#primegrim

“hey, i told’ ya to quit doing that!” finally the bunny’s emerald eyes spark back to life, promptly jerking his head away from the other’s hand that was positioned behind an ear. oh come on, why did people keep doing that? was it his soft, luscious fur? sure, he worked hard to maintain it, travelling through those dirt tunnels of his weren’t exactly the cleanest method of transportation, but still.

“i’m not ‘yer personal stress toy alright, keep your hands to yourself, thank you very much.” with a huff, he turns his head away, folding his arms. he can deny it all he wants, but the way he was acting to the scratches mere moments ago proves his theory otherwise …

These guys again? Itto hadn’t the faintest idea of who they were, but he’d seen them skulking around Inazuma for years; shady foreigners that had been ousted during the nation’s period of isolation, but when it’d reopened had their activity ramped back up again. In his efforts to revitalize the Oni tribes, curiosity seized him: were they any good? Somehow, he doubted it.

❛❛  WELL  ..  GOTHAM  IS  ,  INTERESTING  –  for  no  better  terms.  y'get  use  t'  it  tho'  just  remember  th'  ya  should  be  inside  before  dark  –  that's  when  th'  real  bad  guys  come  out  ta'  play.  not  that  most  of  'em  are  actually  thaaaaat  dangerous  .  ❜❜  at  least  in  her  mind,  most  of  the  ones  she  hung  out  with  were  typically  very  kind   –  they  just  had  a  different  view  of  the  world  than  most.

she  understood  that.

❛❛  AND  WATCH  OUT  FOR  BATSY  ,  he's  not  easy  t'miss  .  not  which  his  hot  topic  lookin'  bat  supersuit.  ❜❜

FOREWORD INCOMING !!    again i think i deleted it   !!   written by @primegrim

her fingers find his hand carefully, not like it’s fragile, but like it deserves the same kind of attention she gives to anything important. strange doesn’t pull away, though he could. he could make a comment, shift the moment, turn it clinical. but he doesn’t.

she doesn’t ask.

instead, she lifts his hand, and he lets her. the scarring is familiar to him now—hard, uneven, stretched over once-steady hands that no longer belong to the man who held a scalpel with precision. he feels the roughness of his own skin under her touch and expects her to hesitate. flinch, maybe. people do.

but she doesn’t.

she holds his hand like it’s still capable of something holy.

then she kisses it.

no build-up. no drama. her lips just press gently into the skin of his first knuckle.

she doesn’t stop there. her lips move with the same care she started with, deliberate and unhurried. another kiss, then another, pressed softly against each knuckle, one at a time. her mouth brushes the rough skin without hesitation, touching every uneven line, every mark that memory and magic couldn’t erase. each scar gets its moment. each one acknowledged.

he watches her, breath stalled in his chest, heart quiet but no longer still. he can feel the way she treats each part of him like it matters. like the damage isn’t something to look past, but something to understand. she doesn’t skip any of it. doesn’t rush.

she doesn’t pretend the scars aren't there.

no, they’re there. and she sees them all.

and he knows—this isn’t pity. it never was. she’s not here to soften anything. just to be present. steady. real.

so he says nothing. lets the moment hold itself together, lets it stretch out in the quiet, lets it do what words never could.

only once she finishes does he move. slow, deliberate. he leans into her, head tilting down until his lips find her forehead. the kiss is silent, lingering. not a thank you, not a promise. just presence.