#<- but my love for the fraction run bleeds into this

[spectrecowboy]

I'd like to think sometime after getting his autonomy back Bucky got to read the Lord of The Rings

[harmonysanreads]

In Reca's ideal film, you'd be nothing more than a toy forced to spin at the twirls of a clockwork key ; a spectacle suspended in motion, complete allegiance to his direction, again and again in the palm of his hand. In that perfect shot, you would not rebel, fist against the surface of the screen in a plea to be leg go, no, you'd be easy to control.

“Do not be absurd, my dear! Has a bug chipped away at the film in your head? You would not survive a day away from my camera.”

The friction of his glove as it clasps onto the sinews of your arms clashes against the ricocheting waves of his voice in your ears. Cut! Cut! Cut! You need not return his stare to hear the panic reverberating through his head, just as he needs not respect a fraction of your personal space.

“My thoughts are perfectly lucid, director. I no longer wish to act under your guidance.” you push him back with a finger to his chest and he allows you to, his arms falling to his sides before rising with all the melodrama of a seasoned lunatic.

“What a way to say you wish me dead!” with a sweep, he's beside your stead.

“Have you forgotten your dream, my brightest star?” a brush of his breath against your ear, a firm grasp onto your wrist as it unfolds your hand towards the phantom of your wish, “What happened to that light that brought you to me?”

His presence, annoyingly, is as engulfing as it was the first moment you had the misfortune of meeting his acquaintance. A dwindling candle in a shadowed room, its flicker is too miniscule in comparison to the tenebrous monstrosity extending its talons towards the candle's light.

Contempt is the sole benefactor that keeps it alight, burning for a moment longer. A fruitless effort — rebelling is nothing more than running closer and closer to the dead end.

“It got snuffed out.” you tilt your head towards his pointed stare, in time to bear witness to the contractions of emotions vacillating in his eyes — building up up up before bursting forth in a supernova of laughter. Your feet nearly tangle amongst themselves as you try to move away from the disturbing sight, attempt thwarted by his insistent hand.

Reca's crackles slither to a burdened sigh, ruby eyes peek from between the crevices of the fingers of his free hand, “And, you allowed it.”

It should be incriminating for a sentence that calm to fizzle your nerves that quickly, “Non.. nonsense! It was you who clearly—”

Your heart jumps as the axis of your vision goes askance, red bleeds and paints the corners of your mind. “I did what?” the sting of his nails sinking into the flesh of your cheeks wakes you, “Come on, you can do it, love. Think. What did I do to you, clearly?”

“You... you made me into who I am today and, I can never even think of standing in front of the camera without your direction.” you heave.

“Brilliant! Just like this! If you continue performing this well, it won't be long before we can step up from these boring scenes and move onto shooting the truly heart-touching moments.” it is debatable whether your legs surrendered on their own or were forced to as the Memokeeper catches you, dragging along your limp form towards his vision.

“And when every scene has been shot, organized and edited to perfection, I'll keep it secure from everyone's grabby hands — for, this film is to be viewed by us alone.”

Hatred is the frailty of the weak, their last act of defiance before they embrace destruction. In Reca's hands, it is nothing more than a misdirection to achieve the most perfect shot, malleable to his whimsies.

[cozage]

Hello, first of all, congrats on 2k followers, you deserve that and more ♡

I would like to request on the option 1, a scenario with Zoro, Sanji and Luffy (and if you can, Law, Ace and/or Kid) where the reader asks "could you hold something for me?", and the reader gives them their hand to hold.

Thank you in advance, hope you have a lovely day ♡

Characters: gn reader x Zoro, Sanji, Luffy, Law Total word count:700

A Hand to Hold

Zoro

He’s napping on the deck of the Sunny when you stride over to him and sit down next to him

He peeks his good eye open just a fraction of an inch, trying to see what you want. 

“Can you hold something for me?”

“Can’t you get someone else to-”

“Zoro!”

“Fine!” He holds his hand out, slightly irritated.

You place your hand into his, watching his reaction closely. 

Immediate response? He would just deadpan and stare at you. 

“Why? Why did you give me this? Is it bleeding or-”

“No Zoro!” you giggled. “Just hold it.”

“Did Luffy put you up to this? Or Nami? Or that damn-”

“No!” you said, starting to pout. The mood was ruined. “Just forget it.”

As you pull your hand away, he grips it a little tighter. When you look back at him, he’s got a little bit of blush across his cheeks. 

“I’ll hold it,” he grumbled, closing his eyes. “As long as it doesn’t interrupt any more of my nap.”

Sanji

As soon as you walk through the door, you can smell your favorite dessert being made.

But Sanji is nowhere to be found.

“Sanji,” you called. “Can you hold something for me?”

“Of course, my love!” he shouted from the pantry, and a moment later he rushes out and toward you. 

His hands are empty, already forgetting whatever he was planning to grab in exchange for what you need him for. 

He holds his hand out, and when you place your hand in his, he looks at it, confused for a moment. 

He’s afraid he had misheard you. “What did you need again?” he asked.

“I needed you to hold something.” You give his hand a light squeeze. 

“Your…hand?”

You smile, trying to hold back a laugh. “My hand.” 

He crumples to the ground, overwhelmed with emotion. For a second you’re worried you’ve killed him, but he’s still breathing, thankfully. 

Luffy

“Luffy!” You shouted to your captain, who was at his seat on the figurehead. “Can you hold something for me?”

He groaned at your request, not wanting to leave his seat. “Come up here and give it to me!”

You joined him at his seat on Sunny’s head and sat next to him, waiting for him to hold his hand out. 

“What do you need me to hold?” he asked, looking at you with confusion. 

“My hand,” you said, placing your hand in his. 

“Oh.” Luffy shrugged, looking back out to sea. “For how long?”

You smiled. “For however long you want.”

“We could make a game out of it.”

That piqued your interest. “A game?”

He grinned mischeviously. “Yeah! Hang on for as long as you can!” 

Suddenly he shot his other arm out to the mast, and the two of you flew threw the air, gripping onto each other for dear life. 

Law

You walked into his lab, looking for the golden-eyed doctor. 

“Law!” You turned the corner to find him measuring out a strange liquid. “Can you hold something for me?”

“Kinda busy,” he mumbles, his teeth gritted in concentration. “Can someone else help you?”

You giggle. “I don’t think so. I can wait,” you said, plopping yourself down on a nearby stool and opening a book.

After a few minutes, he finally turns to you. “What is it?”

“I need you to hold something.” You held your hand out in a fist, as if you were holding something.

“Is this one of yours and Shachi’s pranks?” he asked. But he trusts you (most of the time), and holds his hand out to take whatever you had. 

You quickly intertwine your fingers with his, clutching his hand tightly. “Thanks.” You return to your book without another word. 

“Your hand?” he asks, nervously glancing back at his project. “Can we do this later? I’m kind of on a timetable with that mixture.”

You frowned. “Fine. But I’m adding interest.”

“Deal,” he said, pulling his hand away and running back to his project. 

You were a little hurt, but he quickly realized his error and ran back to you, plopping a kiss on the top of your head before rushing back to the table. 

[always-just-red]

I NEED some angst+comfort with Zayne PLEASE. It could be anything, the reader being run over in front of him, him being stressed about work and being mean to the reader... Literally anything

This was my first request, so thank you so much! I started this last night with a cup of tea and an "I'm sure I can manage some angst for Zayne, why not?" sort of attitude, and it culminated with me evil laughing to myself at 3am. Enjoy I guess? 😭

Reserved

Zayne x Reader ❄

Summary: You've been looking forward to this dinner with Zayne for a week, but it seems he has other priorities.

Genre: angst, SO MUCH angst (but sshhhh... we save it with some comfort... 👀)

Warnings/Additional tags: established relationship, fluff, uses of y/n, reader is feeling neglected, Zayne gets a tiny bit mean

| Word count: 1.2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Zayne… c’mon. Let’s go.”

You feel like a child, whining for what feels like the hundredth time in the last half hour, but you’ve little else left to do. You’re perched on Zayne’s desk, having long ago lost respect for the sanctity of his workspace, and you pout as you stare down at the phone in your palm. The screen is lit up by a reminder you’d set a week ago: Reservation. The Cerulean. 8 o’clock.

It’s 8:25, and you’ve snoozed it five times already— each time more pointedly than the last.

“Just a minute,” Zayne mumbles.

“You said that an hour ago!”

The man hums in acknowledgment, but he doesn’t look up from his computer. His face is bathed in the ghoulish light of the screen, his glasses shining as he dips his head— just a fraction— to glance at the paperwork spread before him. You give him his minute: let second after second tick by, though you mark each one with an idle tap on the desk’s cold surface.

A murmur: “Stop that, please.” His patience is thinning too.

You’re feeling petty, because you’ve been listening to the patter of his keyboard forever and it’s driving you insane. You purse your lips and tap louder. One second. Tap. Two seconds. Tap. Three. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Stop it.” Zayne’s hand catches yours, his grip soft, but his face stern.

And he still won’t look at you.

He releases your hand, and his dutiful fingers are back to their post, pattering away. With a huff, you come away from his desk, stalking past him to the window, where you fold your arms and study the barren street below. The view is obscured by the dark and the drops of rain that carve hazy trails down the glass. You can just about make out a couple, emerging from the hospital’s entrance. No uniforms. A patient and their other half, and they’re leaning on each-other— no— pushing each-other, competing for the cover of an umbrella that’s much too small. They’re laughing, you think.

Your chest aches.

“Zayne,” you press.

His chair rolls back, wheels harsh on the floor, and he’s standing, logging out of his computer with a final, few clacks. “I’m done,” he snaps, but his tone says otherwise. He tugs his coat from the back of his chair. “We can go.”

…

You sit on the edge of the wet pavement, rain seeping from your hair and soaking the fabric of your clothes. You should be cold, but you’re not. You’re nothing. Your eyes are cast downwards and all you see is grey, though it’s illuminated by an orange glow.

Behind you, light bleeds through the windows of a busy restaurant. Zayne is still in there, playing diplomat. Playing doctor: always trying to fix things.

Your phone buzzes, and you slip it from its home in your coat pocket. There’s a message: having fun? Then another: ur welcome, miss bodyguard.

Rafayel. He knows a guy who knows the guy who owns this place, so you’d called in a favour. You and Zayne had been drowning in work for a week: him, overwhelmed by new patients at the hospital, and you, out hunting the wanderers that had put them there. Linkon is getting worse. Everything is getting worse, and you just wanted one, single night for yourself.

Well, not just yourself.

The monotonous drum of the rain breaks to the creak of an opening door, but you don’t react. “Y/N?” Zayne sounds far away. “Where did you— Y/N!?”

Footsteps echo on the pavement behind you, splitting puddles, and the orange light is gone. You’re trapped by a shadow that’s talking, speaking your name, but you pretend you can’t hear it. Let him say it a hundred times. A thousand; you can wait.

“Just a minute,” you lilt, your voice dripping spite.

You’re going to sit here for an hour.

“Y/N…” The doctor is oh so patient. “Please get up. You’ll catch a cold if you—”

“Good!” you spit, rounding on him. “Then why don’t I check myself into the hospital? Maybe then you’ll actually think about me once in a while!”

Zayne is towering over you: a small, wet, pathetic little thing, but you still make him draw back. His virescent eyes are wide, his lips parted ever so slightly. He almost always knows what to say, but this is an exception.

After a long moment, he moves around you. Slowly, he lowers himself to sit at your side.

“Do you have any idea,” you start, staring out across the slick road, “how selfish you make me feel? How much I hate myself when I… when I ask you to…”

The confession catches in your throat. It hurts, but you force it out anyway:

“What you do is so important, Zayne. You’re saving lives. You’re giving people back to their families, their loved ones, and you’re amazing for that. I think you’re amazing for that. But I miss you. It feels like I have to share you with the rest of the world, and I know I have no right to ask it, but sometimes? Sometimes I just… want you to be mine.”

You’re looking down, now. Hugging your knees— burying your face, so he won’t see you cry. There’s rain and salt in your mouth, and you wish he would say something. Anything. 

You have to wait a few seconds, but then you feel it: something heavy being draped over your shoulders. His coat. Then his arm is around you, drawing you close, closer, until you’re nestled against his chest.

“You have every right to ask,” he soothes, his tone so warm when it’s compensating for the rest of him. “I am yours, Y/N. I will always be yours.”

“But your work—”

“Can wait,” he finishes for you. “I know I forget that sometimes. And I’m sorry. But you?”

He lifts your chin, gazing down at you with something you can only describe as adoration.

“There is nothing in this world more important to me than you.”

Your heart flutters at the words and the feathery touch of his thumb on your cheek, wiping away a tear. It’s futile in a downpour, but it still makes you smile. Rain is spattering on your forehead, some dripping from his now-soaked hair, and you laugh as he tries to dry your face with his sleeve.

“You’re important to me, too,” you manage between chuckles, “and I’m sorry, too.” Your cheeks are flushed, even in the cold. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

“No.” A statement: not up for debate. Zayne untangles your limbs from his as he helps you stand. “We have a reservation.”

“We had a reservation. They gave away our table, Zayne.”

“Did they?”

There’s a hint of smugness. “Wait… what did you—”

He nods at the restaurant, and you follow his glistening gaze to where a waiter is holding the door— a menu clutched above his head, shielding him from the rain. He’s looking back at you. Waiting.

“Rafayel isn’t the only one with friends in high places,” Zayne smiles, leaning down to speak into your ear, and it makes you shiver. “The head chef is a friend of mine. I saved his brother’s life, you know.”

[withleeknow]

wishful thinking. (08)

chapter eight: ships in the night

summary: the instruction was plain and simple: no strings attached. but you should’ve known from the beginning that it could never apply to you and him.

pairing: minho x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) genres/warnings: friends to lovers, friends with benefits au, college au; fluff, angst, smut; i’ve been told this is the angstiest chapter yet saur yk you’ve been warned, mentions of past seggsy times, oc is self-deprecating self-sabotaging, oc has an anxiety attack in this one, erhm just Big Sad overall methinks, also could've been more edited but i am a godless monster word count: 7.2k note: wt is backkkkkk!! and it's the penultimate chapter omg :( lowkey nervous about how this is gonna be perceived bc i feel like my brand is Sad™️ and i haven't properly written anything Sad™️ in a WHILE. but yeah, wt8 is yours now have funnn. also ty chessica @matchannie for proofreading!!

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

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Sorry, I know that comment wasn’t funny Just wanted you to love me, but I didn’t go about it right Sometimes the best advice that I can give Is to bite my lip and listen with my big fat mouth shut tight

big fat mouth - Arlie

You don’t think you can ever forget the look on his face, the hurt in his eyes when the words had tumbled out of your mouth in a panicked frenzy. The regret was immediate, but so was the damage.

Saying things you didn’t mean, watching Minho so utterly defeated that it kills you, and the deafening silence after he had walked away from you on heavy footsteps – you can’t describe how it all felt that night. It’s just… sinking, and sinking, and sinking; endlessly spiraling in an ocean of your own guilt and despair. It’s true what they say – misery loves company.

Distractions don’t work, because whenever that overwhelming dread eases by even a fraction, you’re once again reminded by the bracelet that’s wrapped around your wrist with the tiny dove charm hanging on the side. Neither of you paid it any mind the other night, that much is clear.

You know you should return it to him eventually; it’s never belonged to you and it never will. But every time you go to take it off, you can’t bring yourself to simply undo the clasp and hide the bracelet somewhere you can’t see. It lets you delude yourself into thinking that you haven’t lost him even after what you said, even after you stomped on his heart and left it bleeding where you stood. 

You’d been upset, thinking that you were the only one falling, terrified that you’d crash headfirst into the cold, hard ground because there’d be nobody to catch you. And yet, when Minho told you he loved you, it provided you no relief at all. The fear magnified tenfold, taking over you until you couldn’t see straight, until it consumed you whole.

Home is something you find, and you’ve found it in him. Your sun and your spring and your home, and everything good that you can ever name.

All your life, something is always missing, an empty space that you never learned how to fill. Like when you exit a room and there’s a nagging feeling in your gut telling you that you’ve forgotten something even though all of your belongings are accounted for. Like when you lose your favorite ring, one that’s a little too loose but beloved anyway, slipping over your knuckle without your permission and disappearing forever, and you keep running your fingers over where the golden band used to be until you come to terms with the fact that it’s never coming back and you’ll spend the rest of your life mourning the loss of that familiarity.

You’ve always looked for things you lost in places you’ve never been.

You just want to go home, but you know you’ll only ruin it in the end.

The problem has never been Minho or anybody else. It’s you, and how there’s something intrinsically wrong with you. You paint the ending before there’s even a beginning. You’d rather run and hide than let yourself feel anything, because if there’s happiness then there’s going to be hurt inevitably.

You don’t want him to wake up one day and look at you like you’re a stranger, to realize that he’s wasted his time and effort, that you just weren’t worth it after all. 

It’s funny how, when you’re a child, time seems to move so quickly. One minute, you’re four, maybe five years old, and your mother is refusing to speak to you because she thinks you ruined one of her bags, a large scratch running along the otherwise smooth leather surface like it’s been met with a pair of scissors or simply accumulated on her way to work and she hadn’t noticed until she got home and you happened to be in the vicinity of her anger; the next, she’s letting you relish in all your favorite desserts, cavities be damned.

One minute, you’re being rushed to the hospital with a bad case of food poisoning, your parents staring down at you as if you’re actually about to die; the next, you’re already at home, watching cartoons that you couldn’t understand but you like anyway because they’re full of pretty colors and princesses and fairies.

You don’t remember how your mother came to forgive you for the bag even though it wasn’t your fault, or what the hospital felt like or if what the doctors and nurses did to make you feel better even hurt. You only know that you wish to return to a smaller version of yourself whose memories you can’t even recall, return to a time in which you once so desperately wanted to escape from.

Now, when you’re hurt, time doesn’t pass in a blink of an eye like it used to. It stands still, sucks you down a vortex and makes you feel everything. 

No one ever really warns you about growing pains, that they’re unavoidable no matter how hard you try to avoid them, that they can last a lifetime because you never really stop growing, and it never really seems to ache any less.

Hyunjin: Attachment: 1 Image. Hyunjin: i sent this one in  Hyunjin: u??

You’d almost forgotten about the exhibition until Hyunjin had sent you those texts. Even though you’re not one to neglect deadlines, you suppose it’s fairly reasonable that this one in particular had slipped your mind. You haven’t really been able to wrap your head around that many things after all.

Every semester, yours and Hyunjin’s department rents out a gallery near campus for a whole week to showcase students’ works. It’s nothing exclusive, nothing like a competition where they pit a couple hundred kids against each other just for a spot at a fancy art gallery. Almost anyone in the Faculty of Arts can register before the submission deadline, and you suppose that’s another reason why you’d overlooked it so easily – because you didn’t earn it. It didn’t feel special. It was just another meaningless event to attend.

Regardless, you spent a chunk of an afternoon pondering your selection though it didn’t matter that much, almost two hours dedicated to picking out paintings you realized you didn’t love. Some you even turned out to hate, even though you could remember the pride radiating from you the moments the canvas had felt the last brush stroke. Maybe the glamor eventually wore off, the momentary high that coursed through you when you’d shown your finished works to your professors and peers, and received showers of praise in return.

The piece you chose in the end wasn’t your favorite by any means, but it was one of the only pieces you could still bear to look at without nitpicking too much. It was a painting of the waters, and you’ve always loved the waters.

You could recall the day you went to the promenade by yourself with a need to be away from everyone and everything, and an overshirt that was too light to combat the September evening chill as summer transitioned into fall. You watched the sky slowly darken after the sun had disappeared from view, watched as the buildings on the other side of the river lit up one by one until they made up for the light that retired for the day.

The thin layers made you shiver – the consequence of your poor choice in clothing that night – but there was something about sitting by the waterfront after dark, kicking pebbles around underneath your feet, and the gentle caress of the wind on your face and your hair that made the cold feel welcoming. You always thought the city was more beautiful at night, more calming amidst all of its perpetual chaos. It made you feel like you were inside a dream long forgotten, took you back to a north star that you left to gather dust on an abandoned shelf.

You could recall wanting to dive into that dream again, a dream in which you could chase a perfect version of you that would never exist and find light at the end of the tunnel, instead of returning to the reality where you always wound up suffocating in darkness. You wanted to be free, free from the noise and free from your own life despite one simple truth that you knew all too well – that you could run but never from yourself.

When you were young, it’s the moon that used to follow you everywhere. As you get older, it’s all of the things that keep you up at night.

You could recall your phone buzzing to life in your bag with Minho’s name on the screen, like a sign from the universe saying “Hey, this one’s for you. Don’t drown. You have a lighthouse.” and it was as though he could sense that you were falling, like someone had tied your heart to a rock and threw it into the very river in front of you to sink to the bottom. Your friends often said he had some sort of sixth sense when it came to you. Maybe there was some truth in that.

His voice pulled you out of it, even though he only called to ask if you wanted to come over and eat the boatload of food his mom had sent. He made you want to disappear a little less and in that moment, it was enough.

You left your hiding place to go to him, to lose yourself in stupid jokes and not-too-sweet desserts even if it was only for a couple hours. And when you returned home that night, everything spilled onto the canvas just from memory alone, from the feeling that you were desperately clinging onto with your shaking hands.

You always thought you could only run away to places. You didn’t know people could be escapes too, and somewhere along the way, that was what Minho became to you — your treasured escape, your new hiding place.

You manage to avoid everyone – with the exception of Hyunjin; you do have to see him in class after all – over the two and a half weeks leading up to the exhibition, drumming up excuse after excuse to bail whenever any of them asks to grab a bite together or just to simply hang out. If they saw you, they’d notice your puffy eyes and ask if you’ve been crying. They would ask why, and you can’t find in yourself to make up a lie believable enough for that kind of question.

You think Hyunjin has noticed. He’s a bit of an idiot sometimes, but he’s not stupid and he’s still blessed with the gift of sight. He doesn’t mention anything though, despite you showing up to almost every class with puffy eyelids. You suppose you’re grateful for that.

Minho hasn’t talked to you at all since that night. Doesn’t ask you how your project’s going, doesn’t ask you about the exhibition, barely even speaks in the group chat, not even a boring comment about the weather. What were you expecting anyway? You get it, you do.

But despite the silence, you never doubted that he would show up to the exhibition. If not for you, then he would be there to support Hyunjin.

The only person who really has an inkling that something is wrong is Jess, when you were getting ready together earlier tonight and she helped you conceal your puffy eyes. She’d tiptoed around the question before settling on  asking “Everything okay?” — simple, easy, quickly dismissible if you didn’t feel like sharing.

You didn’t, and she dropped the subject because there was no point in badgering you for answers anyway. 

Chan picked the both of you up afterward, and Jess didn’t have to explain anything to him when she slipped into the backseat with you instead of riding next to her boyfriend.

Now here you are, standing in a room full of your friends and peers, wearing a black dress that Jess helped you choose, and Minho is nowhere to be found. You’d spent all day pacing around, anxious at the mere thought of seeing him and even talking to him. What you hadn’t anticipated was the disappointment, the unbearable feeling in the pit of your stomach in response to his absence. You can’t tell which is worse; maybe every moment without him all sucks the same.

When Hyunjin starts whining and takes out his phone to spam Minho’s messages demanding his location (you’re thankful that it didn’t have to come to you), all he receives in return is a measly “Running late.”

And that’s it. A mere text is enough to satiate everyone’s curiosity. Well, everyone but Hyunjin, because he’s still a nagging drama queen.

Minho is running late, and to anyone else, it’s the most normal thing in the world.

But to you… it means something beyond that. Because this was him. This was your Minho. Your Minho who’s never been known for his tardiness, who’s never once broken a promise, who’s always there for you no matter what.

All you know right now is his absence, and it makes you sink.

You sink, and then you wait. Not a lot to be done about it.

You slip away to a quiet spot, a vacant hallway, to be by yourself while everyone is out there wandering around and gorging themselves on the free food and drinks. You shouldn’t be with them anyway. All you need is to wallow in peace and not be the black cloud hanging over everybody’s heads.

There’s something so incredibly lonely in the act of waiting. Waiting to board a plane, waiting in line at the grocery store. Waiting for a phone call or text message that you know won’t come, waiting for a person whom you can only hope would show up. At the end of the day, that’s what waiting is, isn’t it? It’s wanting. It’s hoping, and if there’s one thing you know about hope, it’s that it’s dangerous.

You wonder if this is how Minho felt all this time, waiting on a girl who’s always prepared to leave. You wonder if, that night, he had expected you to reciprocate his feelings. You did. You do, and a part of you wanted to tell him that you loved him too. The words were there, and yet…

It’s true that you love him, and it’s true that you don’t want to. If hope is dangerous then love is fucking terrifying. 

He’d been so patient with you, so awfully gentle and quiet in the chasm of his waiting that you mistook the tenderness for everything except for what it actually was – love. Or perhaps you did know. Maybe deep down, you knew that you would’ve loved him back with everything you had, with every fiber of your being. That you would’ve let him be the only one to ever really know you, and it felt like a fear greater than you could bear. 

In the end, did you lose him? Can you lose something you never had? It wasn’t a love that you let slip away; it was a what if.

You’re in a room with people who love you and yet, all you can think about is Minho. You miss him so much that it feels like someone has spliced you in two, that it physically makes you ache every second that he isn’t with you. As selfish as it sounds, you want him to walk through the door and you want everything to be okay again. You want to be back in a bubble with just the two of you and a locked box filled with words unsaid. You thought you could stay in that bubble forever, where it was safe and you could pretend that you were happy, and maybe you really were happy with him. But all things — good or bad — must come to an end. The bubble burst, and this was the real world.

You want to undo your cruelty, want him to take back his sincerity. You want an ocean of distance between you and him, you want to pull him as close as humanly possible. All your wants are contradictions. You’re a paradox of puzzle pieces that never seem to fit together.

You want to tell him that it hurts. Want him to make it better because he’s the only one who can make it better.

But miracles rarely happen and there are no shooting stars in sight. Minho was the closest thing you got to a shooting star, burning across your night sky for just a brief moment. Blink and you could miss it. Blink and you did miss him.

Your fingers find his contact in your phone before you could stop yourself, and soon enough, you’re pressing the call button. It’s like drunk dialling, only you aren’t intoxicated. Or maybe you are; maybe you’re under the influence of his absence and how much it stings.

You don’t know why you’re calling him, don’t know what to even say when he picks up.

Thankfully, you don’t have to wonder for long.

“Your call has been forwarded to voicemail. Please leave your message after the tone,” comes the automated voice on the other end.

For some reason, you don’t hang up. You wait for the beep, then you wait some more. It’s not until ten seconds later that you find your voice, the only thing to come out of your mouth is a quiet Hey.

You clear your throat, rub the sweaty palm of your free hand on your dress. “Hey,” you try again. “It’s… me. I’m at the gallery with everyone. Uhm, they’re all waiting for you. Are you on your way? Are you stuck in traffic? Or did you forget it was today? Hyunjin is trying really hard not to blow up your phone–” You pause to chuckle dryly. “But you know it would mean a lot to him to have you here. It… it’d mean a lot to me too if you were here. I don’t know, I assumed you’d come. I’m sorry, that was stupid of me. I just…” Another pause. This time, it’s so that you could take a breath. “Listen, Minho, I didn’t mean what I said to you. I’m sorry I was an asshole. I’m sorry that I hurt you, I don’t have any excuse for that. You deserve better than me. It’s going to pass, you know? I’m sorry if you’ve wasted your time on me, but… you’re going to find someone else, and you’re going to get over it. I’m sorry I fucked everything up. It’s fine if you never want to talk to me again, just please don’t let it get between you and our fr–”

The line beeps again. “To replay the message, press 1. To save the message, press 2. To delete the message, press 3.”

You purse your lips together. There’s still a lump in your throat and no peace to be made. It’s like drunk dialling, only you pull yourself together at the very last second. Your thumb hovers over the dial pad on your phone until you eventually end up on 3, because your cowardice will always triumph in the end. Back to square one. Everything’s still the same as it was five minutes ago.

You force your legs to move, like how you'd force yourself to get up and eat and drink water and shower and be a person these days. When you round the corner, you bump against something solid. A person. The collision isn’t hard enough to knock you backward; they weren’t moving, they’d only been standing still.

You look up at Seungmin, who merely blinks at you. You don’t know how long he’s been here, if he heard anything at all. You swallow once, considering whether you should just play dumb and gauge his reaction or ask point blank if you’ve been caught. He beats you to the decision though.

“You and Minho,” Seungmin says, a bit hesitant, like the topic is weird to bring up. “You’re the girl.”

A deer in headlights, you are. A pathetic one at that, too.

But even then, you’re not panicked, not really. You’re just sad, and the truth was bound to come out eventually. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” you say.

The discarded voicemail that he overheard, the dejection written all over your face, the silence from both you and Minho recently — it’s obvious to pretty much everyone, and Seungmin is smarter than most.

He opens his mouth and shuts it again like he’s choosing his words. The Seungmin-esque blank stare melting away to make space for some pity, then a question, “Is there anything left to tell?”

You escape to the empty garden in the back where there were a few lonely chairs set up, so you could have some privacy to talk. Despite everything, it feels like you’ve got a little breathing space, just being able to share this with someone. To not have to carry it all on your own. You’re glad that it was Seungmin who found out first. You have a feeling that he would understand, at least to some degree. You’re relieved, even when the first question that he asks is, “So, how did you fuck it up?”

“Why do you just automatically assume it was me?” You’re mildly offended, even though he’s right.

“Between you and Minho, I’d bet on you.” Seungmin shrugs. “You spook easily.”

“I deeply resent that notion.”

He turns to look at you, no trace of any teasing. “Can you prove me wrong?”

But you can’t, and it tells him as much when you avert his eyes in favor of the ground, where you kick at a lonesome pebble sitting among the grass. It lands somewhere between the green blades, lost in the shadows that cast over parts of the garden that are poorly lit.

“So what happened?” he asks, turning away again to stare out at the empty space. You like to think of it as him giving you some elbow room, to ease the pressure of being scrutinized. And as much as you appreciate it, it still takes you another brief moment before you can formulate a coherent sentence, another minute of twiddling your fingers in your lap.

You tell Seungmin about your first night with Minho – not the details, of course; that would be weird and it’s none of his business. Just that it happened, how you both let it keep happening over the past few months while nobody suspected a thing.

Seungmin nods solemnly, like he’s putting together the missing pieces.

“Did you ever notice anything?” you ask.

“I mean… not about you hooking up, but we thought you’d end up together eventually.” He shrugs. “We always kinda assumed that you two would become those people who make a pact to get married if you’re still single by 40 or 50, if you didn’t get together before then. It makes sense. You and Minho just sort of make sense.”

“Oh,” you say. Your heart swoops. Hearing it from Seungmin makes you sad. Not the same brand of sadness that you’ve been wearing lately though. A different kind, the kind of sadness that’s a little numbing and makes it difficult to breathe. “Well, sorry to disappoint everyone but I don’t think any of it is gonna happen anymore.”

“So… how did it happen?” Seungmin asks again, mimicking explosions with his hands.

You let him off easy without a punch in the shoulder, because you just really don’t have the energy for it right now. “Minho wanted something more,” you tell your friend, fiddling with the rings on your fingers, then with the necklace charm resting on your collarbone. “And I just… I don’t know. I guess I freaked. I… said some awful stuff to him.”

Seungmin hums a sound of acknowledgement. He looks like he’s thinking about it, about you and Minho and what it means. “Classic,” he chuckles after a brief moment, mostly to himself. Maybe he’s thinking about what it means beyond just the pair of you too.

You side-eye him. “You’d know all about it, wouldn’t you?”

He shoots the glance back at you. “What are you trying to say here?”

You remember her, the only girl that Seungmin has ever hinted at liking. He never admitted it out loud to any of you, but you could all see it.

You only used to see her in passing at house parties, and even then, it wasn’t Seungmin nor her who brought the other one around. They would show up separately with their own group, mingle for a while, find each other after a couple of drinks before they disappeared to god-knows-where for the rest of the night. Sometimes, Changbin or Hyunjin would catch them before they could sneak off and insist that Seungmin let everyone get to know his friend.

These brief interactions are all you have with her, meaningless small talk for a few minutes before Seungmin’s patience ran thin and he whisked her away like they’d both intended. You liked her; she was nice, and she was really pretty. You liked her even though you didn’t know her, because she was the one person who Seungmin cared about enough to keep away from prying eyes. A secret shared only between the two of them, a bubble in which only they existed.

The last time you saw her with him must’ve been at least three months ago, maybe even longer. No one really knows what happened, just that she stopped showing up to parties, and Seungmin never brought it up again. You all assumed whatever he had going on with her had run its course, though it doesn’t really stop Hyunjin and Jisung from mentioning her every now and again just to tease him.

“I seem to recall a Halloween party last year and a certain someone was in a bee costume and–”

“Fine,” Seungmin interjects, rolling his eyes. “Fine, we can form our own dumbass club. Happy?”

You laugh a little, even though the whole thing isn’t very funny. Your shared experience is nothing to take pride in.

“So how did you blow it up?” you ask.

He gives you a sour glare before his eyes soften. He doesn’t say anything for a while, and in his silence you find that you and him are more similar in ways that you’ve never cared enough to admit before. This sadness that you carry, you have a feeling that he knows it all too well.

“Like I said, classic,” Seungmin tells you. “She wanted something more. I freaked. I ghosted her.”

A mirror. Two sides of the same stupid coin.

You lean back against your seat. “Did you like her?”

It takes a beat, but his answer comes out as an honest, “Yeah, I liked her. Liked her too much.”

“Why did you do that to her then?”

“Why did you do that to Minho?” Seungmin deadpans, but he doesn’t seem to want a response from you. He just sighs, wistfully adding, “I’ve thought about it a lot. It’s scary to be wanted because it means someone’s putting you on a pedestal, and when you’re on a pedestal, the more it’ll hurt if you fall off. The more they’re counting on you to not let them down, the easier it is to fuck it all up. People like us, we’re flight risks. We can’t help it. We think it’s better to just leave before we can do any real damage. When you said whatever terrible shit you said to Minho, that was the first thing you thought about, right? To be cruel? That’s what I did too. Such a fucking stupid knee-jerk reaction.”

You don’t know how to respond, so you just sit there, completely still. 

Then Seungmin turns to you, and for the first time in all the years that you’ve known him, he’s looking at you, really looking at you. No snarky side-eye, no playful faux glare. Just a strange and unfamiliar sincerity, like he’s asking you to fix what he couldn’t, undo the cruelty that he never bothered apologizing for.

“Minho would understand, you know? If you’d just talk to him,” Seungmin says. “You made a mistake in the heat of the moment. But you want to have something real with him, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here talking to me about this and beating yourself up over it.”

“I told you. That ship sailed.” And you’re standing up for no apparent reason other than the fact that you’re suddenly restless, your stomach twisting in knots out of nowhere. “He’s not even here. He didn’t even show up tonight. I think that’s saying enough.”

Your friend rises to his feet too, probably because he thinks it’s weird to be the only one sitting now while you’re upset and pacing about. It’s not until Seungmin takes a step closer that you realize you’re shaking a little.

“Hey, you good?” He puts a hand on your shoulder. “I talked to Minho yesterday. He said he’d come. Maybe something came up or he just–”

Hyunjin’s voice interrupts Seungmin in the middle of his sentence, the excited squeal carrying itself from all the way inside the gallery to the back garden through the door left ajar. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, maybe there’s a reason why people say it. It’s laughable, really.

You and Seungmin both turn your attention to the brief commotion indoors, where you see Hyunjin smiling so big that his eyes have crinkled into crescent moons, where he’s standing with his arm thrown around Minho and shaking him by the shoulders.

These days, it’s easy to pretend that time is standing still. You don’t even know if time is even passing at all; you’re just looking at him, dressed in a black blazer and some dress pants. Casual but he looks good. He always does.

You watch as he says something to Hyunjin that seems to calm the latter down a bit, at least enough for Minho to quickly scan the room, searching. You watch as his eyes sweep through all the people gathered inside, not stopping until they land on you, finding you on the other side of the glass door. Even in this terrible lighting, not entirely visible you assume, he sees you.

There was a conversation you had with Minho some time ago, when you two were sprawled out on your couch munching on strawberry Peperos and not paying attention to the movie that was playing on your TV, when he asked how you wanted your life to be at 40.

You knew what the boring answer was – you wanted your life to be stable, and you told him as much. Isn’t stability always the goal? Maybe a lame corporate job if the whole starving-artist-who-makes-it-big-overnight dream didn’t pan out. A cat and a dog named Mochi and Mocha, if you could afford two pets at once. An apartment that you owned, with framed pictures of everything you loved scattered all over the place, and stupidly cute fairy lights that you often see on Pinterest, and an unfathomable amount of plushies that your inner child was never indulged in. A peaceful and quiet life, at least to some extent. 

The honest answer, the one that you didn’t tell him, was you wanted to not live with regret.

But as you lock eyes with him, for a split second there, you know that you will.

About twenty years down the line, when you look back on your life and think of this chapter, you’ll think about a boy who loved you and whom you loved. How you broke both of your hearts trying to protect your own. You’ll wonder if he’s married, if he has kids, if he still reminisces about the girl he used to love when he was young. If he’s happy and if his dreams came true. If the sadness you caused yourself was worth it, if the pain meant anything at all. If you could go back in time and undo everything, would you?

You’ll get over it eventually – surely you will; heartbreak isn’t the end of the world – but you’ll live with the grief of what could’ve been if you weren’t afraid. You’ll be left to mourn the road not taken, your almost but never was. 

You’re the one who moves first, when it starts to become a struggle just to breathe. You stumble away from Minho’s line of sight, until you find a wall that you can rest against.

Seungmin is quick to follow. “Hey, woah, are you okay?”

Your hands alternate between balling themselves into tight fists and attempting in vain to grab at the flat surface of the concrete. There are no words that you can form to answer him. Only your ragged breathing and your pathetic effort to take in some air through your mouth.

“Okay, shit, uhm,” Seungmin sputters. “Hang on.”

Then he’s taking off. You don’t know how long he’s gone for, where he’s gone off to, and frankly, you can’t really bring yourself to care. Your hands abandon the wall in favor of your dress, something that you can actually hold onto. Your trembling fingers clutch the hem of your dress like they’re pretending it’s a lifeline, bunching and twisting the fabric in your sweaty palms. Hoping it’ll help, but it doesn’t at all.

Even over the sound of your heartbeat ringing in your ears, you could hear new footsteps coming out into the empty garden. Rushed at first, then they stop for a brief moment. You know who it is before he even approaches you.

Damn that Kim Seungmin.

The familiar scent of his cologne greets you before his voice. You spent hours and hours enveloped in this scent until it was dulled by sweat from the activities you were engaged in, if it wasn’t already softened by the kisses you would leave all over his skin.

When he calls your name, it comes out so soft, like you never broke his heart in the first place and that night was only a figment of your twisted imagination. He sounds so gentle, yet it sends you further down the crippling spiral. You don’t deserve him; maybe you never did, despite what Seungmin tried to put through your head earlier.

“I’m fine.” But you know your appearance has already betrayed your words. The first thing you say to him in weeks, and it’s a lie. You’re still leaning against the wall with your arms wrapped tightly around your trembling frame and your eyes squeezed shut. It’s a pitiful sight. Even more so when it registers in your brain that it’s Minho of all people who’s witnessing it. 

He doesn’t say anything else, only lets out a sigh, and then his hand is on your body, a warm palm touching the small of your back out of habit before he moves it upward to rub between your shoulder blades. “Can you breathe?”

His question makes you all too aware that there’s something gnawing inside of your chest, makes you think for a second there that you’re going to die though you know that you won’t. You shake your head with your eyes still closed, your breathing coming out more ragged by the second. You can’t even bear to look at him and absorb the worry in his eyes; you’re sure you’ll only cry if you do, and it’s the last thing you need right now.

But it turns out that seeing Minho’s face isn’t the only thing that can bring you to tears. When you feel him tug at your arms, his warmth on your bare skin, you start crying anyway and that makes it even harder to breathe. There’s not a single ounce of resistance in your body, your limbs obeying him easily when they untangle themselves around your waist to fall by your sides as he pulls you into his chest, with one hand over your sternum and his thumb rubbing back and forth. He’s careful about it too, like he’s handling broken pieces of something that used to be beautiful.

“You’re okay,” he says, but you’ve got your face pressed into the crook of his neck and your tears are staining the collar of his shirt. “You’re gonna be fine. Just… listen to me.”

You stay quiet, waiting for him to speak next.

“Name three things you can see,” he says. “You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think about it.”

You open your eyes finally, angling your head until most of your vision isn’t obstructed by the proximity of his body. Minho tightens his arm around you, and you blink away some of the tears.

Your black heels that your mom got you for your birthday a while ago.

The grass, darkened green and damp.

Him. 

“Three things you can hear.”

Light chatter coming from inside the gallery.

Cars passing by on the adjacent street.

Him, the sound of his breathing.

“Three things you can touch.”

The soft material of your dress against your skin.

The bracelet, hugging your wrist, weighing you down like an anchor.

And… him.

Him, him, him.

You don’t know what reason Minho makes up to excuse you for the rest of night, but you don’t bother asking. There’s really no space left in your head to think about it twice, to care about leaving your friends or feel guilty about Hyunjin because he was so excited about today. It’s too much; all you want is to go home, get away from here.

Minho calls you both an Uber back to your place. During the entire ride, he doesn’t say a word and neither do you. And even though you mostly opt for looking out the window at the other cars and houses and people passing by, every now and then you could feel his eyes on you from the other side of the backseat.

When you arrive, he keeps a hand on the small of your back as you make your way up the stairs. When you unlock the door, you leave it open so he could follow you inside. You suppose that one is a force of habit. You’re not used to shutting the door in his face. At least, not in the literal sense anyway.

Then it returns, that gnawing feeling. A feeling far too colossal for your body to house. It sits somewhere inside your ribcage, sharp and desperate, with claws trying to dig its way out. And for the first time in maybe ever, you understand what it truly means to want something this badly. You love him, and it hurts. You love him even though it hurts.

Minho moves around the place while you remain frozen in the middle of your own apartment, as if he’s the one who lives here and you’re just visiting for the night. You let him take off your makeup (with a wipe; you’re going to hate yourself in the morning), let him help you change into clothes that you can sleep in, even let him tuck you into bed like you’re a helpless child. If he notices the bracelet on you, he doesn’t say anything. Everything is done in silence.

You don’t look him in the eye. You don’t think you can handle what you’ll find there.

But you do reach for his hand when he tries to leave now that there’s nothing left for him to do here. There’s not a single thought behind your action, just a need to have him near.

“Can you…?” 

You aren’t brave enough to finish the question, your voice trailing off and the words dissipating like smoke after a lonely cigarette drag. You’re being selfish right now, you’re awfully aware of this.

Minho doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even let out a single sigh. For a second there, you think he’s about to leave you here, cold and alone, just like you had done to him. It would be nothing less than what you deserve.

But then he’s shrugging off his blazer and your heart is in your throat. When he slips into bed beside you, something hurts, the kind of ache that spreads all across your chest and makes your lungs burn.

Earlier tonight, he could’ve walked away and let you be somebody else’s burden. Your friends were all there, it’s not like they would’ve left you stranded.

You’re not really sure what to think. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t hate you, but maybe it’s just enough confirmation that he doesn’t hate you more than he loves you.

You break the deafening stretch of silence with a whisper, “I’m sorry.” You don’t know what the apology is for. Are you sorry for that night, for the things you said to him? Are you sorry that you’re only yourself, that he just had to go ahead and fall for you of all people? Sorry that you’re too much of a coward and a lost cause to love him right? You don’t know, but it feels appropriate to apologize. You owe him that much.

“Don’t…” Minho says after a while. “You don’t have to do that.”

The familiar sensation returns – the one that stings the back of your eyes, burns your nostrils and makes you all choked up. You try to hold your breath and will it away, but the first tear spills without your permission, and you can’t help the shaky inhale – close to a gasp and followed by a sniffle – that punctuates your lungs when they start protesting against the sudden lack of oxygen. 

You grip the sheets so hard you think you could rip through the fabric and dig into your own palm. It’s a pathetic feeling, like a strange kind of embarrassment that you can’t quite describe. The room is deadly quiet; you know there’s no way he didn’t catch the noise.

You hear Minho shift from where he lays behind you, some rustling when he moves against the duvet and the mattress. “Don’t cry,” he sighs. And it’s still so gentle. You’ve never known him to be anything but gentle.

You bite the inside of your cheek, blinking some of the tears away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… don’t cry.” It sounds like he’s holding something back but you aren’t sure. “Don’t cry. Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning, if you want.”

You sniffle some more, and maybe that makes Minho think he still needs to appease you even further. He reaches out finally, to brush a comforting hand against your arm. “Go to sleep. Promise I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You don’t know if you want to talk in the morning, because there’s nothing for you to say. All you really have is what he’s already heard – I’m sorry, like an utterly broken record. But you want him to stay even if it’s only for the morning. Even if all he’ll get is silence at best and choked up breaths at worst. Your last-ditch attempt at grasping straws, a futile effort to chase running water.

“Okay,” you tell him, and neither of you says anything afterward. The tears keep falling for a while, and at some point it tires you out enough to slip into a dreamless sleep.

When you open your eyes hours later, the sun is already up. The clock on your phone reads 7:06AM and the first thing you register is an uncomfortable dryness in your throat. Behind you, the bed is still warm. You can actually feel it underneath your fingertips when you reach out, the warmth dwindling from the side of the bed that’s been left vacant. Minho has never broken a promise to you before.

He’s gone, and you sink again.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 08.01.2025]

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

unclean // long distance scout!Levi x Reader

[cw: hurt/comfort, canon-typical gore, mental health, angst]

Levi narrows his eyes as he scrubs the rough bar of soap between his palms. The scummy bubbles at the bottom of the bucket are tinged a pale, visceral pink in the fading twilight.

He swallows down bile at the sight of it, disgusted by the way the gore clings to him, burrowed into the lines on his hands and the beds of his nails.

It’s filthy. There’s no running water in a camp this far outside the walls, so he fills and refills the bucket whenever it gets too murky for him to stand. He feels briefly guilty for the waste of so much clean water before disgust blots it out.

Finally, the droplets from his scoured hands run clear. The tightness in his chest loosens, just barely. Enough to take a full breath. His hands burn from the shitty ration soap, but it’s better than leaving them unclean.

Levi staggers into his tent and pulls the cloth flap tightly shut. There, in the privacy of darkness, he permits himself to collapse. He digs his nails into his forearm to keep from crying.

He still feels tainted. He smells a phantom stench of the battlefield rising from his hair, his clothes, even though he’s cleaned them. He can still feel the stomach-churning steam of fallen Titans against his face.

He wants to soak himself in scalding water, wants to slough off layers of himself until he reaches something that has never been stained with blood. But Levi is no longer sure that there is anything left within him that isn’t contaminated, if there ever even was.

After all, he’s seen enough of his comrades ripped apart, enough of his friends turned into unrecognizable meat. There’s nothing sacred hiding underneath their skin. Why would he be any different?

Levi spreads out his bedroll carefully, making sure that the interior doesn’t touch the ground. He always packs and unpacks it the same way, so one half remains pristine. It gives him a little comfort.

He mechanically lights a lantern, running on routine. He rifles through his pack and comes up with your picture. You had asked Jean to make a sketch of you, and Levi begrudgingly admitted that it was a very good likeness. He’s taken it with him on every mission since you gave it to him.

With your picture beside his pillow, Levi relaxes another fraction. He’s survived today, and more importantly, so did his squad. He tries to focus on that and not the sting of his hands, scrubbed raw.

As he moves to dim the lantern, his eyes catch on a flash of metal in his pack. Metal that shouldn’t be there. Levi swears under his breath as he lifts out the unfamiliar object, preparing for anything.

Almost anything, that is. He doesn’t expect a tiny metal tin, certainly doesn’t expect the paper covered in your handwriting folded around it. He unwraps it carefully and holds it up to the light.

My love,

I wish I could be there with you. Know that you never leave my thoughts. And because I have the privilege of knowing you well, I fear that you are suffering more than you admit.

There is nothing that could ever taint you in my eyes. No amount of filth that I would not gladly wash clean, knowing you were beneath it.

Please don’t be annoyed that I spent money on this- I’d been saving and thought there could be no better purpose. I hope it brings you the comfort that I cannot while you’re beyond the walls.

Come home to me soon, my Levi.

The words blur with tears before he reaches the end, but Levi doesn’t let them fall. At least, not until he opens the tin and sees that it is full of lotion, not the tallow you rub into his skin when it cracks and bleeds on bad days, but real lotion from the pompous merchants in the inner walls.

It’s a ridiculous luxury, made more ridiculous by its place here in the wilderness, in a soldier’s tent. But it smells like you, and though he can hardly bear to disturb the pristine surface, it feels like heaven as he hesitantly smears it across his hand.

It soothes the pain instantly. You must have known it would. That’s what makes him cry at last- the burden and the blessing of being known, being loved all the more for the knowing.

He uses an entire precious layer of the lotion on his hands then extinguishes the lantern and curls onto his blanket. He holds his hands over his face and breathes you in, allowing peace to settle warily on his aching chest.

[missriyochuchi]

The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer

Summary: The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer meet in the Jardin des Tuileries after the Opening Ceremony and commiserate about the Olympic Games.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Established relationship. Mentions of death.

Notes: I imagined these two like otherworldly beings blessing the games, what with the Olympics being invented by ancient Greeks as a partly religious event. As such, I would have preferred to keep them gender neutral, but because I’m writing this in a pinch and want to be able to distinguish between them without constantly using their names, I opted for gendered pronouns. But nothing about their physical descriptions are particularly gendered; I’m just leaning on the old linguistic quirk lol Also, how tf is there no video of the Flagbearer!? I wanted to gif her/their entrance but couldn’t find a damn thing! She/They deserves more love!

Read on AO3 - Part 2 - Part 3

Darkness cloaks the Jardin des Tuileries. Even the cauldron floating above its center offers little illumination on the ground. Shadows play along the perimeter, tourists passing in the midnight hour, their idle conversations lost to the humid air. The soft patter of rain echoes across the masonry scattered throughout the empty park. Only the occasional creak of metallic plates and restless hoofbeats betray the garden’s solitary visitors.

The Flagbearer looks up at the orange orb in the sky. She marvels at the city’s ingenuity. Decades of oil and gas have finally given way to an electric fire. Only with such technological advancements could engineers even dream of safely flying the eternal flame above the City of Lights. If only the future was as assuredly bright, the Flagbearer thinks. Her gaze drifts back down to the darkness below, the surrounding chill creeping back into her senses. Her horse stirs beneath her and jostles her mind back to the present.

“Easy, Zeus,” she murmurs as she presses her legs to the animal’s sides in an attempt to soothe both their anxieties. “Patience.”

No Olympic Games are ever truly free of political problems, an inevitability of any gathering between disparate peoples, but they weigh heavier on the Flagbearer’s mind now more than ever. Her part in the Opening Ceremony is small but significant, and though she spends less time among the crowds than her eternal counterpart, she catches enough to gauge that tensions are higher than ever before. The darkness of the night seems to encroach and bleed into the darkness in her mind as she ponders human history and her role in it. Before her resolve could lurch under the gravity of her thoughts, the light crunch of gravel announces his arrival.

“You are late,” the Flagbearer intones harshly. She steers her steed to turn around and face the approaching footsteps.

Enough ambient light creeps across the park to distinguish the Torchbearer’s silhouette, catching on the gauzy pieces of his attire bobbing in the breeze. His stride is sure, his stature straight, betraying neither weariness nor arrogance. Only a few meters away, he shrugs and raises his palms out at his sides, teasing, “I did not have a ride.”

The Flagbearer is unmoved but in no mood to quarrel. “How are you, my love?” Her voice floats soft and light through the misty drizzle.

“Exhausted.” His shoulders slump fractionally, perceptible only to his eternal flame facing him. “And you?”

“Concerned.”

The Torchbearer reaches for the horse’s muzzle and runs a familiar hand along his nose. “I hope you are not as troubled as your rider, mon joli cheval.” Zeus bows his long head and huffs in response. His palm runs along the animal’s left flank, lifting once he reaches the Flagbearer’s side. He extends both hands to her gloved ones and helps her to the ground.

“What ails my sweet?” He pinches her chin.

She hums and takes one of his hands in both of hers, squeezing hard enough to convey her worry. “In all our years shepherding these games, did you ever know the atmosphere to be this—”

“I know. The world is—”

“Restless.”

“Yes, and—”

“Not at peace.”

“Never has been, my love.”

“I do not remember it ever being this—”

“Your worries are not unfounded, cherie, but you must redirect your attention elsewhere.”

They circle the base beneath the cauldron, hand in hand. Zeus follows close behind, his reins tied to the saddle. While the nightlife bustles beyond the park’s pocket of silence, the few security guards on duty watch the hooded figures from a distance.

Event organizers had explicitly and numerously instructed personnel not to approach or engage with the Torchbearer and Flagbearer. They were both host and blessing to the festivities, and decades of tradition dictated that a respectful, neutral distance be maintained between the host nation and the two Olympic guardians so that there would be no suspicion of impropriety or favoritism during competition.

The Flagbearer recoils, incredulous. “How can you be so indifferent to the violence and rhetoric—”

“I am surprised that between the two of us, you, in your glittering armor, are the first to lose hope and declare defeat.”

“I have not!” She stops them in their orbit and shoves his hand back to his side.

The Torchbearer laughs. He crooks a finger under her chin and raises her gaze. She sighs and closes her eyes as the backs of his fingers graze her cheek. Her hands come up to open and press his palm to the side of her face, his pressure more than his warmth a soothing balm to her inner turmoil. Her voice is low and leaden when she continues.

“I merely wonder if the gods have not tasked us with an impossible mission.”

The Torchbearer falls silent as he contemplates the Flagbearer’s concerns. She did not interact with humans as much as he did, a natural consequence of their separate roles. While the Olympic torch exchanged hands with every kind of man and woman, the Olympic flag exchanged hands with a significantly select few. As a result, the Flagbearer’s opinion of humanity often leaned towards the optimistic while the Torchbearer’s leaned towards the pessimistic. He had come to know, better than she, the complexities of human nature, their heavenly highs and their hellish lows. They spent decades arguing about the tenuous balance. Now, as he watches his partner’s shoulders sag with the weight of the world, he finds himself despondent that she seems poised to concede to his viewpoint and knows it, knows that she lost this one important battle. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and guides their walk away from the cauldron.

“Plus vite, Plus haute, Plus fort.” The Torchbearer rattles off the Olympic motto.

“Citius, Altius, Fortius, my dear. Latin may be dead, but it is still your mother tongue.”

“‘Ensemble.’ C’est la partie importante. And that is precisely what they are doing and continue to do.”

“But for how long? We do not have a future if they do not, and my darling, I do not see—”

“We cannot predict the future any more than humans can. It is none of our concern. The gods will take care of us.”

“The gods have abandoned us, just as the humans have abandoned them.” The Flagbearer catches the ice in her voice and does her best to warm her vitriol. “We do not exist outside these games, my love. And if these games end, if the world can find no purpose to these communal competitions—”

Silence. The specter of death looms large in their periphery. Every Closing Ceremony marks the end of their days on Earth, a return to a darkness beyond darkness. And every two years, they are reborn and reimagined back into existence to inspire and perform and protect the Olympic Games. Despite the constancy of this cyclical event, the eternal guardians find humans increasingly less hospitable to the ideals they represent. What is sportsmanship to a world where even the rules of war no longer hold?

“Steel your heart as this city has steeled your form.” The Torchbearer steps close enough for the edge of his hood to kiss hers. “The next host cities have been decided, their venues under construction. We still have a future. There is no reason to despair.”

“For now.”

“For now.” He sighs at her obstinacy, but knows not to push further or risk wasting precious moments on a fruitless fight. “In the meantime, the games have begun, and we do not have much time together.”

A smirk plays beneath the Flagbearer’s hood. She perks up at her partner’s motives. “Sixteen days is not enough to spend with you.” She steps closer and brings her forehead to his. She squeezes his biceps, and he rubs her elbows in return. They exchange breaths for a moment of eternity.

“Come.” The Torchbearer takes her hands and swings her in circles. Their laughs echo as they near the horse. “Much of the city has changed since we were last here, and you will not see them if you continue to sulk beneath the cauldron.”

The Flagbearer mounts Zeus and extends an arm to help the Torchbearer take a seat behind her. He presses his front to her back, unbothered by her damp cape. He slides his arms along either side of her waist and rests his hands atop hers on the horn of the saddle. The horse ambles forward towards the city streets.

Buoyed by the Torchbearer’s embrace, the Flagbearer regains a sliver of her hope and optimism. “The Italians will call on us next. Perhaps we will meet a changed world by then.”

“We always do. I wonder what forms they have planned for us.”

“I quite like this form on you, my dear. The cut of your jacket complements you well.”

“As does this armor on you, mon amour.” His hands find the edge of her cuirass and sneak nimble fingers to the suit underneath.

She giggles at the light pressure below her ribcage. “I will miss hearing you speak this city’s language.”

The Torchbearer tightens his hold on the Flagbearer, impressing his being into hers. “You worry about community and forget that we are in the City of Love.”

“Paris is not the world, my dear.” They sway in sync as Zeus carries them towards the edge of the garden.

“Perhaps, but the Olympic Village is, or at least, as close an approximation as the humans are capable of producing. If it is unity you seek, we will surely find a certain kind—”

“You said you were exhausted.” Amusement lightens the Flagbearer’s tone, her heavy mind now fizzy with thoughts of the Torchbearer’s amorous intentions.

“Never enough to deter me from you.” He presses his chin to her shoulder, his words vibrating down the expanse of her armor. “Would you waste the energy of the players’ liaisons?”

Her hood whips to the side as he squeezes the unarmored flesh of her upper thigh. Before she can answer, he takes the reins and brings Zeus to a gallop towards the Olympic Village.

“No more talk,” he heaves with urgency. “I need you before the sun rises and our duties begin again.”

Footnotes:

mon joli cheval - my pretty horse cherie - dear Plus vite, Plus haute, Plus fort (French) / Citius, Altius, Fortius (Latin) - Faster, Higher, Stronger ‘Ensemble.’ C’est la partie importante. (French) - ‘Together.’ That is the important part. mon amour - my love

“The 100% electric flame burns no fuel. The ring of fire uses 40 LED spotlights to illuminate the cloud created by 200 high-pressure misting nozzles.” (source)

According to the engineers who built the mechanical horse, its name is Zeus.

[sparklypinkflightsuit]

Love To Watch You Leave: Part 2

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Warnings: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Swearing, Fluff, Angst, Bullying, Eventual Smut, Grieving, Pining, Alcohol, Military Inaccuracies

- Part 1 Here -

——————————

18+ Only

——————————

You were quickly growing frustrated with the lack of jobs available in your field. You had really thought studying Meteorology would make the work come running to you, but you were so wrong.




Every employer asked for experience, always damn experience. How were you meant to gain experience if nobody was willing to take you on?




You were also extremely frustrated by the fact that Bradley was now home, all the time. Being back from deployment meant he didn’t have an awful lot to do, so he spent a lot of time tending to the front yard.




You also preferred to spend time on the front porch, so it became hard to avoid him, but you were stubborn enough not to let him scare you indoors.




You sat scrolling through job ads on your phone one day, feet tucked under you as you swung on the hanging bench, when you noticed your nemesis walking towards your house.




“What do you want?” You mumbled, not looking up from your phone.




“Got any bandaids?” He asked.




Your eyes were still glued to your phone, “Why? You got a splinter?” You looked up fully prepared to roll your eyes at some tiny little scratch he had, but his injury was far more severe. “Oh my god!” You squirmed, “What the fuck Bradshaw, how did you manage that?”




Bradley’s hand was covered in blood, a deep gash in the side of his finger. “It’s not that bad, the lawnmower was being temperamental.” He did look a little woozy despite his nonchalant words.




“So you thought you’d stick your fingers inside? Real smart. Go inside, I’ll get some bandages.” You directed him indoors with the point of a finger.




“Just get your mom, I trust her way more around my open wounds, you’d probably just cut me more.” He joked, moving to hold his hand over the kitchen sink.




“She’s not home, but if you’d prefer I’d be happy to just let you bleed out?”




Bradley breathed deeply through his nose and let out a loud sigh, “No, fine, you can do it.”




You quirked an eyebrow at him, “Uh… no. Ask nicely.”




“What?” He snapped at you, “Please tell me you are kidding right now? I’m bleeding, Y/N!”




You crossed your arms, “And I’m more than fine letting you die in my kitchen. Ask nicely.”




Bradley groaned and rolled his eyes, “Fine. Please, please could you help me not die?”




You grinned and walked up to him, turning on the tap and running the water over his finger. Once the blood washed away, you were relieved to see the cut wasn’t nearly as bad as you’d originally thought, so you grabbed some bandaids from the cupboard.




“Sit here.” You instructed, patting the top of the counter. Bradley did as instructed and you held his hand up to your face as you gently dried it.




“Hold still.” You mumbled as you concentrated on sticking a bandaid in the right place, followed by a second to hold it down for good measure.




“There, I saved your life. Don’t make me regret it.” You sighed, leaning against the opposite counter and crossing your arms.




“Hardly, but thanks anyway. Guess you’re not completely useless.” He was inspecting your handy work, his face still slightly pallid. “Still a waste of space though.”




“Seriously, fuck you. What did I ever do to make you such a dick to me?”




Bradley shrugged, some of his colour returning as he stood up right, his finger sticking out awkwardly and padded with the bandaids.




“You were just annoying.”




“So because I was an annoying kid you made it your mission to ruin my life?”




“I hardly ruined your life!” He retaliated, his voice raising a fraction.




“Not for lack of trying! You’ve always been horrible to me. I didn’t deserve it.” You turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Bradley to stand in the kitchen, dumbfounded. He couldn’t understand why you were so upset.




Eventually he followed you, “It was just some harmless fun, it’s what people do.” He said, coming to rest against the door frame as you picked your phone back up on the front porch and continued to scroll.




“Not normal people.” You mumbled.




Bradley sighed and rolled his eyes. “Ok fine, I guess I’m sorry for being a little mean to you, happy?”




You ignored him, sitting back down on the swinging bench. You kept scrolling through ads, growing quickly frustrated with the lack of work.




You grunted in annoyance, throwing your phone to the other end of the bench.




Bradley eyed you up, and then he looked towards your phone, suddenly curious. He walked over while you frowned out towards the street, your arms crossed.




“What is it?” He asked as he picked up your phone and sat down next to you, much to your dismay.




“Nothing, give that back.” You reached half heartedly for your phone, but Bradley held it out of reach as he read.




“You looking for work?” He knew you were, but you nodded anyway.




“Well…they’re hiring for a Junior Aerographer’s Mate at work. I can’t guarantee they’ll take you on, I mean… look at you.” He gestured towards your face, clearly thinking he was being funny, “but I can put in a good word for you.”




You screwed your face up in confusion, “Are you messing with me?”




“No, why would I?” He leaned back into the bench, making himself at home.




“You’re kidding? You’ve literally never done a nice thing for me once in your life, if anything you were actively trying to make my life hell, so how do I know this isn’t some kind of messed up prank?”




“Consider it a one off, because you helped me today.” He seemed serious, his body relaxed and no hint of a smile, so after a few seconds of inspecting his face, you nodded slowly.




“Okay… thank you.”




———————————




The next Monday, you went for your interview with the navy, Bradley had been true to his word and you were very surprised when your phone rang and a big bubbly booming voice on the other end invited you for an interview. He sounded jolly, too jolly, and at first you thought it was a prank, but much to your delight it was a real place and you had to go through quite a few security gates to get there.




You walked into the office waiting room, nervously smoothing out your skirt before sitting down on a bench and waiting patiently. A few agonising minutes later, another interviewee walked out of the little office and a tall, stocky, middle aged man walked out behind him in uniform.




He noticed you, and suddenly his face lit up and his arms lifted to welcome you. “Ah! Miss Y/L/N I take it? I’m Lieutenant Commander Harris, we spoke on the phone!”




You stood quickly and shook his big bear hand, “Yes! That’s me, thank you so much for inviting me today.”




You walked into his office and sat at a big wooden desk, your lack of a resumé sitting neatly next to your degree.




The interview went well despite this, and the man was happy with all of your answers. You discussed your schooling and why you wanted to get into Meteorology, you discussed the job role and starting salary and you were more than happy to take it on.




“Well, Miss Y/L/N, I think I speak for everyone when I say we’d be thrilled to have you on the team.” He grinned, standing and shaking your hand. “Now usually we’d review the applicants and do call backs, but it’s easy to see you will be the best one for the job. Can you start next week?”




You laughed with elation, you couldn’t believe it. “Yes, absolutely! Thank you so much, you won’t regret this!”




The man beamed down at you, “I’m sure we won’t, plus we were just happy to hear that Rooster found himself a little lady, finally! He was always so focused on work - which don’t get me wrong, is a good thing! But I was starting to think he’d never find someone.”




Your eyes went wide and you suddenly felt sick, “Huh?”




“I mean, your qualifications are impressive, but it’s no secret having a partner in the forces does help a bit.” He winked at you.




You didn’t know what to say, too scared to correct him in case your new job would be sent out the window with his dignity.




“Mhm.” You forced a smile, “it… certainly does help.”




You turned around and he showed you out of his office, still very jolly, and you quickly shook his hand once more, desperate to make your speedy exit.




“Thanks again.” You faked another smile.




“Say, before you go, are you busy this weekend?”




Suddenly, a little more excited and thinking he wanted you to start work a few days early, eager to prove yourself as more than just an extension of Bradley, you smiled and shook your head. “Not at all! No plans, what do you need?”




He chuckled heartily, “Fantastic! It’s my wife and I’s 30 year anniversary, you and your fella Bradshaw are invited, it would be great to get to know you before you start next Monday. We’ll make sure a room is set up for you two in the guest house, I’ll email you the details.”




And with that, he disappeared back into his office, and the fake smile fell from your face. “Oh fuck.”




—————————




As soon as you pulled up outside your house, you stormed up to Bradley’s front door and knocked loudly.




He must have been napping, as he eventually pulled the door open, rubbing his eyes groggily.




“What?” He hissed.




You pushed passed him and stood with your arms crossed in his little living room.




“Interview go well?” He grumbled, sitting down on his couch. You couldn’t help but eye up his tight grey sweatpants, wondering what they hid underneath. You quickly diverted your eyes to his face, trying to mentally shake the disturbing thoughts away.




“Yeah, it did actually.” Your voice did not display the level of happiness Bradley thought it would.




“Okaaaay? Why are you biting my head off then?”




“Because of the reason I got the damn interview in the first place.” You began to pace up and down the small room, biting at your nails.




Bradley looked at you like you had 3 heads, waiting for you to elaborate.




“You told them that we’re… dating.” You spat out.




Bradley looked taken aback, “Uh, no I didn’t.”




“Yes, you did. They only picked me out of everyone else because I’m Bradley Bradshaws ‘little lady’.” You huffed, frustration lacing your words through gritted teeth.




“First… no I didn’t. Second-“ he grinned widely, “Congrats on getting the job, kid.”




You rolled your eyes, “No, Brad, this is a disaster. They think we’re together! What did you say to them?”




“I just said that someone needed a job in Meteorology, and when they asked who, I said your name and that you’d ‘been in my life forever’ so I could vouch for you, they must have gotten the wrong idea that’s all. Did you correct him?” Bradley shrugged.




“Correct him? You’re kidding, and embarrass him? Lose the job to someone with more experience. I don’t think so. I figured they’d forget and I’d never see you anyway so it wouldn’t matter, but…” you cringed, your hands covering your face.




“What? What did you do?” Bradley stood from his seat, suddenly nervous for his career.




“He invited us to his anniversary celebrations this weekend… for a whole weekend, in the same room.” You groaned.




“And you accepted?! What is wrong with you?”




“He asked if I was busy and I said no, so I couldn’t backtrack!”




Bradley groaned as he paced the living room, “This is bad, Y/N. If he finds out you lied-“




“Me?! It was you who gave him the wrong impression!”




“-then my career is over. I can’t be seen as the guy who vouched for a liar!”




“Bradley! Look, I think we’re both at fault here. Maybe we should just go back and apologise and let him know there was some sort of misunderstanding. I’m sure we’ll all laugh about it and-“




“No! Lieutenant Commander Harris is not someone you want to embarrass, we’ll… we’ll just need to go and pretend… and stage a break up or something.”




“What if he fires me because I’m no longer your ‘little lady’ anymore?”




“God, Y/N, he’s not a monster, just get in his good books or something and you’ll be fine.” He huffed, his pacing slowing to a stop.




You thought for a moment, “Okay… we can’t stage a break up on the first day though, that’ll look suspicious, or just be rude if we ruin his anniversary dinner.”




Bradley nodded, “Ok, so we pretend all is fine the first night, then… what? Get into a huge argument? Say you cheated on me?”




“No way, I’m not gonna be the bad guy in this scenario.”




Bradley rolled his eyes, “Fine, I’ll be the bad guy then. You can catch me with another woman or something, I don’t care.”




“Fine.”




“Fine.”




But it would not be fine, it would be far from fine as you’d soon come to find out, the worst was yet to come.




—————————




“You’re joking though, aren’t you?”




“No, mom. My worst nightmare has come to life. An entire weekend sharing a room with Bradshaw. I think I might be sick.” You mock gagged as you washed dishes and your mom packed them away.




“You know-“ she laughed, “I’ve always sort of hoped you two would end up together. He’s a lovely boy.”




You screwed your face up in disgust, “Mom! He’s not a lovely boy, he’s the worst. You’d seriously want him as your son in law?”




She shrugged and gave you a look, “He’s better than that Connor you dated.”




“I don’t know about better, but you’re right that I have a shocking taste in men.” You groaned dramatically. “Eventually I’ll meet a nice guy, but for now I need to focus on work, and how to get through this godforsaken weekend.”




After the dishes you went to your bedroom to pack for the weekend ahead. You had a few nice outfits but they were far too matronly for an anniversary weekend at a posh beach house.




You dug around some more but eventually gave up.




“Mom! We need to go shopping!”




———————————




The next day you and your mom went shopping for a couple of outfits, you got coffees and spent the day walking from shop to shop. You were having more fun window shopping than anything else, but eventually your mom gasped and pulled you towards a shop window.




“Look! That’s the one, you have to get it!” She excitedly pointed at a stunning pale yellow satin dress, ankle length but backless with a cowl neck, and she dragged you into the shop.




“Don’t you think it’s… too much?” You asked awkwardly as you held it up to inspect it.




“Darling, nothing you wear is ever too much, you make everything elegant.” She mused.




You bought the dress for the first night, the main event, but for the second night, which was going to be considerably more relaxed, you settled for a simple but pretty black dress, which you planned to pair with white tennis shoes. After all, day two was break-up day, you needed comfy shoes to make the getaway if need be, even if it was a fake getaway.




Clothes purchased and feet hurting, you made your way home, and you groaned in frustration when you saw Bradley was sat waiting for you on your porch.




Your mom walked up first, “Hi sweetheart, what are you doing here?”




“Hey Elsie, I just need to have a word with Y/N about this weekend if that’s ok?” He looked somewhat serious, so your mom raised her eyebrows at you and then looked back at Bradley.




“Sure, I’ll be inside if either of you need me.” She smiled sweetly and squeezed his shoulder before disappearing with the shopping inside.




“What’s up Bradshaw?” You asked half heartedly.




“Uh… we kinda have a problem.” He stood slowly, his hands sliding into his front pockets sheepishly.




“What is it?” You asked, suddenly anxious.




“My ex is gonna be there this weekend, and… let’s just say she didn’t take it very well when we ended things, so I don’t think she’ll take kindly to you, ya know, being my new ‘girl’.”




You rolled your eyes, “Oh is that it? Jesus you made it seem like something really bad had happened. I’m not scared of some old ex girlfriend, Brad.”




Bradley shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his head.




“Yeah… but we kinda slept together a week ago.”




Oh.




Fuck. This weekend was about to become a whole lot more complicated.




—————————




- Part 3 Here -

[baby-greatness]

warnings: MDNI fictional dirty book, implications of arousal, teensy bit of implied sexism (you're not allowed to know certain things because it's "improper of a lady")

snippet from princess!reader x royal guard!simon drabble that I write sometimes instead of sleeping.

You, my dear, had been in such a lovely mood all morning—sneaking out the way you usually would to go read beneath the big willow on the property. Obviously, it would only be about a half hour (shit, maybe less) before Simon found you and dragged you back inside your gilded cage where father wanted you to be, but you would enjoy your privacy and the fresh air until then.

Recently you'd gotten some books imported from France, courtesy of your own wit and cunning which you'd thanked your mother for so graciously passing onto you.

The only part of the title you cared for was the word Sodom.

The book was written by someone you'd already forgotten the name of and it was the most shocking piece of literature you'd ever read in your little twenty something or so years of existence. Could hardly put the damn thing down, it was so full of incredibly explicit, filthy themes that no one would ever dare teach you lest your father have them bleed till dry.

Oh how heat bloomed in your tummy when you read such words—how it would make soft thighs press together and made a wicked grin bloom across such plush lips any time you would partake in its pages.

The princess was doing something she wasn't meant to and of course such knowledge made it one of her favorite pastimes.

"Enjoyin' th'read, princess?" His brown eyes run over your form tucked into the roots of that tree and this man has the gaul to look amused! It's hardly a question, you know, more of an announcement of his presence.

'You tried to hide from me, but I caught you.' His eyes would say, and you'd have to follow him back inside, tail betwixt your legs before he got to scolding you for nearly getting him dismissed.

He's quiet on his feet, one of the things you both love and hate about him. Could easily sneak you back where you are meant to be—but that meant he could surprise you too. Like just now, where you felt your heart stop beating for a fraction of a moment from the terror that you might've been caught by someone who it would actually matter to.

But Simon was naughty. You knew that because he'd help you hide things from your father, things like night walks in the gardens and reading if you can believe it.

He'd let you do as you pleased when you pleased to do so, as long as there were no prying eyes to witness how soft handed could be with you.

Simon's the one that taught you how best to do things you weren't meant to do, which kept father off your case for the most part. This is how you knew he was naughty. About as naughty as you. So he would have to know these things that he wasn't meant to. Wouldn't he?

"Yes, Simon, I am.. what's this word here mean?"

He'd lean forward and find the word you were trying to show him, and his eyes would widen before he wrangled his expression back into that quiet amusement.

"Ol'right, back inside with you."

[thriftyshark530]

Whump Dialogue

Whumper:

"Come here, whumpee. There you go, good boy"

"Oh don't worry, I'm not going to kill you, but you're probably going to wish I did"

"Caretaker? You really think they can save you now? Look around, I call the shots here, you arent getting out unless I say so"

"No, no caretaker, you got it all wrong. I'm not going to hurt you..... Whumpee on the other hand..." (Whumpee and caretaker can swap places in this one)

"I want you to know, caretaker. Whumpee struggled, held out as long as he could, waiting for you to save him. Too bad that day never came, did it?"

"Don't worry caretaker, I haven't been hurting our whumpee too bad. He only lost a fraction of his blood, not enough to be fatal."

"Hm, y'know the bruises on your face really bring out the bright color of your eyes. Oh how pretty you look when I'm done with you, isn't that right, whumpee?"

"Caretaker doesn't love you, whumpee. Nobody does, only I do"

"Look, caretaker, look at all you failed to prevent" (whumper showing caretaker what they've done to whumpee)

Whumpee:

"Fuck you, I'll never give into yo- GAAAGH"

"Caretaker.....hurts"

"Caretaker, whumper, he's behind you"

"I thought you wouldn't come"

"Why did you help me"

"Caretaker will find me, and more importantly, find you. And when they do, what you've done to me will look like a tea party in comparison"

"You shouldn't have come, caretaker."

"MOVE, ITS A TRAP" (said by whumpee when caretaker enters their cell)

"GET DOWN" (said by whumpee before taking an attack that was meant for teammate)

"Please......" (Said by a shaking and bloody whumpee, staring at the weapon in whumpers hand)

"Wait, caretaker, I never told you....thank you, for everything. I owe you my life"

"You don't have to monitor me, caretaker, I'm fine. You should get some rest"

Caretaker:

"Whumpee.....oh my god, what did they do to you"

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you, but I am now"

"Please, please don't hurt them" (said by caretaker with a tear falling down their cheek, only able to plead with whumper to not hurt whumpee)

"STOP, NO STOP, HURT ME, PLEASE" (said by caretaker as whumper begins to stalk towards a defenseless whumpee)

"YOU SON OF A BITCH, IM GONNA KILL YOU" (screamed by caretaker as they're forced to watch whumper attack whumpee)

"WHUMPEE, RUN" (screamed by caretaker towards whumpee, as they both get attacked)

"Of course I came for you, no way I'd leave you behind"

"You aren't leaving my sight until you recover, understand?"

"It's my fault, whumpee, I'm so sorry"

"Whumpee, get some rest. That's an order"

"Don't you dare fucking hurt them"

Whumpee x caretaker:

C: "whumpee it's ok, it's ok. I'm here, darling, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

C: "do you need anything else, love?"

W: "um, a kiss, maybe?"

C: "hm, of course, dear"

C: "whumpee, I was so scared. I couldn't .. I can't lose you too."

W: "you didn't, I'm still here. I'm sorry I scared you, love."

C: "it's ok, dear, it's ok. I got you, I'm not letting go, ever"

W: "funny, I thought you hated me. Y'know earlier when you said you didn't want to see me again, and now here we are. Me bleeding on your couch, and you helping me"

C: "would you shut up, I'm trying to work here."

W: "yeah, no pressure, but my life is on the line here"

C: "you stupid idiot, why did you do that?"

W: "I.... I couldn't let them hurt you, caretaker."

C: "w...why?"

W: "because I love you, you idiot"

I'm thinking of making another one of these but idk if I should.

[tokiwarcube]

Hello! I've discovered your blog recently and your writing is really good! Can I request nsfw headcanons for dethklok (if you don't write for all of them it can be either Nathan, Pickles or Murderface) about the reader being a Dom? Nothing to harsh but maybe just leading them or taking initiative after a difficult day.

If you're not comfortable with this it's okay! Thanks for reading anyway, have a great day ♡♡

Hello my love! I realized about halfway through that you had actually wanted headcanons (the cons of writing in an area without WiFi, I suppose.) so this ended up turning into a set of drabbles... but please, feel free to resend this if you want headcanons still, too! <3

Nathan Explosion

Silence, marred only by the labored breaths of your lover, clouds the room with a lustful air so thick its almost suffocating. His chest heaves from his kneeling spot on the floor, sweat glistening in the dim lighting. You can’t see his expression from your place above him — His hair falls down against his chest in rivulets, obscuring his face with a dark shadow. Although you suppose you could hazard a guess, with how long you’ve been at this.

“Nathan.”

His dick twitches between his legs at your voice, and he leans forward on his knees just a fraction. A single drop of precum runs down his shaft at the movement — achingly hard after your hours of teasing. And yet, he refuses to ask for what he wants. Instead, his larger hands move up your calves, up and up towards your thighs. It’s slow, cautious. You watch for a moment, savoring the submissive trepidation, before growing tired. The ball of your foot meets his chest, pushing him back firmly, and his hands drop to his lap for what seems like the millionth time tonight. Black tresses sway, revealing the flush adorning his cheeks and his averted eyes. Whether it’s from shame or embarrassment you can’t quite tell, although the reasoning doesn’t really matter to you.

Only the fact that he’s still not following the rules of your arrangement.

His chest heaves beneath your touch, fingers twitching in his lap. A pause. And… nothing. You sigh, dropping your foot and leaning forward. Carding your hand through his hair you wrap your fingers around the strands, pulling firmly to force his eyes to meet yours. And oh, what a sight it is.

His pupils nearly swallow his eyes whole — loving and needy. His bitten lips part, panting worsening under your unwavering gaze. Open. Close. Swallow. He leans forward yet again, although this time, his hands stay at his sides — he’s learning, but not quite fast enough for your taste.

“Words, Nathan.”

Pickles the Drummer

The party on the other side of the wall falls into a dull thrum, voices muffled less by the drywall and more from the needy groans that bleed from the throat of your lover. Your index and middle frames his cock, wet and twitching with every word you murmur into his ear, and his hips roll feverishly against you. As much as you’ll allow, anyways. His hips are all about all that he can move with how you’ve caged him against the wall, forearm pressed tightly against his chest to keep him pinned. You suspect you might bruise a bit tomorrow with how hard his hand grips you, although with the show he’s putting on for you, you can’t find it in you to complain. His head knocks against the wall, exposing the column of this throat, and you have half the mind to bite down on the tender skin. You file the thought away for later — tempting, but then you’d have to pull your gaze away from him, and how could you miss a sight like this? His tie was loosened long ago, top buttons of his shirt undone and pants pulled down to his mid thigh for just that extra bit of room.

And of course, for the extra risk.

Anyone could walk by and see how malleable he is in your hands, how easy it is for you to take him apart — the evidence would be undeniable. Disheaveled, flushed, panting, and humping your hand like a dog. You smile and lean forward to ghost a kiss across his lips, faint and sweet, but pull away before he can actually reciprocate. The mean move draws a whine from his throat, and you press him just a bit firmer against the wall in warning.

“Stay quiet baby, don’t wanna get caught tonight.”

Skwisgaar Skwigelf

Candlelight glimmers off the stark white walls, casting dancing shadows and heavenly light against your limbs, intertwined. It brings with it a sort of warmth — a stark contrast to the sweat-slicked, cool skin of your lover. You run your hand slowly up his spine before winding your hand meanly through his hair, coaxing him into an arch as you thrust forward. The strangled moan he releases is heavenly, and his hand comes up to cover his mouth soon after. The tips of his ears flush just as rapidly — from embarrassment? Pleasure? You’d hazard its a bit of both, as when you pull back to thrust again he drops the silencing digits to instead scramble for purchase against the satin sheets. The fabric scrunches in his white knuckled grip, warping further with each of your own movements.

Strands held tight in your grasp, pulled more taught with each successive thrust, he’s held too stiff to bury his head in the pillows — treating you to all of his pretty little noises. Every gasp, then moan, then whine as you pull him apart bit by bit. His hips rock back against your strap eagerly, finally chasing his high of his own accord, and you grin.

“Go on baby, give me a show.”

Toki Wartooth

It’s not often that you get him like this, all splayed out and pretty. His cheeks are flushed, eyes hooded as he gazes up at you. He leans up, searching, and you can’t help but give in and kiss him yet again, lips tilting upwards into the connection. It’s sweet, not unlike your typical kisses with Toki — but the tenderness in your movements is novel for the bedroom. The laziness, saccharine and heady, as you work your hand over his cock — taking him apart bit by bit.

Toki has always maintained some level of control in the bedroom — it’s taken a long time to get him to this point at all. Plenty of patience played a role in that, and while you don’t think you’ll ever reach the same level of bruising grips and commanding words that he brings to the table with you, you savor the modicum of submission he’s trusted you with. You run your hand down his side, gently quelling his bucking hips, and his breath shudders against your lips.

“Such a good boy for me, huh, baby?”

Willliam Murderface

William is deceptively strong — it’s a fact that most, including himself, don’t realize. You take the time to appreciate the muscle along his arms, tensing with every harsh thrust you grace him with. His fingers flex in the curls of his hair, forearms covering his expression, although he can’t seem to control the whines that fall from his mouth. You grin, gripping his hips a bit tighter for leverage, and pressing just a bit further into him. It’s a fine line he walks — cover his face, or his noises? He’s always been sensitive, but this? Oh, you could keep him pinned beneath you all day, panting and whining just like this. You think he could cum untouched if you just angle yourself just a bit—

You take his wrists in your hold, bunching them in your hands before thrusting forward yet again using his own body against him for leverage. It’s then that you see his expression, drooling and flushed under your touch. His eyes widen at the movement, and then the pleasure, mouth parting invitingly. You have half the mind to run your thumb along his waiting tongue, just to see what he’d do, but instead you savor his dazed expression. You smile again, peering down at him from beneath your eyelashes.

“Eyes on me baby. Let me see that pretty face, yeah?”

[massivedrickhead]

If it hasn’t been asked yet, I’d love to see what you come up with for the “I’m not gonna yell at you” prompt!

Thanks so much for sending this, I hope you like it!

“I’m not going to yell at you.”

Prompt taken from here

Read on AO3

TW: abuse is alluded to

-

The sound of smashing glass and a startled yelp caused Beca to look up from her phone and frown.

She shoved it into her pocket and entered the kitchen, where she saw Chloe picking shards of glass up from the floor.

“What happened?” Beca asked, causing Chloe to jump which then caused the shard of glass to slip in her hand and slice into her thumb.

“Shit,” Chloe muttered as blood began to well up in the cut the glass had left.

“Oh crap, I’m sorry,” Beca said.

Chloe shook her head and turned on the faucet before sticking her thumb underneath the running water. “It’s my fault,” Chloe said. “I was being careless, I’m sorry.”

“Are you… apologising for cutting yourself?” Beca asked, her brows pulled together in confusion.

“No,” Chloe said. “I’m apologising for breaking one of your glasses.”

“Oh,” Beca said. “It’s fine, it was an accident. I’m more worried about you, are you okay?”

“I should have been more careful,” Chloe said as if Beca hadn’t said anything. “You were kind enough to let me stay with you and here I am smashing up your stuff and-”

“Chloe,” Beca said, placing her hand on Chloe’s arm. “It was one glass. All my shit is Ikea, it isn’t expensive. And even if it was, it’s not like you did it on purpose.”

“I just don’t want you to be mad or yell or something,” Chloe said, turning off the faucet and gingerly inspecting her cut thumb. 

“I’m not mad, and I’m not going to yell at you,” Beca said, handing her a paper towel. “I’d never yell at you.”

Chloe pressed the paper towel against her thumb. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but it still stung. “I know that,” she said. “Logically, I know that.” She sighed. “He’s still rattling around in my head.”

Beca pulled her teeth across her bottom lip and exhaled through her nose.

She didn’t need to ask who Chloe was talking about. 

“Of course he is,” Beca said softly. “After everything that happened, how could he not be?”

“What he did… I know you’d never do that to me,” Chloe said. “I know that. It’s just… Sometimes I forget that it’s all over.”

“I wish I could fix it for you,” Beca said. “Undo all the damage he did.”

“I know,” Chloe said, giving Beca a smile so small it was hardly there at all. “You can’t fix it, but you are helping.”

“Yeah?”

Chloe nodded, and her smile grew just a fraction. 

Beca smiled back at her. “Good,” she said. She grabbed the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink and shooed Chloe backwards and away from the shards of broken glass. “You wanna go pick a movie to watch with dinner? The pizza should be here soon,” she asked, sweeping the shards of glass into the dustpan.

“You hate movies,” Chloe said.

“Yeah, but you don’t,” Beca replied. She tipped the glass into the trash and dusted her hands against her jeans. “I’m willing to do a lot of things for you, Chloe Beale, and watching movies is definitely one of them.”

Chloe grinned, kissed Beca on the cheek, and headed into the living room. 

Once Chloe was out of sight, Beca gently touched the spot on her cheek which felt like it was burning. She sighed, closed her eyes, and then shook herself out of it.

She grabbed the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet and vacuumed the spot where the glass had smashed. She tried to hold onto that brief glimpse she’d gotten of the old Chloe - the Chloe who wasn’t so nervous, and jumpy, and unnecessarily apologetic.

She tried to ignore the memory of the Chloe who’d arrived at her apartment last month. Shaking and crying and apologising for turning up in the middle of the night. She couldn’t ignore it though. The memory came back to her during every quiet moment. She was sure she’d never forget it as long as she lived.

“Please can I stay? Chicago, he’s…”

“Bec?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve vacuumed that same spot like ten times, I think the glass is gone,” Chloe said, leaning against the doorway to the living room.

“Right,” Beca said, shaking her head slightly and forcing out a chuckle. “Did you pick something?”

“I seem to remember you telling me you’d never seen Sister Act, and I think that we need to fix that,” Chloe said, tapping the remote control against the heel of her hand. She opened her mouth to say more, but the apartment buzzer went off and she jumped, sending the remote control clattering to the floor. 

“I’m sure it’s just the pizza guy,” Beca said. She pressed the button on the intercom and asked who was there.

“Alfredo’s,” a bored voice replied. “Got an order for Beca Mitchell.”

“I stand corrected,” Beca said. “It’s the pizza gal. I’m gonna grab it, the elevator’s still out and I don’t have a tip big enough for them to climb four flights of stairs. Will you be okay?”

Chloe, who had been staring into space, focused her eyes on Beca, and she gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded.

When Beca left the apartment, Chloe forced herself to take a steadying breath.

She was getting tired of this. The jumpiness, the anxiety, it was all so exhausting. 

She just wanted to feel like herself again.

She wanted to go back in time so that the last two years hadn’t happened.

She wished she’d made a different decision that final night of the USO tour.

Chloe was still staring into space when Beca returned.

“They need to fix that elevator,” Beca said, shutting the door behind her with a huff. “I almost had to stop halfway and set up base camp.”

Chloe laughed, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Plate or just out of the box?” Beca asked.

“Box is fine,” Chloe replied.

Beca nodded and carried the box through to the living room. “Come on,” she said. “I hear we have some singing nuns to watch.”

Beca was almost asleep when the credits rolled, and Chloe lifted her head from Beca’s shoulder to hit stop.

“I gotta admit, that was pretty good,” Beca said, yawning and stretching.

“Told you,” Chloe replied. 

“I’m gonna call it,” Beca said, checking her watch. “I have to be at work crazy early tomorrow for some big meeting.”

As Beca was about to stand, Chloe put her hand on her arm to stop her.

“Chlo’?”

“I just… I can’t thank you enough, Beca. For everything you’ve done… Everything you’re doing… I’ll never be able to repay you for it.”

“You don’t have to repay me,” Beca said. “And you don’t have to thank me. I just wish I’d known sooner. I wish I’d seen it before…” Beca trailed off, that image of Chloe crying at her door floating back into her mind. “I’m sorry that I didn’t see it.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for,” Chloe said. “You literally saved my life.”

Beca let out a quick breath through her nose and ran a hand through her hair, shaking it out as she tried not to let her eyes fill with tears. “I’m so glad you’re here, Chloe. I don’t ever want you to think otherwise.”

“I’m glad I’m here too,” Chloe said, allowing Beca to pull her into a hug. They stayed like that for a while until Chloe spoke again. “I’ve been having nightmares,” she said. “I think that’s why I’ve been so clumsy, I haven’t been sleeping well. Do you think… Could I stay with you tonight?”

“You don’t even have to ask,” Beca said. 

Chloe let out a breath of relief and hugged Beca even tighter.

“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Luckily you’ll never need to find out.”

[trentknd]

"Please my love, stop moving". Your Polaroid camera was pointed at Trent, desperately trying to capture at least one picture of him from the position you were in. It was late in the afternoon when you came over to his apartment after training to help him set up the gift he received from a teammate. A gift you desperately wanted to show him the benefits of at the moment.

"I'm not moving, you are!" You were perched on his laying body on the bed, straddling his waist in an attempt to stop his contention. He argued that the picture would not look good seeing as he was still in his training jersey, only his pants quickly traded for grey joggers.

"I'm not. Please stay still. Just one picture." You playfully pouted at him and quickly batted your eyelashes in an attempt to weaken his argument. He smiled at your poor efforts, finally admitting defeat.

"Alright, just one." He conceded and held his hands up to the sides of your waist to stabilise both of your bodies.

As soon as he stopped moving around, you pointed the camera at him again, your finger grazing the button and ready to snap the picture. He took the opportunity to flip your over, his knee now resting between your legs and his embrace caging you in.

Your attempt to free yourself was to no avail as he took the camera from you and closed one eye behind the lens to shoot a picture of you. You put up your hands in front of your face, not wanting to give him the one-sided satisfaction of taking a picture of one of you.

"Don't do that, baby." His left hand was quick to hold your wrists to uncover your face. You shook your head in a left and right movement, mimicking his previous behavior to show him how infuriating the whole ordeal had been.

When he brought his face closer to your hands-clad face, awaiting the moment you'd move so he could snap the photo, your fingers moved to shield yourself. In a hurried movement and unaware of the distance separating you two, your long nails accidentally scratched the surface of his cheek.

The camera fell in between your two bodies, your hand coming up to cradle his wounded cheek and your eyes watching him in horror as red liquid started forming atop the scratch. "Trent, I'm so sorry." Your apology came in the form of a babble as he winced at the deep cut your nails had left on his face.

He definitely played up the pain the scratch had caused him but he'd be lying if he said that seeing you hurry to take care of him didn't please him. You took it upon yourself to jump up from the bed you two were bickering on for hours to run to the bathroom in search of a disinfectant.

He hid his grin, faking discomfort as he followed your hurried footsteps. "Please sit here." He sat on the lid of the toilet as commanded and he intently set his eyes on your movements. You opened the cabinet sitting on top of the sink and rummaged through the dozens of skincare products you had left at his apartment.

"Got ya." You set the first-aid kit on the vanity and pulled out a piece of cotton to soak it with rubbing alcohol. You turned around, catching Trent's smile for a fraction of a second before his expression quickly turned to one of pain. You dropped your head and shook your head in despair, partially happy that he was in no actual discomfort.

You started working at disinfecting the small wound, the initial scarlet-colored scrape starting to slowly bruise. When the cut stopped bleeding altogether, you opened the bottom cabinet of the vanity in search of band-aids.

Trent was still eyeing your every movement in silence, relishing in the domesticity of it all and accepting whatever you'd come to do to his face. His brown doe-eyes looked up at you from his seat as you stood before him with a tin box in hand.

"I think I only have this box of band-aids left." You held up the box to him in apprehension as he carefully opened it.

"Hello Kitty band-aids?" He questioned with a raised brow, battling the dimpled smile that was starting to etch on his face. You nodded as you showed him the different options the box offered, holding up the one fitted for the size of his cut.

"They didn't have anything else at the pharmacy the last time I went there." You impishly defended as you took the box back from his prying hands and put it aside on the edge of the vanity. He happily complied as you stretched the pink band-aid on the disinfected area and softly placed a kiss on his cheek. "Wait here, there's something else I need to do to heal the cut."

He silently sat as he saw you rush out of the bathroom and come back with your arms crossed behind your back. Before he could have time to react, you brought the Polaroid camera up to his stunned face.

"Smile!" Taken by surprise, your lover's expression was quick to naturally match your excitement and give the camera the brightest beam you could've asked for.

The photo that came out of the small object would eventually become a lock screen, a picture in a wallet, and a memento of his adoration for you and animated cats with red bows.

[thevindicativevordan]

Waid on Superboy, North on Krypto and new Supergirl ongoing!

Wish fraction didn't get nabbed by Batman though

Anonymous asked: New Supergirl series by Sophie Campbell. Thoughts ?

Jorge... how could you tease us like this? I thought you were free... I thought you were coming home...

Well at least this might finally attract attention back to DC's mainline. Absolute has been a huge success but the mainline has been cratering in sales and interest. Zdarsky's Batman run ended up being a dud, and DC needs their boy to do well in order to prop up the rest of the line. While the back half of King -> Tynion -> Zdarsky broke the Batman title's streak of runaway success, this should get Bruce back on his feet. Welcome news to see Fraction is pivoting away from the endless apocalypses that have defined the title since Morrison took over.

Meanwhile over in Metropolis:

Or rather Midvale since that's where Kara will be setting up shop. I know nothing about Sophie Campbell, never read anything she's written, but seeing her cite Pre-Crisis as a big influence is no surprise. Waid is running the show whether he gets the credit or not, of course any new Superbooks are going to be inline with his tastes. Course it's not entirely Pre-Crisis, her new suit is a more tasteful callback to her 2000s era look. Rooting for Campbell to do a good job, I'm nervous about her writing and drawing, a monthly schedule doesn't make that feasible for long but she apparently pulled it off on TMNT if I understand correctly. Streaky showing up in the promo art is a win, I've missed that rambunctious cat. Going to wait for reviews before jumping on board.

Moving on to Smallville:

We all agree that's Tom Welling right? Warms my cold, cynical zoomer heart to see that show continue to have an influence. Funny how much it's influenced Waid in particular, what with Birthright and now this. Such a dumb move to put Waid on Action for 12 weeks of filler that soured people towards him (namely me), only to then bring him back to write Clark the way he's always wanted to do. Waid's at his best when he can write the characters in the status quo he wants rather than trying to adapt to the present day, but don't fooled by his claim of "updating" Smallville. This is going to be pure Americana wank straight out of the Silver Age, Waid couldn't even stand to let Jor-El be anything less than perfect, he's not going to tackle the reality of American small towns. If we didn't have Aaron gleefully sharpening his knives to gut that exact fantasy in Absolute Superman that Waid wants to indulge in here I'd probably be more irritated. Outside of the Legion (whom I badly hope show up here), I'm not a fan of Clark being Superboy in Smallville, but I'll check this out. It's offering something different from Williamson, Aaron, and Slott, and I am curious to see what Waid does.

Side note: Now I'm worried that since Bleeding Cool correctly predicted the Batman relaunch that means that the main Superman book is getting relaunched too. And if Taylor isn't taking over Action... oh Lord please spare me from this agony I sense waiting around the corner. I've been telling myself that was just Rich hearing about a new Superman book launching, namely Slott's, and thinking that was the main book but I'm worried. I'd still have Aaron and PKJ if all else failed but I dread the idea of Taylor getting the main book and a high profile relaunch to coincide with the movie.

Finally there's this furball:

Ryan North? Sold! Loved his F4, really regretted having to drop it for budget reasons. I'm not missing this, he's going to break our hearts I can tell.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Jasper/Alice/Male reader

he feels he belongs in the mosh pit cause he typically goes to the mosh pit at concerts cuase he loves to mosh. Jalice aren't pleased about it

Jalice - Mosh pit

warning : tiny angst, fluff, no use of y/n

masterlist

Info : Thanks for the request have fun reading

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night hung over the festival. The large site near Forks had been set up provisionally. But the lack of comfort did not bother anyone. For everyone it was only important that their favorite band played.

The fans were in a good mood and the musicians were just smashing away. But they got that at the annual several weeks running Forks Music Festival.

The loud music penetrated the ears of the cold creature let him almost go deaf and it almost be too much. But the feeling of feeling the heartbeat of others around him. To somehow feel alive again.

The loud music of the band took him in while he let himself be pushed back and forth in the mosh pit. Always further and further lost in all this and the joy of the music the former human being came back to him.

But even though he felt this need inside of him, this hunger every time he put his hands around the bodies around him for a fraction, it was also the joy that went through him. Finally the festival season was upon us again.

The late summer nights had returned and he and the other creatures could go outside longer at night. Since they went in the summer usually always away in darker areas. But that was now no matter finally he was back here and could not be happier.

Would not there with in the crowd this one smell hanging. Sweetish and yet slightly tart he came to the vampire woke up in him again the sense. Something he could not resist the eyes that became dark black and barely visible in the crowd.

His body that did not move with the same movements as the others moved hungrily towards the bleeding person in the crowd. An elbow had landed on the woman's nose and blood was running from her nose.

Just a small injury in such a large crowd in a mosh pit where people have been injured before. But for the cold creature it was everything. Touching as his finger stretched out to the woman, he suddenly heard two voices in all the crowd.

They seemed familiar to him and yet in his mind the woman's blood seemed all the stronger. He almost had her, would only have to move a little further and then.

But before he could strike, four hands had grabbed him and pulled him out of the crowd at a speed that the people did not notice. ,,Are you still okay? What's gotten into you?" asked Alice who let go of him and the blond Jasper still pressed the common friend of the two against the tree.

He looked at his two beloved ones, saw the worry and something like fear in their eyes.

Although the third of them was newborn and had been for a few weeks, it was still difficult to get used to the new life. ,,Into me? Alice I have lived the moshpit, the music...the people they are good for me" he countered and looked helpfully at Jasper. He had rarely seen their common love Alice so excited, so grown up, so serious.

But Jasper shook his head, his blond curls bobbing, before he said, ,,No, Alice is right, you are dead...you are one of us, a vampire, an undead," before he let him go. Alice sighed even though she didn't have to in her condition.

She closed her eyes for a moment before he intertwined her hand with that of her two lovers. ,,I know it's difficult...that it's all so new and unfamiliar. But you-you are no longer human, my star. You are one of us," she reminded him gently, squeezing his hand lightly. Jasper also gave the other a loving look. The words hit him and yet he knew that they were right. He had chosen the path to be with his two loved ones.

To be with Alice and Jasper. ,,You're right...when I'm ready then...you come with me and we'll go to the mosh pit together" he suggested and saw how the other two agreed Alice seemed to be clearly excited before she said ,,A vampire mosh pit!" she called happily and Jasper couldn't help smiling.

Even if the three vampires had to fight forever with the thirst for blood, there was one thing that would stand against it. The love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[silverpen-and-paper]

2, 13, 24, and 27 for the ask game! Sorry if you’ve already done these lol

ty for the ask!!

2. how did your interest in loki begin? (optional: how has it evolved over the years?)

link!

13. do you have any headcanons about asgard? (phsyics, culture, environment, history, etc?)

asgard’s water cycle goes like this: ocean water falls off the edge of the planet. it becomes vapor, the particles small enough that you can’t see them. one fraction of the vapor gathers beneath asgard and soaks back up to the topside through pathways in the rock and soil, surfacing as natural springs. the other fraction of the vapor curls back up against the atmosphere’s barrier and reforms as clouds over the topside. i’d assume this means all water on asgard (except maybe an isolated lake or two) is freshwater, but i’m not a meteorologist, so maybe not.

the shiny bright pillars on the underside of asgard are probably supposed to be ice? but i prefer to think that they’re some kind of otherworldly crystals that are magically making asgard’s gravity work the way it does. i could accept them being coated with ice, though.

idunn’s golden apples exist (we see some on banquet tables), but they don’t have the same effect as the myths. instead of being The Thing that asgardian longevity relies on, they’re just really, really healthy for you — maybe extending your life by 100 years or so if you eat them regularly enough. in my headcanon, that species of plant had already been growing on asgard for a while, but idunn figured out a way to revolutionize their benefits to the extent that asgardians refer to them as idunn’s apples. i think she runs an orchard of them.

asgard is transphobic, but not homophobic. i have a wip post where i explain this headcanon more but this is the gist of it.

there are asgardians living in the more mountainous parts of asgard, away from the main city where the palace is located. some in villages, some more isolated. this might be too obvious of a concept to count as a headcanon, but i’ve never seen anyone mention it before, so.

24. what song lyrics remind you of loki?

oh SO many but here are a few of my favorites

persephone by daisy the great:

the plight of the siren is that she’ll never sing without somebody claiming she’s starting a war and every word from her lips is a sign that she’s hungry for blood she’s a killer and moreso  the music is sweeter than honey, but honey oh, think what a monster she is at her core

my body is not mine by aurora:

but the light kicks in when i know it’s time i’ve built my walls so it’s safe to hide and the people i love i’ve left behind they see too much when they look in my eyes feel no pain and i never cry i bleed no blood, and i will never die my body’s not mine, body’s not mine body’s not mine, i need no body

rule #5 - james picard by fish in a birdcage:

i’m aware of the madness that has stained our air so i paint all the darkness  and the wounds that we must face ah (ah), ah (ah), ah fear has unleashed a storm through so much pain ah (ah), ah (ah), ah the fire spread throughout my bones and stayed

and here’s a few more songs on my loki playlist that i can’t not recommend: horror and the wild & farewell wanderlust by the amazing devil, nunemaker’s parable by everybody’s worried about owen, winter bird by aurora, regular people by moon walker

27. say you go back in time and get hired as the director of a mcu loki movie/series/episode that you dislike. assuming you’d already be changing the big stuff you criticize, what is the pettiest thing you’d change?

the tiny stack of papers in s1 ep1 of the series, the one that supposedly contains everything loki’s ever said. it’s a really odd and baffling move for a series that insists loki likes to talk a lot. and even if they didn’t insist that, like, loki’s about 1047 years old by that point! a single day’s worth of words for the average person would at least fill two or three pages, and loki’s lived — what — over 300,000 days? those papers should fill an archive. 

and there’s so much potential there too: if they wanted to go comedic (which they likely would), haha, look at all the pages loki has to read! if they wanted to go psychological horror, just imagine the dawning terror loki would feel as they realize that it’s all there. everything they ever remember saying, every hazy half-memory they nearly lost to time, sentences and conversations they don’t remember at all — it would be very tasty and effective horror if done right, i think. 

not to mention how long it would take for loki to read through them all. time doesn’t work the same way in the tva, but would they notice themself getting tired? hungry? thirsty? would they realize how long they’d been in there? would they even remember why they started in the first place? would loki be so entrenched in reading that after they finally finish, it feels like they’ve just lived their entire lifetime over again? would they snap and try to break out before then? if they did, what would be their breaking point?

plus, i doubt the tva would record other people’s halves of conversations. the tva would want to save paper and keep things simple, after all, so they’d just record loki’s dialogue. loki would read through thousands of moments where they know they must’ve been talking to their loved ones, but they would have to rely solely on memory and deduction to know what other party had said. all they would be able to see clearly is their own words echoed back to them. 

also, i refuse to accept that loki would sign something that easily without knowing what they were agreeing to or why.

full ask game: