer than necessary. âPeople donât usually change without reason, Master Bruce.â
Bruce doesnât respond.
Later, alone in the cave, your face surfaces in his mind uninvited. Not as you are nowâhe hasnât actually seen that yetâbut as you were. Younger. Still guarded, but softer around the edges. Someone who understood quiet without making it uncomfortable.
He wonders if youâd recognize him at all.
Not the public Bruce Wayne. Not the careful smile and careless reputation. The man underneath all of it. The one who learned, like you did, how to turn himself into something precise just to survive.
Eventually, the inevitable happens.
An invitation lands on both your calendars. Same event. Same time. Same place. Small enough that avoiding each other would be noticeable.
Bruce stands in front of the mirror longer than necessary, adjusting his cufflinks, his tie. He tells himself itâs habit. Preparation. Nothing more. Youâre just an old friend, someone he hasnât seen in years.
The event is smaller than the usual Gotham spectacle.
Still elegant, still expensive, but quieter. Fewer cameras. Fewer strangers. The kind of charity gathering meant more for networking than attention. Soft music, low lighting, people standing in neat clusters with drinks in hand.
Bruce arrives on time.
He scans the room out of habit more than intentionâand then he sees you.
You stand near the edge of the crowd, posture straight, expression controlled. Your suit is dark, tailored perfectly, nothing flashy. A few people linger nearby, clearly part of your company. They hover close, attentive in a way that isnât casual.
You donât look uncomfortable. You look⌠in command.
Bruce watches for a moment longer than he means to. You donât smile as you greet donors, but youâre polite. Efficient too. Conversations start and end on your terms. People lean in when you speak.
So this is what they meant.
He exhales quietly and decides to stop delaying. Whatever youâve become, youâre still someone he knew once. Avoiding you now feels childish.
Heâs just about to step forward when voices carry from a few feet away. Low. Hushed. Sharp.
Youâve turned slightly, facing one of your workers. A younger man, maybe mid-twenties. Nervous. Bruce recognizes the look instantlyâsomeone who knows theyâve messed up and is waiting for the verdict.
âI told you to confirm the numbers before submitting,â you say quietly.
Your voice isnât loud. Thatâs what makes it worse.
âIâI did, sir. I justââ
âYou assumed,â you cut in, jaw tightening. âAnd assumptions cost time. Time we donât have.â
The worker swallows. âIt was a small discrepancy. I thought it wouldnâtââ
âThatâs not your call,â you snap, the edge unmistakable now. Your hand tightens around the glass youâre holding. âIf you donât understand the difference between small and acceptable, you shouldnât be handling reports at all.â
Thereâs a beat of silence.
You donât raise your voice. You donât insult him. But the anger is thereâcontained, precise, unmistakably sharp. The worker nods quickly, murmuring an apology, shoulders drawn in.
âIâll fix it,â he says.
âYouâll fix it tonight,â you reply. âAnd youâll cc me this time. Donât make me ask again.â
He retreats immediately, relief and embarrassment written all over him.
Bruce stands frozen a few steps away, having heard everything.
So the rumors were true.
He feels something twist in his chestânot disapproval, exactly, but surprise.
Bruce exhales slowly.
Heâs just about to step forward when you turn back toward the room.
Then your gaze shifts.
You look up and see him.
At first, you donât react.
Your eyes land on Bruce Wayne like theyâre cataloging another face in the room. Your shoulders stay square. Your mouth remains neutral.
Thenâjust barelyâsomething eases.
The tension in your jaw loosens a fraction. Your brows draw together, not in irritation but in focus. Like youâre allowing yourself a second longer than usual.
Bruce sees it.
Anyone else might miss it. But he doesnât.
Itâs subtle enough that even someone watching closely would have to squint to be sure it happened at all.
You take a breath.
Recognition doesnât hit all at once. It arrives slowly, carefully, like youâre turning a memory over in your hands to make sure itâs real.
Bruce Wayne.
Older. Broader. Sharper around the edges, but still unmistakably him.
You straightenânot defensively. Deliberately.
Bruce takes that as his cue and steps forward.
âHey,â he says, voice gentle. âItâs been a long time.â
You donât answer right away. Your eyes search his face, tracing the years, the changes. The ghost of the boy you knew flickers somewhere beneath the man standing in front of you.
ââŚYeah,â you say at last, quieter than before. âIt has.â
Thereâs no smile but there is patience. And for Bruce, that alone is enough to tell him something important:
Whatever youâve become, whatever sharpened youâhe still matters enough to slow you down.
He gestures slightly toward the side of the room, away from the main cluster of donors. Not secluded, just quieter. An unspoken suggestion, not a demand.
You consider it for a moment, then nod once.
The two of you move together, steps matching without thinking about it. Itâs strange how easy that still is. You stop near a tall window overlooking the city, the lights of Gotham spread out beneath you. The noise fades to a low hum.
âSo,â Bruce says, breaking the silence carefully. âYouâve been busy.â
You glance at him, then back out the window. âThatâs one way to put it.â
âI heard you were overseas for a while,â he continues. âLonger than most.â
âLong enough,â you reply. A pause. âThings expanded faster than expected.â
Bruce nods, accepting the answer for what it is. He doesnât press. You notice that. It earns him another fraction of patience.
âAnd you?â you ask, after a beat. âStill playing the role?â
His mouth curves faintly. âDepends whoâs watching.â
That almost gets a smile out of you. Almost. You shift your weight, loosening slightly, shoulders no longer drawn so tight. Itâs a small thing, but Bruce notices.
âI heard about your company,â he says. âPeople seem⌠impressed.â
âTheyâre cautious,â you correct quietly.
He hums. âYouâve always been practical.â
âThatâs a kinder word for it,â you reply.
Another pause settles between youânot uncomfortable, just⌠careful. Like both of you are testing the ground, making sure itâll hold.
Bruce studies you openly now. You donât stop him.
âYouâre different,â he says at last, not accusing. Observant.
You donât flinch. âSo are you.â
Fair enough.
You take a slow sip of your drink, eyes lowered. âI didnât plan to change,â you add. âIt just⌠happened.â
Bruce nods. He understands that better than most.
âI heard youâve been keeping a low profile,â you say. âAs much as thatâs possible for you.â
He chuckles quietly. âI try.â
You glance at him again, really look this time. The lines around his eyes. The strength in his posture. The restraint in the way he carries himself.
âYou look⌠steadier,â you say.
The word seems to catch him off guard.
âYeah?â he asks.
You nod once. âYeah.â
Silence again. Softer now.
The music swells faintly from across the room. Someone laughs. Glasses clink. Gotham continues on without caring about the two of you standing by a window, reconnecting piece by piece.
âI didnât expect to see you tonight,â Bruce admits. âBut Iâm glad I did.â
You hesitate, then answer honestly. âSo am I.â
Itâs quiet. Reserved. But real.
And for the first time since you returned to Gotham, you donât feel like youâre standing entirely on your own anymore.
                 ༶â˘ââŕ¨ŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
Time passes without either of you really noticing when it starts to matter.
A few days turn into a couple of weeks. You donât suddenly become inseparable, and nothing dramatic shifts between you. Itâs quieter than that. More natural.
You start running into Bruce more oftenâsometimes planned, sometimes not. Board meetings that overlap. Small dinners hosted by people who know exactly what theyâre doing when they place the two of you near each other. A late evening charity follow-up where you end up walking out at the same time.
You talk more now.
Not deeply, not all at once. Just enough to fill the space that used to exist between you. Conversations stretch a little longer. Silences feel less guarded. You find yourself waiting half a second before leaving, just to see if heâll say something else.
He usually does.
Bruce notices things first. He notices that you listen more than you speak, but when you do speak, you choose your words carefully. He notices how you soften around people you trust, even if itâs barely visible. He notices that when youâre tired, your patience thinsâbut never with him.
You notice things too.
The way Bruce always positions himself slightly closer than necessary, like heâs anchoring himself without realizing it. The way his voice lowers when he speaks to you, calmer than it is with most people. The way he looks at you when youâre explaining something, like it matters more than the room around you.
Neither of you calls it what it is.
There are moments, though.
Like the time youâre reviewing paperwork in one of Wayne Enterprisesâ quieter conference rooms. Itâs late. The city outside is dark and buzzing. Bruce leans over your shoulder to point something out on the screen, and for a second, youâre aware of how close he is. The warmth of him. The steady presence.
You donât move away.
Neither does he.
Or the time youâre walking through Gotham after a dinner that ran too long. You offer to share a car. He accepts. The ride is quiet, but not empty. Your knee brushes his once when the car turns, and neither of you apologizes.
You start to look forward to seeing him in a way you donât quite allow yourself to think about.
Bruce does the same.
He catches himself smiling when he sees your name on an invite list. Finds himself wondering if youâve eaten, if youâre sleeping enough, if youâre carrying more than you let on. He doesnât push. He never has with you.
One evening, weeks after that first gala, youâre standing on a balcony at another small event. The city air is cool. Bruce joins you without asking.
âYou always end up near windows,â he says lightly.
You glance at him. âYou always find me there.â
Something lingers in the space between you after that.
Your shoulder brushes his as you lean on the railing. Itâs accidental. You donât move away. He doesnât either. You stand like that for a while, close enough to feel, not close enough to cross a line.
âYou staying in Gotham for good?â he asks quietly.
âI think so,â you reply after a moment. âIf the city doesnât chase me out.â
He huffs softly. âIt hasnât chased me out yet.â
You look at him then, really look. Thereâs something warm in your eyes now. Still reserved, still controlledâbut gentler.
âMaybe it wonât,â you say.
The moment stretches. Heavy. Unspoken.
No touching. No confessions. Just the understanding settling in slowly, like something inevitable.
Whatever this is between you, it doesnât need to rush.
Itâs already thereâquiet, steady, and waiting.
@ gotham-ink do not copy my work.
Making love in the kitchen, how scandalous!
Support me on Kofi
Some dispatch stuff from recently :3 Still getting used to drawing them all
hold me tight, got butterflies
play pony by ginuwine