#wiinkblue

[mediknight]

@wiinkblue from ...

He’s no fool. He knows the pattern of broken, bruised skin—knows the cause but not the motivation. Somewhere, a wall or other unyielding surface is marred with her blood. The thought alone twists his stomach.

“I’m not concerned about it being noticeable.” He nearly scoffs. Does she really regard herself so little? He lets his fingertips trail against her palm, curling to hold her fingers as though he is chivalric, as though he’s going to kiss away the wound. He won’t deny that he considered acting on the impulse. “Let me treat it. You don’t want it to get infected.”

She’s different, more than human, but that doesn’t mean he’ll treat her with any less concern. There are moments when he considers he worries too much. But her thoughts are often unclear, as though hidden behind a veil, and he doesn’t want to push her too far. She’s been through enough. The least he can do is be gentle.

[positivity-for-the-rpers]

@izuru-ru (and all other accounts, esp @badspiin & @wiinkblue) is seriously one of the most talented writers i have seen online, on any platform, so i feel super blessed to be able to rp with him on tumblr!! all the characters he rps are really interesting, and his writing style is??? gorgeous, flawless, everything i've ever wanted and more. i'm intimidated but so thrilled to be able to interact with his characters, and i'm driven to improve with every thread/interaction we have. <3

@izuru-ru / @badspiin / @wiinkblue

[mediknight]

*blows you a kiss* //wiinkblue

@wiinkblue

He saw her through the train window, all long legs and satin skin, holding onto her hat to keep it from blowing westward. With her hair whipping around her, she looked like Medusa, like a beautiful girl with living hair and a stare that could change him the moment it fell on his face.

The trip would only be for a few days—into the city, for a conference, where he’d present a project that hardly seemed important at the time—but he felt the hollow ache of loneliness already creeping behind his sternum.

She had been kind enough to accompany him and see him off, to tighten his tie before he boarded, and he, as usual, couldn’t think of words strong enough to thank her. All he’d said was, Thank you and I’ll come back soon. Insufficient nothings he only hoped she accepted.

When the train engine howled, he smiled through the window and waved weakly, drawing his briefcase closer to his chest with his other hand.

He watched her raise her hand to her mouth, then wave it in his direction, pursing her lips. The action was darling, innocent and sweet, and though he was too flushed to directly return or respond to the gesture, he willed the floating kiss to permeate the glass so it could reach him.

[mediknight]

[ defend ]  //wiinkblue

[ defend ]  your muse defending mine’s reputation, dignity, or safety for them .

@wiinkblue

He knew her words could bear power enough to make men falter, but when she raged, she spat venom and gnashed her teeth. The sight should have made Leorio fear her, or at least fear for her target, but he felt nothing but respect, appreciation, fascination. Maybe more.

It was often he heard senseless remarks about his background, how a boy from the slums would never rise in the ranks of professional doctors, would be stuck filling prescriptions in a hick town somewhere remote (not that there was anything wrong with that, to him; anywhere he could help people, he would be content). But he would not deny that the comments stung; devoting his time and energy to his studies, to learning about the human body and its complications, was no easy task, and to have his efforts refuted was a blow from which he struggled to recover.

But then there was Palm. Unafraid or good at hiding fear, he couldn’t be sure; she lashed out as though the words bit at her ankles, snapping at the tendons to draw her blood. Her anger was intoxicating; he watched in awe at the way her delicate lips curled into a snarl. She was a gentle seductress, sincere and strong, but she could shift into something harsher. As he stood back, breath stolen, he felt relieved that he was not on the receiving end of her fury.

Leorio had learned that retaliation did not serve him well; he’d grown more patient than he thought possible, and he resolved himself to be resilient, not regressive. He’s bite his tongue and force a smile while digging his nails into his palms. Holding himself back had never been easy. But he was trying, trying to grow.

Only fragments of sentences registered in Leorio’s words, things spat out in disgust. He thought he heard cretin and ingrate, thought they sounded like magic spells from her mouth, wondered what other wonders she could weave with her tongue.

The brunt of the damage she dealt landed directly, bent the faces of the foolish privileged men who taunted Leorio. They scampered off, like hounds of wounded pride, stealing glances back at the strange pair. Though they hissed, the aggressors had lost their fire.

He thought she might be embarrassed and felt no desire to reprimand her; it was courage, after all, that shone through. Instead, he draped an arm over her shoulder and drew her close enough to share warmth through his shirt. Resting his head against hers, he shut his eyes and allowed himself to breathe.

“Thank you,” was all he found he could say.

[mediknight]

Palm had promised not to turn into that horrible, spinning witch ever again. But the temptation to wrap herself in that shining, black, evil fiber is strong when she sees Leorio in danger. She feels like she has claws, so angry she is. “I’ll kill you—“ she threatens the adversary, sounding like her old self. Before she was tranquil. Back when she held a knife, always, eager for blood. //wiinkblue

@wiinkblue

He holds her back by the arms when she surges. She’s electric, hard to handle, absolutely maddening. He wants to set her loose on someone, watch the havoc she wreaks, but no, no, he shouldn’t—can’t.

Her pulse is rampant, raging. If she goes on like this, her heart might burst against bone.

Leorio is a man of science; he knows the danger of hyperbole. But he believes in the impossibility, can almost feel each quiver of tendon in her straining body. He knows her strength but is always fearing she will break, tear herself apart at the seams. Though he is skilled at surgery, at stitching up gashes, he does not know if his handiwork is enough to put her back together.

His pain is nothing. He has felt much worse. Though she needn’t know that, too, lest she froth and glower more. Her fury is fantastic, captivating, but Leorio knows the price of allowing it to progress is too great.

“Hey.” His voice is quiet, an attempted balm. He can hardly feel the budding bruise along his jawbone. His fingers curl around her slender shoulders to anchor her, but he assures his grip is gentle. “Palm, listen to me.”

When he realizes how seldom he speaks her name, the lone syllable holds more weight, like a promise or prayer or oath. He wants to say it again, but decides to savor it, to save it for a better time, a softer place.

“I’m all right,” he says, and he’s convinced himself. Priorities shift so easily, of late. “I’m fine. Let’s leave.” Before you get hurt, too.

[mediknight]

@wiinkblue from here

He’d stuck with something bitter, knowing he’d refrain from drinking too much if the smell alone made him stomach churn. He had his fair share of overindulgence, knew all too well the sensation of losing track of the floor and his own hands; as much as he wanted to numb himself, he knew he couldn’t, not when greater things were at stake.

He swirled the contents of his glass to even out the temperature and took another sip, grimacing. It was only his third, but a troubled ache arose near his temple, separate from the alcohol, he imagined, but not altogether unrelated.

If asked, he wouldn’t be able to give the time or even date; the dive bar had no clocks or calendars, and Leorio had dispensed with all information that hadn’t seemed crucial. There were gaps in his memory; they’d refill eventually, when things returned to normal—and they would, he reminded himself. They had to.

Across from him, Palm appeared almost vulnerable, with soft skin and dewy eyes glittering in the dim light as she drank her wine. Conversation had been sparse since they’d arrived, but he didn’t force it. Maybe it was better, he thought, for them both to drown themselves in silent drunkenness for the night. Maybe it was better to forget.

When she spoke his name, Leorio suppressed a chill. His eyes lingered on the slope of her shoulders and the curves of her chest for too long, and he forced himself to swallow his thoughts with the rest of his whiskey.

It was wrong to feel desire for a suffering woman, but it was worse to ignore it. He didn’t even know what he wanted. Would he break her? Would she break herself? She wasn’t fragile, but there was something delicate about her, as though she might shatter in the wrong conditions. A touch too gentle, a word too harsh. What were her limits, he wondered. What were his?

He wasn’t sure if he regretted guiding her to the bar. He’d felt out of options, itched for something addictive to distract himself. Was he dragging her down with him? In the quiet emptiness which followed Palm’s sweet slurring, Leorio began to wonder if he’d spoken any of his thoughts aloud. He had never been good at holding his tongue, and something about her sweetness made it hard for him to hide.

Meeting her eyes, he reached across the table to pat her hand, his fingertips lingering on the ridges of her knuckles. “I don’t mind,” he finally said, surprising himself with the softness of his voice. “I’d carry you anywhere.” He realized his words were clumsy, pressed two fingers to faintly-numbed lips, and smiled anyway.

[mediknight]

Gives him a kiss on the cheek out of nowhere then buries her face in her hands. //wiinkblue

@wiinkblue​

He’s been staring out the window for half an hour, watching the glare from neon lights below catch on the raindrops as they slide down the glass. What he’s watching for, even he doesn’t know. There are moments of melancholy which strike him at odd hours, when he’s wracked with exhaustion and can’t fend them off. He’s prone to them, like fevers, and he knows—has known for years, ever since they began—that his best option is to ride them out.

He’s a doctor, or trying to be one, but there’s one thing he can never cure, can never fight on level ground. No matter what advances science makes, death remains irreversible and unavoidable, a shared and common fate.

Lingering on these thoughts, he recognizes, is pointless, serves only to make him suffer. But there are nights—lonely nights, when he feels lost in memory—when it feels as though it’s all he can do.

But he isn’t alone. He hears a whisper of breath, of shifting satin, and turns to find Palm watching him. He isn’t sure when she returned or if she ever left, but what matters is she’s there.

Words mean so little, so he says nothing. She does the same. He faces the window again and swallows, the chill from outside spreading into his skin.

When she kisses his cheek, it’s as if she’s set him on fire, but only to thaw him. She draws back—too soon, he thinks, lips parting, too soon— and hides her face.

He stares at her, his fingers absently finding the place her lips had been, as though trying to cement the phantom sensation. Should he speak? Should he reciprocate? He can’t find the words to say—any words, really—and reaches for her, drawing her close until he can hear her heartbeat against his chest. The sound soothes him, and though he feels guilty for using her like this—as a sort of salve or balm, something to numb—he clings, praying for just a few seconds more of silence.

[mediknight]

❣ //wiinkblue

@wiinkblue

❣  - Staring deep into their eyes with adoration.

When he looks up from the phonebook, he finds Palm leaning on the counter, delicate chin resting in the cup of her delicate hands. He can almost feel her breath on his skin, but he focuses on her lips, slightly parted, and her eyes, intent on his.

His finger lingers on the page, pressed into dry ink, the memory of what he was searching for—was it dinner or is something in disrepair?—rendered obsolete. Whatever it was seems so unimportant. Palm is there—stunning, ethereal, sweet Palm—and he can’t help but get lost. There is no map to navigate the lines in faces or the speckles in eyes, but he doesn’t mind.

He reaches out, slowly and without breaking eye contact, and lets his thumb graze her knuckles. He breathes, only to realize he’s been holding air in his lungs, his heart straining against the fullness.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he says. He can’t think of anything else. He’s never been good with words. He could say she’s got features so symmetrical it’s sinful. He could trace the scales on her arms and tell her what a marvel she is, how her design is his favorite, how her skin is softer than silk. If she were a subject, he’d devote his life to her study. But he settles for simple words, honest words, and stares back.

He wonders what she’s thinking. But then, he realizes, he doesn’t have to.