second skin tattoo

Next on things I’ve forgotten to post about: new ink!

You can’t see the whole of the antlers here, but they’re matched to the ravenstag. The flowers are belladonna, ragwort and white oleander (ergo, the poison garden from the tree man in Futamono) and foxgloves as a representation of the splendid @lupadracolis

There are a few raven feathers in there that aren’t quite visible at this stage of healing and photo framing.

I’m very happy.

ktrovosky asked for some ronsey tattoo aftercare and I honestly live to serve adriana so I wrote what was supposed to be a drabble and is actually 1.8k :’)

idk how gay and sad you wanted this to be but hoooo boy it is both


Gansey finds him swaddled in cling wrap like a miserable cafeteria sandwich, his fine freckled back drenched in black and red.

“Jesus Christ.”

Ronan glances over his shoulder at him and bares his teeth.

“Badass, right?”

Gansey tuts, an impossibly condescending noise inherited from a long line of impossible, condescending people. “Declan will be livid.”

Ronan’s face twists, but he doesn’t move to spit or break or topple like he usually would. Gansey realizes all at once it’s because he’s paralyzed by pain. 

He steps closer, trying not to visibly hover.

Fuck Declan. What can he do to me that hasn’t already been done?”

Gansey rolls his eyes. “Oh but he’s constantly outdoing himself.”

“I wasn’t talking about things he’s done,” Ronan says darkly, and Gansey’s mouth twitches, indulgent.

“No. You weren’t, were you.” Gansey fingers the peeling edge of the second skin holding Ronan’s tattoo together, and he twitches violently. “He could cut you off,” Gansey suggests.

Ronan scoffs, as he knew he would. “Good thing I have a filthy fucking loaded best friend.”

Gansey warms. This has been their inside (and only) joke in the broken glass marathon of the last few months. Declan is the obstacle and Gansey the solution. He wishes it didn’t make him feel so gorgeously needed.

He wishes Ronan wasn’t in this warped custody battle between brother and friend at all, that he hadn’t found himself in sudden need of that kind of parental display. He wishes Niall Lynch would walk in right now and fill the room up wall to wall to ceiling, leather and whiskey, ground shaking laughter and crystal cruel eyes.

“What is it?” He asks quietly, eyeing the puffy black lines twisting Ronan’s back into something as angry as his insides.

Ronan shrugs delicately. “Lots of shit. Nightmares.” He seems to find this funny for some reason, and his back quakes.

“May I?” Gansey asks, a tender palm at the nape of Ronan’s neck just above where the mess begins.

He shrugs again, but there’s new tension in him, and a silence that Gansey doesn’t understand.

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