ripped skin tattoo

First DR Characters as Unique Aesthetics:

Makoto Naegi:

Calm nature, rain droplets, the smell of a woodstove burning in winter, dewdrops, a breeze over a rolling meadow, sephia photography, 

Kyoko Kirigiri:

Fog falling upon a valley, looking down the train tracks, abandoned and run-down homes, lavender pastels, braided hair, leather gloves, creaky floorboards, 

Aoi Asahina:

Water ripples, pastel sweets, muscled bodies, snapchat filters, underwater photography, varsity jackets, feather earrings, 

Byakuya Togami:

Modern architecture, cursive handwriting, porcelain skin, antique coins, paperwork strewn over an executive desk, secret love notes hidden away, 

Yasuhiro Hagakure:

Cracked glass, smooth stones lying in a wicker basket, neon signs, dreadlocks, tarot cards, opalite, rainbows cast through translucent glass, black lace, dreamcatchers, neatly written notes, 

Sakura Oogami:

Bruises as they lighten to yellow, fresh bindings, fallen cherry blossoms, water swept beneath a bridge, disturbed dust upon a surface, sweat upon skin, 

Hifumi Yamada:

Pastel hair, seifukus, pigtails, winged humans, manga clips, grid patterns, sketch art, pink chocolate, striped drinking straws, starry eyes, 

Mondo Owada:

Pristine motorcycles, long coats, greaser hair, cigarette smoke, drive-in theatres, baggy pants, make out movie scenes, scribbled out road signs, scars, fogged car windows, 

Celestia Ludenberg:

Spiral staircases, skin out from beneath foggy rose water, stiletto nails, checkered tiles, antique bottles, portrait lockets, Goth clothing, dark lips, dried blood, velvet dresses, 

Junko Enoshima:

Glitter hair roots, hair bows, ribbons, blue eyes, long lashes, crowns, chokers, magazine clips, rotary phones, miniskirts, plaid, corsages, heart boxes of chocolates, 

Mukuro Ikusaba:

Exposed tattoos, sleek guns, engraved daggers, freckled faces, mirror images, foggy lakes, grey skies, murky water, bloody noses, combat boots, baggy sweaters, 

Kyotaka Ishimaru:

Button-ups, lace-up boots, stark white hair, scarlet irises, empty hallways, hanging banners, dawn light through the window, jackets coated in badges, chalk drawings on the sidewalk, 

Chihiro Fujisaki:

Clean desktops, typography, fractals, equations on grid paper, tears of joy, stripes, the shade beneath the trees, organized folders on a computer, long embraces, plants grown between the keyboard, neat and tidy wires, 

Toko Fukawa:

Ink blots, vintage books, attics, leather and lace garters, lipstick hidden on a man’s collar, satin sheets, handcuffs, typewriters, dominance and submissiveness, 

Sayaka Maizono:

Pastel pink, strawberry milk, porcelain tea cups, city skylines, stage lights, glitter dust, makeup brushes, selfies, cat-ear headbands, swishing skirts, 

Leon Kuwata:

Bold eyeliner, studs for piercings, stuck out tongues, exposed skin, ripped jeans, tattoo sleeves, French kissing, bitten lips, messy apartments, smokey eyes, dramatic stages, 

Stiles listens to his dad ask him the same question that comes up way too often, and gets lost counting the dark flecks that scatter across the white expanse of the all-too-familiar hospital ceiling. Here again, and ‘He’ll be fine,’ the doctor says.

His dad wants to hear it from Stiles’ lips, though. Is he okay?

Is he really okay?

His answer doesn’t come as easily as it used to, no quip or snap back like it’s easy come easy go. The feckless lie sticks in the back of his throat, burning away like a hot coal choking the life out of him.

I’m fine.

He’s said it more than a million times, and no super-hearing anybody has heard his heart skip a single beat. Or maybe they did, but that thought doesn’t make it any easier, because that means they’ve ignored it a million times, too. And it should be easy, he’s brilliant at lying straight to his father’s face these days. Stiles knows how to twist a definition to make it true, how to believe in nothing and make it something.

He’s fine.

Molehills out of mountains.
Tip of the iceberg.

Shrink it down until it’s just an ember, a single flicker of pain low in his chest. It burns enough to remind him that it’s there, but cool enough for him to force the words out.

He stops counting the tiny holes in the ceiling, and plasters a bright, brilliant lie across his face.

________________


Keep reading

The Past is Inked on Our Skins

In which the four children of the Lost wanted to keep moving forward and yet to never forget where they started.

Descendants AU where the Isle of the Lost kids get tattoos.

<AO3>

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