#and he STILL fought tooth and nail for them because he loved them

[depressedhatakekakashi]

People need to learn to hate a character without coming up with the most BS excuses.

You cannot actually tell me Naruto learned more from Jiraiya, or Sasuke learned more from Orochimaru than they did from Kakashi

Jiraiya taught Naruto Rasagan and Summoning.

All we see Sasuke get from Orochimaru is his summons, and he also has an eagle summon so clearly he couldn’t even just have only the snakes to connect him to his ‘master’

Meanwhile, Kakashi taught Naruto chakra nature, how to use his shadow clones, Basic Chakra control, is stated to have improved all three of his students exponentially before the chunin exams, and of course he taught all three of his students the importance of teamwork and protecting their friends over the mission. A lesson that Naruto and Sasuke both take to heart in their own way.

He taught Sasuke the chidori, which Sasuke evolved into other types of chidori style jutsu’s. He also helped him improve his taijutsu so much in a month that Gai, the Taijutsu master, was impressed and concerned about the training Kakashi put him under for that month.

Sakura is the only one who we can confidently say learned more from her master, and Kakashi can’t teach medical ninjitsu (he only knows basic medical ninjitsu and that’s only after the way) and states himself he’s not the best at teaching chakra control (hence why he asked Ebisu to help Naruto with that during the month between chunin exam fights)

Like…

Hate Kakashi all you want but calling him a ‘Bad Sensei’ is factually incorrect for what we see. Even when he screws up it’s not out of malice or thinking he just knows better. He’s genuinely trying to help his students and just screws up.

It happens.

[saintslaughter]

anyways i saw some tiktoks today of a dude who was like 'day one of talking to my boss like a clingy girlfriend' and he asked the dude if he'd still hire him if he was a worm and the boss immediately goes 'NO.' and i feel like thats something les would have to deal with in this modern era

[gingernut1314]

Good Omen

Kyojuro Rengoku x F!Reader

Summary: The Rengoku genes are hard to fight against, but your newborn child finds a way.

Warnings: gendered terms (wife, husband, female, male), reader has a baby (not shown)

Word Count: 840+

A/N: First time writing for Kyojuro and I don't know why I haven't before this because I LOVE that man too much. He is one of my many, dearly beloved husbands ✋😩. I hope you all enjoy!

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You had pushed out a carbon copy of Kyojuro Rengoku.

You had thought maybe--maybe your genes would stand a chance in the creation of your child.

You thought that maybe the sweet new life you would bring into this world might have your nose or your eyes or even your cheekbones.

You, of course, thought wrong. 

You didn’t know why you had hoped so passionately for your child to look like you, not when the entirety of the Rengoku line looked like one person had transported himself through time to live with himself from various different ages.

Bushy and wild yellow hair already grew from your sweet babes head. Bright, red and yellow-rimmed, owl-wide eyes blinked up at you. Pointed nose, high cheekbones, strong grip around your finger, and small but dark eyebrows.

This baby was your husband's clone, just as he and his brother had been clones of their father, and their father a clone of his father. 

The one thing you had gifted your baby--the one thing that seemed to have fought tooth and nail through the overwhelming power of Rengoku genealogy had you worrying your lip between your teeth. 

Your baby was born female. 

Female when generation after generation of Rengoku and Flame Hashira had been male. 

You couldn’t help the bit of panic that wound tightly in your chest as you turned your gaze from your baby to your husband, who burst into your room eyes shining and smile so wide you thought the corners might brush the lobe of each ear. 

“How is my darling wife?” Kyojuro’s voice boomed through the room, making your midwives cringe and shush him. You, nor it seemed your child, cared. You were used to it, comforted by its consistent optimism, and your baby seemed to feel the same way. 

Kyojuro noticed the shushes and whispered an apology back. A whisper that still managed to be projected further than your midwives cared for. 

“Sweetheart,” You started as Kyojuro gracefully knelt next to where you sat. 

“Yes?” He murmured, softer now that he was leaning closer to gaze upon his baby. You moved her so that you could present her sleeping face to her father. 

“The baby…she’s--well she’s a girl.” You heard Kyojuro take a small inhale of breath and your panic spiked. There hadn’t been a single girl in his family for generations. Not one and here you were, giving him a female heir. 

You had never known your husband to grow angered. To get mad at you but--maybe this was the line? Maybe it was the line and you were panicking to know what he was thinking. 

“Perfect!” He boomed spooking the midwives, some of who gave strangled yelps. “Perfect!” He repeated proudly. “A girl? Are you sure?” He turned to look back at you in his excitement, yellow and red eyes--they were brimming with tears as they looked at you. You felt your own eyes burn in relief. In your utter love for the man kneeling beside you. 

“Yes, I’m sure. You’re not mad?” Kyojuro gave a barking laugh at such a thought.

“Mad? No. I’m ecstatic!” You gave your own laugh, your tears spilling from your eyes. Kyojuro brushed his calloused thumb over your cheeks, clearing them both of the racing droplets. “You know there hasn’t been a single female Rengoku since the beginning of our family line.” You nodded, giving a humming “mm-hmm” that caught in your throat, which had tightened painfully in your fear. “Many believed we were divinely blessed for this, but I always felt it was a curse.” 

“Do you want to hold her?” 

“More than anything.” Kyojuro beamed. You gently passed your baby to her father, her dark brows furrowing at the sudden change. 

Kyojuro never once took his eyes off his child. Didn’t stop to brush his own tears away as he took in every last detail of your daughter's face, a look of such love in his eyes it was overwhelming. 

“You are special. A good omen.” He whispered down to her. “And I love you. Oh dear--how my heart bursts for you.” 

Your own heart felt like it would flutter so hard it would explode right from your chest at the words he gifted his daughter. He was a good man and already a good father.

You brushed your own fingers over his cheeks, clearing them of his tears and running them through his wild hair. 

“Want to invite Senjuro in?” 

“Only if you wish, dear.” You nodded your head and Kyojuro took a few more, unhurried minutes to hold and watch over his child before passing her back to you. As soon as she was securely within your hold once more, he was popping up to his feet. 

“Senjuro!” He called, giving the midwives another frightful start. You watched your husband rush out of the room, lips in a near-painful smile as you chuckled at his excitement. “Senjuro! My baby is a girl! She’s a girl!” 

You had been completely foolish to worry. 

You and your daughter were in very good and loving hands.

[punkshort]

i’m the anon who asked about the request! if you decide to do it, i’d absolutely wait forever😂 it’s very angsty tho, so the idea was for outbreak joel who doesn’t get the happy ending. reader who was head over heels in love coping with his death, maybe flashbacks to show the moments of reader seeing him die? idkidk the idea is very vague, sorry if it’s too sad!! if so maybe reader seeing him die was just a terrible nightmare & he’s there waking them up & helping them through a meltdown?

i’ve been craving for some emotional torture for wtv reason😭😭 thank you for even considering requests!🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

Thank you for this request! It's my first one, so I hope you enjoy it. Also, I had to take the out you gave me and make this a nightmare because I am a big ol' softie and I won't apologize for it, but I will apologize for taking so long to write it 😂

I hate when you're right

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: After a heated argument with Joel, you finally convince him into leaving Jackson so you could explore a store for new clothes, and what happens could change your life forever.

Warnings: major character (Joel) death - but it is just a nightmare - don't read if you think that will still upset you, angst, language, violence, descriptions of blood/gore/death scene

WC: 2.5K

dividers by the one and only @saradika-graphics

You knew it was childish. You knew it wasn't essential. But you also desperately wanted to feel more comfortable, and was that really such a crime? To want to feel like yourself again? To want to wear clothes that you liked? That fit you properly? Jackson was well stocked with essentials, clothes included, but the clothes the men picked up on patrol were... utilitarian, to say the least. They grabbed the biggest and the warmest clothes so that it afforded more people the opportunity to use them, but you were beginning to grow tired of tucking men's oversized shirts into your pants, the material bunching up at your waist and twisting around as you walked, constantly trying and failing to feel comfortable in your own skin.

You thought Joel would be more open to the idea of heading outside the walls on your day off. You even teased him with the promise of picking up some new underwear, but he didn't fall for it. He fought you tooth and nail the whole evening, his voice lifting over yours angrily to explain how there's been an influx of raiders the past few weeks, that everyone agreed to lay low until they passed through, not wanting to draw attention or pick any unwanted fights. But you persisted. You always did, and you eventually wore him down when you threatened to leave without him.

Why was it such a crime to want to feel comfortable? It was just two people, you could lay low and go unseen, no problem. You've done it countless times before.

You had hoped he would have gotten over it by morning, but you were wrong. He hardly made eye contact with you during breakfast, skirting expertly around you in your kitchen, mumbling under his breath as he sipped his coffee and only shooting you angry looks when your back was turned.

The air was crisp and the woods were peaceful. You thought that would surely turn his mood around. He always appreciated being out with nature, living off the land. As much as he loved living in Jackson, he couldn't deny that part of himself that felt useful, that felt a sense of accomplishment by surviving out in the wild.

"C'mon, are you really gonna act like this all day?" you teased as you held up another shirt against your body before determining it was the right size and then tossed it in a pile with the others.

He was standing at the storefront window with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched. "Don't know what you mean."

You rolled your eyes and looked around the store, spotting a table of underwear with a grin. You lightly skipped over and tossed to the side the pairs that looked far too dusty so you could look at the ones underneath. Clearing your throat, you held up a pair of bright red stain underwear. He turned around and you saw it: it was fast, he hid it well, but you still saw it. That all too familiar excited look in his eye.

"Don't you like them?" you asked with a playful pout. He furrowed his brow at you like he was annoyed, and maybe he was, but you still saw the heat beginning to crawl up his neck.

"They ain't practical."

You gave him a defeated sigh and strolled over to your pile of clothes, your fingertips daintily holding the undergarment out to him. "No? Then what are they?"

His eyes shifted from yours to the red material in your hand and you saw his throat work as he swallowed.

"Useless," he croaked, and you narrowed your eyes at him. You got a little closer, letting the soft fabric glide against the back of his hand when you dropped your arm to your side.

"Oh, yeah?" you said breathily, and you watched his eyelids flutter at your tone. "Then I guess it wouldn't matter if I brought them home and let you rip them off me."

He stepped forward, a growl emitting from his chest, low and deep, when at the exact same time, you both heard shouting outside the store. Swiveling both your heads towards the glass storefront, your blood ran cold when you saw six heavily armed men advancing towards you.

"Shit," he muttered, his arm pulling your shoulder down just in time to avoid the cascade of bullets that rained down upon you. You laid face down on the rough carpet, covering the back of your head with your eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the shooting to stop. Joel tugged on your arm and you opened your eyes in a panic.

"Follow me!" he shouted, army crawling towards the registers, and you dutifully followed behind, your heart racing wildly in your chest.

Once you made it, the counter offering some, but not much, safety, the both of you pulled out your guns and double checked your ammo.

"Alright, when they stop to reload-"

"I know," you said, cutting him off. You've both been in this situation before. You knew what to do.

Holding your rifle upright and against your chest, you breathed deep, trying to steady your hands until the bullets slowed and you heard more shouting. Joel nodded to you and you both sprung up from the floor, pulling your rifles against your bodies in sync and lining up your targets.

Patience is a virtue. The amount of ammunition they wasted on the two of you was laughable when you each caught one of them between the eyes, leaving four against two.

You thought you would be able to get another shot off but Joel tugged your arm and you slinked back to the floor as a shower of bullets rained over you once again.

"You good?" he asked, and you nodded, gasping for air. Your hands began to stabilize when the shock wore off. You were in the zone.

Pressing both your backs against the small counter, you remained calm and waited out your attackers. Glass shards tinkled and scattered behind you. Bullets pinged against the metal shelving, ricocheting into the drywall.

"Assault rifles for two people? Really?" you muttered, more so to yourself, but Joel heard you.

"Told you this was a bad fuckin' idea," he said angrily.

When there was another brief pause, he looked to you again and nodded. At the same time, you rose up and took aim, firing on your attackers once again. Joel made his shot, you didn't. Three down, three to go.

"Fuck," you grumbled, reloading your rifle even though you still had rounds left.

"Focus," he scolded.

The men sounded like they were getting closer. Their voices were louder. Clearer. The shots were deafening. You prayed they weren't inside the store, because you hadn't planned an exit strategy. Without warning, Joel stood up and fired a shot. You heard a man scream and then a loud thud. It sounded like the man was just on the other side of the counter.

"That's not the plan," you seethed at him when he dropped back down next to you.

"Didn't have a choice, he was 'bout to jump us," he sneered.

Two against two.

When the shots slowed down, you held your breath, looking at Joel from the corner of your eye. He held his palm up to you silently, signaling for you to stay where you were. You heard boots crunching slowly against glass and your heart leapt into your throat. They were in the store.

You shot Joel a panicked look but he just shook his head, focusing on their footsteps, calculating how far away they were.

"Come out now and no one gets hurt," a man's deep voice called out. He was close.

Joel clenched his jaw and flared his nostrils. You knew that look. It was the look of a man who was about to do something stupid. But before you could stop him, before you could reach out to him and hold him back, he stood up and took aim.

One shot. That was all you heard when Joel slumped to the floor next to you, clutching his stomach as dark red blood poured from the wound. Your eyes went wide and you saw red. Without thinking, you stood up and shot, taking one of the two men down with a yelp. The remaining raider ducked behind a display, and you dropped your rifle in favor of your handgun. Crouching low to the ground, you inched forward, careful of any broken glass that would give your position away. When you were on the other side of the display, you heard the man's labored breaths. He was scared. He was out of his element. And you had him right where you wanted him.

Silently tucking the gun in the back of your pants, you slid your hunting knife out from your ankle holster. You took a deep breath and lunged forward, driving the knife deep into the man's chest.

He dropped his gun and clutched weakly at your hands, but it was no use. His blood poured from the wound when you yanked your knife out with a grunt, and you watched as his hands slowly slid back down to his sides, his eyes still wide open and staring up at the ceiling.

You smirked, feeling victorious for only a moment before you remembered Joel. Dropping your knife, you rushed back to his side, only to find his face pale and his hands stained dark red.

"Joel!" you cried out, pressing your palms against the wound, hoping to slow the bleeding. His eyes drifted towards you, softening when he saw you were alive and unharmed. That you were going to make it.

Panic consumed you. Your heart was slamming against your ribs as you fumbled with your backpack, trying to find your first aid kit through the tears.

"I love you," he whispered, and you shook your head.

"Don't start with that, you're gonna be fine."

"Baby," he said weakly, and you choked back a sob.

"Hold on," you told him, still searching in your pack.

"Look at me," he said, and your hands stilled for a moment before you dragged your eyes back to him, your lower lip trembling as you took in his deteriorating state.

"I need to-" you began, but stopped to take in a shaky breath. "I need to patch you up and get you to the horses."

"No, you don't," he said softly, and more tears spilled from your eyes.

"Yes, I do. I gotta-"

"I ain't gonna make it, sweetheart," he slurred, and you could see by the amount of blood he was losing that he was right. But still, you pressed your palms against the gunshot wound, your fingers slipping through his thick and sticky blood.

"Don't say that. I can't do this without you," you whimpered, and closed your eyes for a brief moment. You felt his fingertips weakly grip your chin and you forced your eyes back open.

"Yes, you can," he said as firmly as he could. He was so pale and weak and it was making your stomach turn.

You shook your head, about to argue with him, but he stopped you.

"You keep goin', you hear me?" he said, and still, you shook your head from side to side, small sobs slipping past your lips. "Don't let this world win. You... go on and keep fightin'. Please. Be happy, baby. For me."

"No!" you cried out, spittle dripping from your lips now, mixing with your tears. "I won't! I-I can't!"

"You can," he repeated, and gave you a weak smile. "I'm ready, baby. It'll be okay."

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, the tears leaking out, hot and angry on your cheeks as you sobbed over him, clutching his hand in yours so tightly, like if you squeezed hard enough, you could give him your lifeforce. Give him your breath. But moments later, his grip weakened and when you opened your eyes, his head slumped to the side and his lifeless eyes stared off into the distance.

"Joel!" you screamed, sitting up in bed, drenched in sweat with tears still streaming down your face. You looked to your side, where he normally slept, but he wasn't there. Panic squeezed your throat, your chest fucking hurt, but you flung the blankets off you and ran towards the door. Still not hearing any sounds, you raced down the stairs, almost tripping in the process but you had a grip on the railing to keep you steady.

When your eyes finally landed on his familiar form stretched out on the couch, his back to you, you allowed yourself to breathe a sigh of relief.

Reality came back to you now. You had your fight about leaving Jackson, but he won and you slept apart. You never left. He never got shot. It was all just a horrible dream.

You stumbled over to the couch, your tears unstoppable, the nightmare too vivid, too real. Your trembling hands clutched his shoulder as you fell to your knees on the floor, shaking him awake.

"What?" he grumbled, clearly still pissed off about your fight.

"I'm sorry!" you sobbed loudly, and when he realized something was wrong, he whipped around to face you.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

"I-I had-" you began, then you hiccupped, cutting yourself off. His face was etched with concern as he forced himself up and cupped your face.

"C'mon, talk to me," he urged, the fear in his eyes reflecting back to you as you looked at him, still not sure what was real and what wasn't.

"I had a nightmare," you finally managed to get out. "About our fight. That we... we went out like I wanted and-and-" you collapsed into another fit of sobs, your shoulders shaking violently.

"Hey, it's alright," he soothed, pulling you up and into his lap and rubbing your back. You pressed your tear stained face into his neck, inhaling deeply, grounding yourself. He was alive. He was here. Everything was fine.

"I'm sorry," you whimpered, your throat still tight but your tears were slowing down. "I'm sorry we fought. I don't wanna go out anymore. I don't need new clothes, it was stupid, I'm sorry."

"Shh, it's okay," he said, pulling you tightly against his chest, "I'm sorry we fought, too. I just wanna keep us safe."

"I know, you're right," you said, pulling back a bit and wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "Will you come back to bed?"

"Yeah," he replied with half a smirk. "'Course I'll come back to bed, baby. Don't cry, it's alright."

You let him lead you up the stairs and to your bedroom, your side of the bed still damp with sweat but it didn't bother you. Joel was safe and sound and in your arms and you didn't care if you had to wear a potato sack for the rest of your life, as long as you had Joel, nothing else mattered.

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[hawkinsbnbg]

Eddie Munson wasn’t one who knew when to quit.

Eddie Munson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t one who knew when to quit.

He sold drugs when it was frowned upon because he wanted to help his uncle pay the bills. He did drugs because why the hell not?

He loved music that was too loud, he played games that were considered satanic, he wore his queerness as a badge of honor in the town that hated him.

He headed to hell, sacrificed himself for the kid he loved and people he barely knew, and survived the odds.

He graduated high school by tooth and nail, pursued his dream when everyone deemed he was a lost cause. He worked harder when being pushed down. He succeeded.

He made it big, achieved his dream, got fame and wealth at his disposal. He was notorious for the long list of flings left in every city he visited. He despised the snobs, bigots, and paparazzi.

He—

He tried to quit mooning over the beautiful man who had saved his life alongside the whole world. Who was the object of his desire and obsession. His dream and muse, his pain and yearning.

Who was the bane of his existence, the opium to the addict in his core. Dangerous and yet, lovely, irresistible.

Even so, he could never bring himself to ignore the monthly phone calls with Steve, listening to the warm voice that made his heart ache and flutter, checking in to make sure his boy was still safe in the town that he had left behind to go spread his wings.

Yes, his.

The moment Steve kissed him—shaky, tender, sweet—their souls had intertwined, bounded together for evermore.

Eddie couldn’t bring himself to deny it, that he had lost his heart to Steve Harrington since the first time he caught a glimpse of those pretty eyes and soft lips, wishing he could kiss them one day.

And then he did.

Back when their feelings were still new, fresh, tentative. They had done everything any young lovers would do upon having made it through an almost-apocalypse together.

They dove headfirst into each other. Touching, crying, kissing, laughing, and making love. They consumed, they devoured, they ignited.

And they crashed.

Eddie couldn’t stand being the town’s prime murder suspect even after the charge had been dropped.

Steve couldn’t bear leaving the only place he had grown up in, the place he had fought for with his life. He had people, friends who needed him there, who would miss him a terrible amount if he decided to leave.

But Eddie didn’t have such problems. His uncle didn’t rely on him the same way the kids did to Steve. His friends had left long before the ‘earthquake’ took place.

A label had sought him out after seeing his performance at The Hideout, offered him a good deal if he signed with them, and for the first time since his life had been turned upside down, Eddie saw hope.

He had talked with Steve about it. About leaving for a better future. About them making a life together somewhere outside the cursed town they had been unfortunately put in.

But it was a wistful thinking. Because sometimes, love was never enough. And sometimes, Eddie wasn’t the only scared one.

They parted. Tearful but surprisingly civil. They hadn’t been through so much just to lose each other over a mutual breakup.

Because Eddie still loved Steve.

And Steve still loved Eddie.

Simple as that.

"Don’t be hung up on me, Munson," Steve whispered to him, hugging him so tight that his healed ribs might crack again. Eddie didn’t think he would mind if it meant he could stay in this moment forever.

"I should be the one telling you that, Stevie," Eddie sniffled, hugging the boy he loved just as fiercely.

He suddenly didn’t want to leave anymore. Maybe he could apply for a position at the plant, asked Wayne for a recommendation. Or he could make do with the mine at the edge of the town, he heard they were hiring just the other day ago.

"Good luck, Eds," Steve pressed a kiss on his ear. "Don’t do drugs, don’t get in trouble, don’t be–"

"–stupid."

Steve laughed, tilting his head back and offering his pale throat for Eddie’s greedy eyes. The urge to lick, to bite, to leave a mark was strong, but Eddie just tightened his hold around Steve further, because the privilege wasn't his anymore.

"I was going for ‘cute’," Steve looked back at him, arms coming up to wrap around his neck, nails scratching the back of his nape teasingly, eyes light and twinkling with mirth. Eddie wanted to kiss him. "But I guess ‘stupid’ suits you just fine."

"Stop flirting," Eddie chided him half-heartedly, unable to resist it anymore and leaned in to peck the end of his nose.

Steve blushed, pretty and precious, before releasing him and finally stepping back. Too close and too far at the same time.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, and Eddie was thankful that their friends were considerate enough to give them some semblances of privacy after having said their goodbye.

Before Eddie could do something stupid like falling to his knees and begging Steve to go with him, the final boarding called for his flight.

"So this is it," he shrugged on his duffle and gave Steve a lopsided smile.

"Have a safe flight, Eddie," Steve squeezed his shoulder before stepping aside so the others could do the same.

As Eddie turned on his heels, he could feel Steve’s gaze trailing after him until he disappeared behind the gate.

"He kept asking me when would you come to Indianapolis, which was unfair because how could I possibly know that? And the dipshit just rolled his eyes at me with Aren’t you supposed to be his best friend or something? Then I had to set it straight with him that us being on the phone once a month doesn’t mean I’d know every deepest darkest secret about you."

Eddie felt his chest and stomach warm with fondness when Steve didn’t deny that they were best friends, didn’t insist that the position was for Robin only. Because Steve was cool like that. Because why on earth would he refuse to have two best friends who would go to hell with him?

Eddie bet if he looked at the mirror right now, he would see himself smiling like a lovesick idiot.

There was something so endearing about Steve whining to him about their kids and friends every time they talked.

It was as if they had been doing this their whole life. Talking about mundane things, asking about each other's days, chatting about everything and anything.

It would be awfully domestic if they lived together.

Eddie could imagine it, see it clearly in his mind.

Steve sharing the spaces with him, waking up in the same bed as him, standing in the kitchen wearing the Kiss the Cook apron, swaying to the songs from the radio, giggling cutely when Eddie smothered him with kisses, smiling warmly as they did the chores together, getting huffy and bitchy when they bantered, and humming softly to some random tunes Eddie just came up with.

Perhaps, they would all become his new reality if he took that first step.

Eddie Munson wasn’t one who knew when to quit, after all.

And for Steve, he would take a million steps to make them work this time.

"Are you sure, Stevie?" He asked.

"Sure what?"

"That you haven’t already known every deepest, darkest secret of mine."

He heard Steve take a deep inhale. Eddie smiled fondly. His smart boy, always knew him so well.

"Eddie..."

"I’m an adult now, sweetheart," he chuckled. "Gotta be the one addressing the elephant in the room when my boy is too stubborn to look at it."

"Don’t be silly," Steve said weakly, a bit breathless. Good to know Eddie still had that effect on him even after all those years.

"I can’t, Stevie," Eddie lowered his voice, like he was telling a secret. "Been silly for you since high school. Don’t think I can stop it now."

"I told you to move on."

"And I didn’t promise anything," Eddie bit back a laugh, knowing how frustrated Steve must be right now. "I tried. Haven’t you seen all of that?"

There was a reason Eddie did everything in his capacity to appear on the headlines most of the time. He wanted Steve to see him, to watch him, to be there for every little step he took, to be in his life as much as possible.

"... I have," Steve sighed, sounding more tired than dejected.

"So you know how hard it had been for me to find someone who could measure up to you," Eddie twirled a strand of his hair absently. "They always failed at the ‘having perfect hair’ part."

"Bet they didn’t know what Farrah Fawcett is, huh?"

"They just looked at me blankly when I told them to take better care of their hair," Eddie grinned at the lovely sound of Steve’s giggle.

"So," Eddie cleared his throat slightly and braved on when Steve quieted down. "My band’s final destination is Indianapolis. It’s a two-night stop. After that, I’ll take my well-deserved break in Hawkins for a few months, visit my uncle and our friends, and see if you’re gonna take me back."

"Eddie," Steve said pointedly. "We both agreed that it’s better for us to stay friends. And I don’t– I can’t watch you leave again. I’m not made for it."

"Baby," Eddie said softly, his heart breaking at the sound of Steve’s sharp inhale, like it was too much, like the word hadn’t been on the tip of his tongue every time they spoke. "Everything’s different now. Our kids are all in colleges, our friends have their jobs and families, and I think it’s time you allow yourself to live your life, Stevie."

"What are you trying to say here, Eddie?" Steve asked shakily.

"That I need you," Eddie poured out his heart. "I craved for you, missed you so much that it hurts me physically. All of my songs are about you and just for you. I’m obsessed with you, bewitched by you, my love. You’ve been in my mind for years now and I don’t think it’ll stop any time soon."

"C’mon, angel," he went on as Steve let out a small gasp. "I did everything you told me to. No drugs, no fights, no troubles. Haven't I been good enough?"

"Except you’re still hung up on me," Steve laughed softly, warmly.

"Yeah, I’m still an addict, after all," Eddie chuckled. "It’s impossible to quit loving you, baby boy."

"Me, too," Steve said after a while. "I'm still hung up on you, Eddie," his voice cracked as he admitted quietly, "still in love with you."

"Christ, we make quite a pair, huh?" Eddie chuckled, running a hand down his face.

"Tell me about it," Steve let out an amused huff.

In the next several minutes, they discussed what they would do when Eddie got back. And in return, Eddie promised to send everyone at home tickets and backstage passes so they could go see him once the show was over.

"I listened to them all, you know," Steve said amidst their conversation.

Eddie paused, feeling his heart somersault and pressing a hand on his chest to calm it down.

"I’m glad," he said, crooning, "'cause they’re my love letters for you, darlin'."

"Gosh, you’re such a sap."

He could hear the smile in Steve’s voice.

"Your sap," Eddie grinned so much that his cheeks hurt. "Only yours, baby boy."

"Guess you’re right," Steve giggled. "Can’t wait to see you again. My sappy poet."

It had been years since they last saw each other. At least on Eddie’s part, because he knew Steve had seen him plenty on the TV and in those magazines.

Eddie was relieved that they had been too stubborn to let themselves grow apart and still kept in touch to this day.

For being long-distance friends, they didn’t have a lot to catch up with except their pent-up feelings for each other.

Eddie looked at the framed candid photo of Steve on his nightstand.

In the shot, Steve was wearing his signature blue polo and snug jeans. Around his neck was a silver chain that carried Eddie’s guitar pick, tucked safely beneath his shirt.

He was watching the kids fooling around in the pool. Cold beer in his hands as he turned to Robin, whispering about anything he found funny like a cute gossip schoolboy.

Eddie’s boy.

Golden skin kissed by the sun. Hazel eyes sparkled with joy, like gemstones that tasted of warm caramel. Rosy cheeks, pouty lips, freckled nose. All perfect and divine under the bright daylight.

The photo had cost Eddie an arm and a leg when he asked to buy it from Jonathan.

It was worth every penny.

"Soon, angel," Eddie said softly. "I’ll be there before you know it."

Two days later, Eddie stood on Steve’s front porch with his luggage and rang the bell.

When Steve opened the door and saw him, a warm smile graced those pretty features.

"Hey."

There were no questions about why Eddie had returned earlier than planned. Because Steve knew Eddie was never good at the waiting game. And he had waited long enough for both of their sake.

"Hey yourself," Eddie smiled back, taking a couple of steps forward to erase the little distance between them.

As Steve tilted his chin up slightly to look at him, Eddie leaned down to peck the corner of that lovely mouth, resting his hands on the soft waist.

"I’m home, baby."

Naturally, Steve hooked his arms around Eddie’s neck and pressed their lips together—firm, tender, sweet.

Just like their first kiss.

"Welcome home, Eds."

[arjwrites]

In The Stillness (To Love is To Hurt)- Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: A glimpse into the ways you've impacted Dean.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, brief reference to sexual activity. Fem!Reader <3 (but like barely)

A/N: Hi!!! This story is a product of me wanting to try writing a one shot in the kind of writing style I use in my personal works! I write a lot of poetry and drabbley stuff outside of this blog and I felt like some of it would pair well in a one shot like this, based largely in narration rather than dialogue. I am worried it might veer a little bit too far into poetry territory in a few spots- I want to make sure it retains its clarity. Let me know what you think!

There were very few moments of true stillness in Dean’s life. Part of him was always moving somehow- legs carrying him to and from danger, hands absentmindedly cleaning guns and filling shotgun shells with salt, or perhaps the most restless of them all, his mind, always racing and always bearing the weight of the world. Dean’s brain was a machine, programmed all his life to carry out a list of simple tasks. Follow orders, protect Sammy, kill the monster, save the world. While the true meaning of these functions had changed wildly over the years, they always manifested in the worries that kept him up as he lay in bed at night, or ate at his soul during long, quiet stretches of the road.

There was nothing that could completely shut Dean’s thoughts off. Many of his younger years had been spent with a drink in his hand or a girl on his arm, picking his poison and hoping if he tried it often enough, it would become his antidote. Sure, these things sometimes helped, but only ever briefly- he would always wake in the morning, mind racing, head pounding, and searching for a quick getaway. These things were just another excuse to fill the gaps between cases, to keep from ever being still. 

Dean was always running from the quiet. When there wasn’t a task at hand, there needed to be something to fill the space. If he lingered in his own mind for too long, he would close his eyes and his thoughts would take off, always landing somewhere where Dean should have been better. Somewhere he should’ve cracked the case sooner or saved the day quicker or protected someone- usually Sam- better. And sometimes, he could swear he felt himself strung up in the pit again, all of the suffering ever inflicted upon him concentrated in the knot that formed in his stomach and pulsing through his body via the racing of his heart. But Dean could never let his mind wander that far, because that far was dangerous. So he kept busy, kept compacting the memories and tucking them away in unlabeled boxes in his head in hopes that he would misplace them. Besides, the wars of the world took precedence far above the violence waging in his own head. It made sense to keep busy. 

Dean had been a soldier for years, but the most difficult battle he ever fought was against his own feelings. When you stumbled into his life, magnetic and miraculous, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. He knew if he kept you close, his heart would force him to love you, his duty would force him to protect you, and his fear would force him to bear you as yet another burden. Another person in his life for him to love and to lose. In a desperate act of preservation- both for himself and for you- Dean fought tooth and nail to keep you at bay. He holed himself away at the brink of the darkest corners of his mind. But your warmth and light radiated through the cold world he had made for himself, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. And he couldn’t help but fall. Like much of his life thus far, he had been given no choice in the matter. He felt like you were his destiny. 

Dean didn’t believe in much. He had no faith in religion or philosophy or science or himself. Nothing in his life thus far had ever made him feel at peace with his pain and his mortality. The world was chaotic and terrifying and there was no such true thing as heaven or holy or even good. But then there was you. Dean worshipped you, prayed to you, heard your word like gospel. You were the God he had always denied himself. You made sense of his suffering and lit the path to his salvation. It was always for you.

“To love, is to hurt,” you had told Dean one day, and he had looked back at you as if you had three heads. Though he hummed in tentative response, studying your words and the way your mouth moved to create them, he couldn’t bring himself to agree- and yet, he couldn't ask what you meant. He feared that he wouldn’t like the answer. 

You would say these things to Dean from time to time, sharing tidbits about love, life, things you had learned in your years and carried with you wherever you went. It felt nice to have something to offer to him in exchange for the labor of loving you. His responses were often full of praise and piety as he kissed down your body in a practiced map of places, rhythmically, as if speaking in a secret language that only you two could decode. 

Dean loved you during late nights and early mornings when you were your most peaceful and soft. In these moments he would look outside to see the silent moon or the rising sun, and smile to himself- as if it had been you who hung them there, just for him. Dean loved you on the drive home after finishing a hunt, when he kicked Sam to the back seat just to have you close, to feel your fingers bless his knuckles with your touch as he gripped the gear shift and hummed along with a melody. The lyrics never mattered anymore- to him, every piece of music was a love song he wrote to you. 

Dean would watch you. He took you in like a piece of art- one he had waited in line for years to catch a glimpse of, just to be told that he could take the exhibit home. All the velvet ropes had fallen and the warning signs were painted over. Please, do not touch the art. And so he would. His fingertips would trace over your brushstrokes and he would compliment the artistry, always grateful to have been given a closer look. 

Your gravity was enough to pull him in from wherever he wandered, though he never wandered far if he could help it. It felt as though you were what rooted him to time and space. Early in your relationship, silence was rare, but in times when the two of you would sit and share slices of it like an orange, he swore he could hear the buzzing of your life force. After a while, he could hear his own, too. And eventually, he would revel in the way your energies would harmonize and dance around each other in a well-rehearsed routine, swirling together and swaying to their own silent rhythm- two beings in love and intertwined in their own right. 

He was scared to lose you- of course he was. He would beg for you to stay behind on hunts, or fling himself between you and the monsters you’d encounter. But in some ways, Dean felt you were most likely invincible. You were made of sunlight and stardust, how could anything kill that? And he felt you were too tied into his life to ever lose you- as if he had already peered through a window into his future and seen you in it, waving back at him. You would be there, he didn’t have to worry. It was a feeling that was so strikingly out of his nature that it grabbed hold of him and didn’t let go. He told you about this feeling once, and it comforted and worried you all at the same time. But the next hunt rolled around and he remained your fierce protector, taking on many of the injuries that would’ve befallen you had he not stepped in. As you stitched him up in a peaceful quiet, he mused- 

“I think I’m starting to understand that whole “to love is to hurt” thing. You laughed. Dean beamed. The hunting, the fighting, the saving the world. All of it was worth it. He would do it all, just so you would patch him back up afterwards with a kiss and a smile. Sometimes you would play soft music and hum to him- in these moments, he would close his eyes and if he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought he was in heaven. If it was his heaven, why was he in pain? As he watched you work, he came to an easy decision. He would cut himself open, over and over again for eternity, just for the chance to see your eyes narrow in focus and your mouth purse in concentration as your nimble hands worked to stitch his wounds. Just to feel the vibrations of your lips as they planted a kiss to his cheek mid-melody. He felt his pain was an offering that you rewarded with your presence, and it was an exchange he would happily make throughout his life and far beyond his death. 

Dean cherished the moments when the world outside his door faded into insignificance. You were the master switch that shut off the chaos, leaving him to bask in the warmth of your body and soul. But it took a while for Dean to realize the indelible mark you had left on him. He hadn’t spent more than a moment without you since you had first met- a hunter’s life didn’t leave much room for privacy, but that worked to his advantage in the early days. But you had left for a night, having to take care of a family obligation, pressing him a tender kiss and a don’t miss me too much as you rolled out the door that afternoon. And that night, tucked into your side of the bed in an effort to feel closer to you, Dean couldn’t sleep. Things that hadn’t crossed his mind in years went racing back and forth, round and round on a track until he couldn’t breathe- as if they had been chasing him every lap. When he closed his eyes, all of the memories he had stuffed in the closet and under the bed had spilled into a great big room and he was buried in the rubble. And when he opened his eyes and looked out at the moon, it seemed distant and cold, like it belonged to someone else. So he picked up the phone and called you, his body softening at the sound of your voice and falling asleep to the murmur of your words. He woke early, busy researching a case with Sam, but in a brief moment of stillness in the morning, he realized this was what she really meant. I get it now. Thankfully, you were home by dinnertime with a slice of your grandmother’s pie and a few crazy family stories to tell. Dean practically floated to you and wrapped you in a hug you had to beg him to release you from. 

It hadn’t been until your absence that Dean realized how much still lurked below the surface. While your presence gilded every facet of Dean’s life with a warm, glowing gold, he still hurt, ached, withered when you were gone. And it wasn’t until this realization that Dean understood the labor it was to love him. And it made him want to be better. 

The first time Dean opened up to you was a rainy spring evening. Then again one summer afternoon. He spent August feeding you breadcrumbs from his childhood. And he told you about his time in Hell in late October. You remembered this because you had looked out the window and resonated with the way the leaves trembled and fell from the trees. You raised a shaky hand to his cheek and wiped a tear and swore to Dean that he would never go through that pain again. And Dean, who had just relived each excruciating moment all over again, just for her, spoke. 

“I- I get it now. To love is to hurt because it forces you to be better. And it hurts because you take on a whole second person’s pain, wanting to spare them from it. And to love is to hurt because-”

You raised a finger to his lips and then replaced it with a kiss. And you smiled. And you leaned into his chest. And you let things be still. And so did he. 

[i-will-cry-you-a-river]

He didn't notice it first.

He should have known that even though they were not the protagonist, they were still peak lords. He should have expected it, honestly, but the constant battles against the System and the forced in-character lock made him careless.

He thought that he hid it well; he didn't even get punished for being OOC that much!

Yet, he should have known.

System helped, as well as his knowledge of the so-called scum villain's character, but considering his nicer behavior towards Luo Binghe, the unexpected life-saving of Liu Qingge, and his ability to function without spewing vitriol towards everybody in his vicinity, it shouldn't have been surprising that he had been under suspicion ever since his qi deviation.

He didn't find it odd that he was asked to check out magical items that could banish possession, or help with memory loss; it was expected that he was the best person to identify unknown objects.

Nor was he suspicious when everybody started to look at him differently. Like they were all waiting for something. He assumed, it was just because they were so used to him getting angry at the slightest provocation that it was still strange for them that he could communicate his problems like a well-adjusted human being. It had been years, since his qi deviation, but it wasn't that strange.

But then, the suspicious quests came. Quests that should have been given to anybody else, but so bored of being confined to his peak because of Without Cure, he took them happily. Only...

Those were traps. Traps from his own martial siblings. He thought they would be happy that his scumminess was gone; that they would like a Shen Qingqiu who they could bond with. He thought the tea time with Mu Qingfang was because the both of them were interested in the flora. He assumed Liu Qingge made sure to drink his medicine because they were friends. He hoped the gifts from Qi-ge Yue Qingyuan were apology gifts. He thought he was getting friends, people he regularly kept in contact, people he could count on.

But no.

No. They didn't want the nice Shen Qingqiu, the one unburdened by his past. The one who had knew about all the abuse, fear and pain, but had lived two decades surrounded by love and care, who learned how to care for people in turn. The one who had two wonderful brothers and an amazing sister, who taught him that he could count on people, that he would be loved. They didn't want that Shen Qingqiu.

They wanted the Scum Villain. They wanted vicious, angry, traumatized Shen Jiu, the one who hated everything and everyone. In the end, his siblings as Shen Yuan were wrong. Maybe the shut-in, web novel obsessed sickly Shen Yuan could be loved - but the Shen Jiu who fought tooth and nail to be where he was, couldn't. His martial siblings didn't want a friend, somebody to care for; they wanted a scapegoat.

Well then.

They would get it.

[intrepidacious]

❤️ a good time!

tat!bucky’s favorite (or least favorite) thing about twelve

… why not both?

cause and effect

chapter summary: How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

word count: 1.8k

warnings: light angst and negative self talk (this is bucky y'all); some light pining 🤭please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i've literally had this one in my drafts for about two years and i hadn't actually planned on posting it for a while yet but i did promise distractions. and i missed him. i always do.

this is part of the time after time universe but can be read as a teaser and/or a standalone 💚

Bucky’s relationship with time has been fractured ever since a cold day in January that stole away the life he was headed towards and turned him into the monster underneath a child’s bed.

It’s hard to feel good about the concept of time travel once a lot of your own time has been taken away from you. Even now, there’s only so many things in his life he has control over; like the fact that he’s actively choosing to go back to therapy now, or that he’s able to keep a pet for the first time since he was thirteen years old. Stupid little things, like what kind of food he wants for lunch or whether he should take the stairs or the elevator.

Every single one of these things he’s fought for tooth and nail, clawing his way out of the past and carving out his own space in reality again, struggling, trying, hanging on like he wasn’t able to all those decades ago.

He’s probably still failing.

Some days, clinging to the present is tense and brings him nothing but grief. Sometimes, it feels like he’s going to have to mourn the past forever, whatever might have been; and maybe that’s his sentence.

He wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. He deserves worse.

And then there’s you.

Flickering in and out of time, constantly moving, changing in the time it takes him to blink.

It’s infuriating to him, the way you get to use your powers. The way you don’t need to think about consequences, because they don’t have to be permanent, don’t have to be something you need to live with for the rest of your life. To you, time has always been something that can be changed with a single snap of your fingers. Whatever you do can just as easily be undone.

Once you decide you’ve seen enough, you can just take the scene from the top.

And you’re so stubborn.

You’ve already seen how this goes on if you let it, and so you’re always right, end of story. There’s an ease to your steps because of it, a nonchalance in every movement, and it makes Bucky’s blood boil to see it so plainly.

With all the good that you could do, you choose to do nothing instead; to stay out of the picture entirely and burn through your powers just because you can, wasting them all on things that don’t mean anything.

How many lives could you potentially save?

Instead, you consume disturbing amounts of caffeine and then continue to provide running commentary to the world around you based on things that, to him, never happen at all. "Do this", "don’t do that", "take the other one", or, his absolute favorite, "don’t make me fix that".

Why not? he wants to ask, say, demand. Why not fix all of it?

It takes a while for him to realize that all of your fire means you’re burning from both ends. In fact, it takes Becca.

"You should bring her by sometime," she tells him on a rainy afternoon. "While I’m still alive and kicking."

His little sister just turned ninety-eight. Her kitchen sideboard is filled with black-and-white pictures reminding him of all the things in her life that he missed, arranged in perfect little wooden frames.

"And why would I do that?" Bucky asks, scowling at his cards.

"Because you keep mentioning her," Rebecca says dryly and whisks the cards onto her pile with quick fingers.

"You gotta be kidding me," he groans, noting down her points. "And I don’t."

"Do, too. I don’t remember you being this terrible at this game."

"Because I haven’t caught you when you’re cheating."

"Exactly. It’s embarrassing." She wins the next trick, too. "How’s Tuesday?"

"Am I clairvoyant now?"

"I was thinking lunch."

"No." Finally, he gets a couple of points down. When he glances up at his sister again, she’s looking at him expectantly and he sighs. "What?"

"You can’t fault me for being curious," she says. She has just as many opinions as she did when she was sixteen. Her eyes are still the same, too, the same shade of blue as his and the same glimmer of archness as their mother.

"Don’t you think it’s weird?" Bucky says, finally giving in. "The whole … time thing?"

"I think it’s very weird, but so’s you returning from the dead and kvetching about it." Her eyes narrow when he starts to protest. His mouth closes again. "Besides," she continues, shuffling her hand around, "it doesn’t sound all that fun."

"To have the power to never make mistakes?"

"To have to live through every mistake twice without anyone knowing."

Something about her words strikes him like a match, and so he tilts his head and squints at her and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s got it wrong.

That you carry not only your past, but all the futures you’ve seen that never came to be; all the what ifs having turned into answers.

And he thinks, how nice. And then he thinks, how horrifying.

It’s a thought that follows him over the next couple of weeks, and it starts reframing your interactions for him, in a way.

"Will you stop staring at me," you say without looking up from your book.

Honestly, he can’t. He’s still trying to pick up on it, the split second between before and after, that little change of your posture, your hair, your face, that tells him more time has passed for you than it has for him.

It’s more of a feeling than anything else, something right at the back of his mind telling him that something is different if he concentrates on it enough, but he’s never sure what it is. And he doesn’t like that; not one bit.

So Bucky crosses his arms and leans back. "Why?"

A flash of irritation makes your nose twitch, even though you still refuse to meet his eye.

"It’s rude, for one."

"Noted." He waits for the two that never comes. "Anything else?"

And there it is. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of moment, like the air shifting around you ever so slightly, a certain knowing glint in your eyes when you roll them and get up.

"Annoying!"

He can’t help it. He wonders what your original answer was.

***

Bucky’s relationship with time changes slowly, the deepest cuts carefully mending themselves until looking back doesn’t feel like getting his bones ripped apart anymore, until he looks at you on a cold day in January and realizes he’s fucked.

At first, he hopes that it might be a fluke. A trick of the light, maybe, or seasonal allergies. That’s the reason why his eyes are drawn to your face as soon as he enters a room; the closest source of discomfort always the thing he seeks out first. That’s the reason why his chest constricts like that.

But the truth is, he knows this feeling has been building slowly; he’s just been unwilling to admit it.

Something soft and delicate has started to nestle in that gaping hole inside his chest, unbothered by the walls he’s so carefully built up.

He’d never planned on you.

Fuck, if he’d known in the beginning, he might’ve …

No, he thinks. He wouldn’t have changed anything.

Because you’re too good for him, anyway, and he knows it. Smart and strong and funny and gorgeous and capable of things he’s not sure he’ll ever fully comprehend; and it’s worse than that, because he knows you now.

You’re grouchy in the mornings and you make terrible jokes when you’re nervous and you have a strange feud with his cat and your smile makes him want to put his fist through the wall because what is he supposed to do with any of this?

He’s not made for this dance anymore. That part was taken from him so long ago, and he’s delusional to think that anything or anyone could return it to him after all the bridges he’d been made to cross and burn. Why would someone like him deserve to be given tenderness anymore in this life? Why would anyone want to try?

But that foolish thing blooming inside him feels a lot like hope, despite of what he keeps telling himself.

There’s just something about you that keeps pulling him in, and honestly, he’s tired of fighting it. Then again, the thought of you feeling the same is nothing short of ridiculous.

He’s not the same guy as he used to be. Hell, sometimes he’ll look at old photographs and barely recognize himself.

He remembers life before, and maybe that’s what makes this so hard. He remembers talking to pretty girls, their bright smiles, their soft skin underneath his hands. Good times were easy to come by, even though life was hard in a different way, then. But he was good at it; acting on his feelings alone used to be simple, fun, second-nature almost.

It’s different now.

It used to be different only once before, and look where that’s gotten him.

No, he can’t say anything. Not ever; or not yet, at any rate.

Sometimes, though, Bucky lies awake at night and listens to the rain knocking against his window, and he remembers how much easier falling asleep used to be when he had someone next to him and his mattress didn’t swallow him alive.

He’ll remember the dark circles under your eyes and wish it could be as easy as asking, too. He wonders if there’s a universe you remember where he tries, but he doubts it.

These days, he knows his mind again. And it’s not a burden he wants to share.

You have enough to carry on your own.

Maybe, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling at three in the morning, maybe there’s still a certain comfort in your powers, in knowing all the possibilities, but it also means constantly losing something that’s real; always mourning the life that isn’t.

He can relate to that.

And maybe that means you can relate to him, too, at least a little bit.

It’s odd, how comforting that last little thought is to him.

When he does eventually fall asleep, you make your way into his dreams, too, sometimes. Those times are the worst.

You’re you, and he’s him, and there’s a sort of "us" in the both of you that doesn’t exist in real life. So when you let him lace his fingers with yours and press your lips to his forehead and it feels easy, that’s usually the point when he wakes up, heart tumbling over itself, right hand tracing the ghost of your touch, always too much, never enough.

He knows it’s not real.

He knows it’s just an indulgence; selfish, really.

The problem is that whatever small hope has decided to settle in his very core is impossible to kill, no matter how much he pushes it down; and he’s not sure he wants to lose it again.

Secretly, silently, serendipitously, you make him have faith in the future again.

But it’s not time for it yet.

if you want to read more about these two (plus a lot of time related shenanigans), read the main series here. or check out the rest of my bucky fics, that's also an option 💚 i don't do tag lists but you can follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications

[disneydatass]

Was scrolling on insta and saw a post about the upcoming earth-bending avatar spin-off and all the comments were ofc men bashing the fact that it will be “another girl” and “this one will probably be woke and gay too”

And while this obviously doesn’t need to be explained or retorted it got me to once again think about the franchise as a whole and re-ignited my fire and unwavering stance that AANG WAS A SHIT AVATAR!

The very dude all these men “wish the show could go back to” was so weak it’s actually laughable. Aang, the avatar that ran away from his responsibilities time and time again! The monks disapproved of Aang as a whole bc he did not take his duty seriously. “But he’s just a kid” you say? Korra was fucking determined to be the very best out of the womb! If Aang did not get fucking bailed out by the lion turtle the world would have been destroyed by Ozai! Aang ran away from the air temple, he ran away from the gaang, hell he nearly gave up off the bat for his schoolboy crush in Katara. “But it was true love” you say? Kyoshi was in love and guess what? She and Rangi put their duty first. If Aang didn’t have Katara to reel him in from penguin sliding & constantly playing he would have never mastered the elements. He had the privilege of his past lives and refused to listen to them! “Aang was brought up to be a pacifist; he did not want to disrespect his culture” you say? Aang damn near went Anakin Skywalker on the sand ppl bc they took Appa to make some coin to feed themselves. Who bailed his ass out of that again? You guessed it Katara! He wouldn’t have even found the hidden library WITHOUT TOPH. He would not have escaped said library WITHOUT TOPH! Aang was written and shown over and over again that he was not about this life. Yet fast fwd to LOK he suddenly was all about being the avatar n put his duty over his own children! He even ran away from responsibilities of being a father! So much so that his son didn’t even think he loved him as much as his other siblings! It is canon that he is a walking contradiction and hypocrite; yet The amount of hate Korra got and still gets blows my mind. “Korra is a hot headed brat” “she’s so bitchy and annoying” “korra doesn’t come close to aang” KORRA GOT THE MF JOB DONE! Korra was mentally and physically tortured so much and did not have her past lives mind you! She did so much without support. (In the show and IRL) LoK was pulled from the network and had very little funding from the get-go. Bryke fought tooth and nail to give us the little that we got.

If this new show fails it will not be because the new avatar is a woman. It will be because once again the network has to spoon feed the little boy demographic because they can’t handle strong women, the very characters that ran this universe and made it watchable and allowed Aang to succeed in the first place!

[miseria-fortes-viros]

-> declan bringing ashley to monmouth. ashley, the raven boys, chapter 4. (we’re meant to look pretty for her.)

this is one of the first chapters where we really get to know a lot about our characters, and ashley being there—combined with adam suddenly being aware that they are observed when it’s clear he didn’t feel that way immediately preceding the start of the book—lead me to believe that the fourth wall is very thin here.

-> ashley, this is noah, can you see him?

ashley is one of the only characters outside of the gangsey themselves who is not only able to see noah but also to meet and interact with him.

-> (your hands are cold. (i’ve been dead for seven years.))

ashley is also the first person that noah says this to within the confines of the narrative himself. nobody is surprised when he says this, so clearly he does make these jokes a lot, but it’s significant that we, the reader, hear this for the first time when it’s directed at ashley—ashley who, like us, just got here and doesn’t (can’t) know the significance of this interaction until after everything is over.

-> adam. (don’t you feel observed? someone is looking in when they weren’t before.) the raven boys, chapter 4.

adam: wary, adam: watchful. adam feels the eyes of the reader when the others do not; adam becomes aware of us as soon as we become aware of him. no sooner is ashley named than adam is introduced; no sooner is ashley introduced than adam is wary of her.

ashley (f, gaelic: aislinn): dream, vision

-> (three ashleys) (three brothers) (three witches) (nine’s very three plus three plus three) (6:21) (3+3:+3)

-> declan started hating me first. it was all because declan loved ronan.

-> this is not the first time

declan lynch was 18 the first time matthew fell asleep (was ronan dead)

-> gansey. where’s ronan? i don’t know. something’s wrong. something’s happened to him. how do you know? i can’t explain. i don’t know. we fought. something’s wrong

he’s your dog, gansey (i can’t help him any more (i’m killing him and i don’t know how to stop))

-> he trusted gansey (he still worried about ronan (he never stopped worrying about ronan))

i want you to meet ashley. yes again it’s a different ashley (i need to check in with you) is ronan around? he shouldn’t be (we’ll fight if he’s there (i need to know how he’s doing (he’ll hate me more for hovering)))

-> ronan please just tell me it won’t happen again i’m doing everything i can to keep you both alive

the brothers lynch (a dreamer (a dream (declan)))

-> half none of declan’s surviving family was real. half a dreamer. half a dream. to lose one is to lose the other (part of ronan died when niall did (part of ronan died when his dreamer did))

ronan lynch was 18 when a demon nearly unmade him (the second time matthew fell asleep (the second time declan almost lost them both at once (was ronan dead)))

-> declan cannot let go (if he lets go who will hang on (who will live without him fighting tooth and nail to keep them))

matthew lynch was 18 when he punched his eldest brother in the face (matthew lynch was 18 the third time declan almost became the last living lynch)

-> was ronan dead

declan bringing ashley to monmouth. ashley, the raven boys, chapter 4. ashley (f, gaelic: aislinn): dream, vision. three ashleys. three brothers. three dreamers. three sleepers. three witches. three murders. nine’s very three plus three plus three

(i look just like my father (so do you (every time i see your blood on my knuckles i remember him dead in the driveway (every time i look at you i see the face of a dead man))))

-> was ronan dead

declan brings ashley to monmouth.

[auspicioustidings]

Ae Fond Kiss - Part 8 (Final)

A Red, Red Rose

Summary: A bombshell is dropped and you look to the future. Words: 2k TWs: mention of miscarriage

So I've lost interest in this fic hence why we have a rushed wrap up because I didn't just want to abandon it :') All parts - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

“We gonna do this forever then Johnny?”

It was a form of torture Simon was sure, them having lunch together once a week every week and making small talk. He missed his best friend. He missed being able to say something outrageous and knowing Johnny would call him a sick bastard and then immediately try to outdo him.

“Eat lunch?” Johnny replied a little miserably, shuffling pasta about his plate.

“Johnny…”

“What dae ye want me tae say LT?”

“Not your LT anymore, retired remember? And Price told me about your promotion.”

Captain John MacTavish did have a nice ring to it, and Soap had more than earned the stripes. In another world he’d have grinned at Ghost, smug as anything and making some comment about being able to order him around now. But instead he frowned and Simon hated it. 

“Talk to me for Christ sake!”

“I cannae! Ye want me tae tell ye how much I miss your wife? How it kills me that she’ll never forgive me and that she’s right about it?”

“Johnny…”

“Or were ye hoping tae hear that I dinnae even regret Las Almas? It’s ruined everything, but I’ve loved you since I broke my fingers on that stupid bloody mask and I didnae even realise until we nearly fucking died! Ignored it even when I did, had 9 years tae think about how either way I was breaking my own heart because it decided it loved two different people!”

Fuck. He was crying. Johnny was crying. And Simon was caught between wanting to kiss him or kill him. He had never expected to be loved back was the thing. He did something unbearably selfish on the understanding it was all one sided, that the fuck was just the adrenaline from thinking they were going to die and they’d forget it ever happened. And then everything had went to shit and he had fallen in love with Johnny’s widow. He’d already lost one person he loved because he was too scared to admit it, he just couldn’t do it again,  selfish asshole that he was. 

“You should regret it. You… we hurt her. Hurt her so bad that we might lose her.”

“Aye. I deserve tae lose her though, never deserved tae have her in the first place anyway. I just caught you in the crossfire of my sins.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Simon said with full derision.

This has gone on long enough. So what? Everyone was just supposed to be miserable forever? They were supposed to just lay down and take it? Johnny looked at him, hurt and confused. 

“I watched you fight every break up. You fought tooth and fucking nail to make it work. When you fucked up you made it up to her. When she fucked up you forgave her. And what? Now that Johnny is dead? Either you still love her and are willing to fight to get her back, or any part of the man I loved died in Russia.”

“You’ve lost yer fucking mind Si, she’s your wife!”

Simon stood, determined.

“And our wife needs to remember who she belongs to and who belongs to her.”

As he started marching off Johnny near choked and scrambled to follow.

“Ye cannae be serious! Leave her be Si! Ye cannae just barge in and-and-”

“And tell her she’ll try forgive us because we’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to her? That we can start right now by showing her how well you can follow orders and how well I can give them for her benefit? I bloody well can and I’m bloody well going to. Either you’re with me or you can stay and mope.”

“...aye sir.”

–

Once upon a time Joey being at a sleepover was exciting, it meant some much needed alone time with your husband. Now though? The house felt cold, empty. You considered asking Gaz and Price’s partner if they’d come round to hang out, but it felt so messy when they were just as much Simon’s friend as they were yours. It would somehow make you miss him more. 

Everytime he was at the house briefly and you made polite conversation you wanted to cry. You had a few times, only after he was gone of course. That big fucking lummox. You wanted to strangle him, but then again that wasn’t exactly new. And you wanted rhubarb and sugar. Oh you could murder some rhubarb dipped in sugar like your parents used to give you as a kid. 

The door went just as you finished pouring a large glass of wine. Simon stood looking like he sometimes did when you were about to get absolutely ruined in bed and you swore your heart nearly stopped. Johnny was by his side, pupils blown with a blush crawling up his neck as if he somehow knew exactly what images just popped into your mind. Oh. Oh you suddenly wanted them so badly it hurt. 

And damn them for knowing you so well, for being able to fucking tell. Simon’s lips were on yours as he walked into the house, you being led backwards. You were clawing at his shirt as he squeezed your ass until you bumped into the kitchen island and realised how insane this was, pulling away to try find Johnny. He had followed, was swallowing thickly as Simon started to kiss and nip a path down your neck. This was insane. This was certifiably mental. You could not… have a threesome? Have a threesome with your husband and your husband who had fucked each other ten years ago on a mission before one faked his damn death. 

“W-what are you doing? We can’t…” you mumbled, trying to get your head on straight since currently your brain seemed to reside between your legs.

“Tell me what you need princess. Want me on my knees begging against your pussy? Want Johnny to fly you to Hawaii and keep you in the lap of luxury for a month? Want us to be here every single day in the garden announcing to the neighbours that we deserve a fucking whipping for how badly we fucked everything up with the gorgeous mother of our child?”

Christ almighty. So much for Simon being the unemotional and ineloquent one. You couldn’t handle this. You couldn’t handle how much you wanted to just give in. He made it sound so easy, like you could have them both, like they would give you whatever you wanted just to stay by your side despite what they’d done. He was going to his knees in front of you.

“Rhubarb!”

The room froze for a moment as Simon hit the ground with his knees and just stared at you.

“...is that, uh, a safeword?” Johnny asked, seemingly surprised out of the slack jawed, dazed state he seemed to have been in. 

“No. I mean I… rhubarb. You asked what I needed. Rhubarb and sugar, but we have sugar in the cupboard so… just the rhubarb.”

“...ok, rhubarb. We can do rhubarb” Simon said after a moment, taking it in his stride as he snuck a peck to your stomach where his head currently was and then stood. 

If they just left and went to the shops maybe you could… you didn’t know. Maybe you could hurriedly touch yourself to get rid of the ache between your legs and then neck your wine to get rid of the one in your chest. Simon turned and nodded to Johnny and took a few steps, so you picked up the glass of wine to calm yourself down only for Johnny to pluck it out of your hands.

“Unless you’ve suddenly developed a taste for red wine I’d appreciate that back” you snapped at him.

“And since you’ve suddenly developed a taste for rhubarb I’m naw giving it tae ye.”

“MacTavish” Simon scolded, sure Johnny was about to ruin what he was hoping was some reconciliation here.

“That’s not…” you started before you went pale. 

“How ye been feeling recently hen?”

Oh no. Not now. You just assumed you felt sick because of the stress. But then the take away food had seemed so off despite you usually loving it. You kept having to throw up. You were lethargic. And now you needed rhubarb and sugar, something you had only craved twice in your adult life, the most recent being over a decade ago. The last time you were pregnant. 

“What’s going on?” Simon asked, not liking at all how your face just fell as he strode back to you. “What did you do Johnny? It’s ok sweetheart, I’m sorry we just showed up, seemed like a good idea at the time. Just missed you so much.”

The universe had a sick sense of humour. Over a year of trying for a baby with this man. 18 fucking months. And you get pregnant right before your other husband comes back from the dead, the one it turns out your current husband has slept with behind your back? This could not be happening, but all the signs were there. When had you last had a period? You hadn’t even noticed that you were late with everything going on. 

You tried to do the maths in your head. It had been a few months since Johnny had come back, so you were at the very least that far along. 8 weeks. You had miscarried at 10. Maybe you were further along, maybe you were past the worst of the danger. God you prayed you were past the worst of the danger. 

“Si, gie her some room would ye? We’re right here, if ye want us tae be. It’s up to you, you dinnae have tae…” Johnny said, struggling to get out the words.

There was no thought in your mind that you would get rid of this baby, but the fact that he was putting that option out there when he himself had always been so desperate for a big family was something you appreciated more than you could say. Goddamnit, he still loved you. 9 years away and he still bloody loved you. Would still do whatever it took for you to be happy. Even if in that case this meant not having another baby.

How strange that you thought of this baby as his. How strange that you just as strongly thought of it as Simon’s. If the past few months had shown you anything it was that you could look after a child between the three of you, so it wasn’t like they had to be with you to do it. Even if you’d like them to be. Despite it all, you’d really fucking like them to be.

“Princess?”

You took a deep breath and smiled softly at Simon who was looking increasingly alarmed. You caressed his face and it felt like relief to touch him. 

“Maybe we can go a trip to the doctor on the way for the rhubarb Casper. Think we might be pregnant.”

–

A very healthy baby girl with an incredibly healthy set of lungs. You sang to her, love like A Red, Red Rose for your little Rose. You bawled your eyes out when Joey refused to turn down his hearing aids even when she was screaming at the top of her lungs because that was his baby sister and he would never not want to hear her. It was a good thing you could all sign with the way she drowned you all out, even Johnny as clumsy as his hands were with it had dedicated himself to learning since he had got home. 

You were fairly certain your little Rose was making Price broody with Gaz and their partner finding their grumpy old man losing his mind over a chubby baby adorable. Although there was a good chance Price wasn’t making any babies with how you had planted your foot in his groin when he finally came out of hiding. 

You were still figuring things out, but right now? Right now you were happy. You had two perfect children by two imperfect husbands. It was up in the air what your family was going to look like in the future. Did you want to forgive them? Even if you did, would you be friends and co-parents or something more?

That you hadn’t quite decided yet. But you were determined that whatever the future held for you, it was going to be a future full of love and laughter.

[pochipop]

＃FNAF MOVIE !! ♡ — IT'LL BE ALRIGHT (MIKE SCHMIDT X READER).

#. synopsis! — mike is used to walking on eggshells, just waiting for another tragedy, and you really don’t want to be just another person who's let him down.

#. characters! — mike schmidt .

#. warnings! — vague references to past traumatic events (canon compliant) , references to a verbal argument .

#. word count! — 1.8k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

Mike is used to people leaving. They come and they go like stray cats who've found someone better to nab food off of, —leaving him with more ghosts in his life than he'd care to admit. At least these ones are metaphorical and melodramatic, though. His saving grace has been the fact that he chooses wisely who to introduce Abby to, just in case. She's been through enough, and she's so young that the absence of anyone would be duly noted. Not that it isn't when it comes to himself, it's just. . . He's learned how to live with loss. Maybe not effectively, but he does it, and for right now, that's probably as good as it's getting.

He's got more pressing matters to attend to. He always does. That's what he argued about with you, —what he fought tooth and nail to defend, even when you backed off. At the end of it, he knew he'd gone too far for no real reason. He wasn't arguing with you at that point, he was arguing with all the people that have left him starved for their affections and their care. The words he said to you were so far beyond your scope that it was almost pathetic to think about all the bullshit he unloaded on you like it was somehow your job to fix it, even when he knew it wasn't. So really, it's no wonder he's adding you to that list of people who've walked away.

For once, he truly deserved it. 

And now he's got to explain this to Abby. Because she likes you almost as much as he does, —almost being the operative word there. Mike sucks at a lot of things, and showing you he cares tends to be one of them, but he loves in his own ways. . . And now, he fears he'll have to do it from afar.

He sort of wishes Abby was the kind of kid he could bribe with ice cream for breakfast to break bad news to. It'd be easier to scoop her some off-brand Neopolitan and tell her she'd never see you again if that would help soften the blow. But it won't, and he knows that. He knows her too well to even try.

Still, he finds himself putting chocolate chips in her pancakes that morning in spite of himself.

When he places the plate in front of her, she narrows her eyes, as if to ask him what he's done so wrong. . . Asking what he's offering silent apologies for in the form of sweet pockets stolen away inside her favorite breakfast food. He opens the fridge in search of orange juice just to avoid her gaze.

Before she can even take a bite, he opens his mouth.

"Listen, Abby—"

She looks up at him with those big, doe eyes, and he probably would have cut himself off anyway if not for the knock on the front door. Mike mumbles for her to hold that thought, then goes to check who's outside.

And there you stand a little awkwardly on his doorstep, a brand new bottle of orange juice in your hand. Once again, it's like you've read his mind, and he's as sick of it as he is thankful for it, especially right now. Still, he can't turn you away.

"Morning," you say, almost hesitantly. "I brought juice. . ."

He tries to think of something to say, but hears the quick pitter-patter of Abby's feet fastly approaching. She calls your name so happily, and you smile at her.

"Good morning to you too," you laugh, returning the hug she gives you with no hesitation.

Mike just stares, as if he can't believe you're even here right now. If you're just here to grab the items of yours strewn about his house, he feels like the least you could have done was wait until Abby was asleep or something.

"Can I have some?" Abby asks, pointing to the orange juice in your hand.

"Yeah, that's what it's for," you smile, handing the bottle to her.

She scurries off to the kitchen to pour herself a glass.

"Mike," you say softly now that she's out of earshot, "can we—"

"I'll get your stuff together," he cuts you off.

Your jaw slacks.

"What?" Is the only thing you can manage to muster up in response.

"You could've done this at a different time," he snaps, trying to keep quiet so Abby doesn't hear. "It's gonna be ten times harder on her now for me to explain why you're not coming back."

You stare at him, trying not to cry. Out of all the things you expected to happen this morning, such a drastic change of heart on his part wasn't one of them.

"You. . . You're breaking up with me?" You question.

He pauses, a lot of the frustration dissipating from his features, replaced by genuine confusion.

"Didn't you already break up with me?" He asks.

Your brows knit together quizzically. 

"No? What are you even talking about, I never said I wanted to break up with you," you point out.

Sure, you didn’t say it. But most of the others had never said it either. It was like flipping a lightswitch. One minute they were there, and the next they weren’t. That's why he'd gotten so good at keeping his relationships at a distance, and he'd taken the biggest leap of faith in introducing you to his sister.

"Yesterday evening?" He says, but it sounds more like a question.

"We had an argument," you acknowledge. "It was stupid, and you hurt my feelings. I'm sure I hurt yours too. That doesn't mean I want us to be over."

Mike stares at you like he's not sure what to say, because he isn't. He's not used to someone caring enough to fight for him, and for what festers between himself and someone else. He's learned to let go before the thread pulls too tight, —before it wraps around his throat and slices through every defense he's built up for the sake of protecting himself, his heart, and the little girl that depends on him.

"Mike," you say softly, almost cautiously. "I care about you. One bad night doesn't change that. . . Not for me."

God, it was stupid. It was so stupid. You weren't even mad at him specifically, and you're fairly certain he wasn't really angry with you in particular either. Long days on both your parts collided like a warm front to a cold one, and the things both of you said in the wake of it were uttered through venom and gritted teeth. Sweeping generalizations, a lot of rolling eyes, some tears that were more about frustration than they were anything else. . . But you still loved him at the end of it, even as you found yourself walking home alone.

In fact, that walk was particularly sobering. The crisp chill of the autumn evening was enough to convince you that you'd rather be back at his place where he keeps an extra toothbrush for you in the bathroom and emptied out a drawer just so you could have a place to store some clothes. The sleep you got in the night that followed was shallow at best, restless enough to leave faint bags beneath your eyes by morning, and you were determined to make up any excuse in the book just to swing by.

So you went out and got some orange juice, knowing there wasn't any left in the fridge, and you stood outside his door for a while, working yourself up just to knock. You thought about all the things you'd need to apologize for, and you were ready to push aside your ego if it meant Mike could understand just how much you care, even when you're upset.

He swallows, just to give himself something to do while he prolongs his own response, because he's just not sure what to say. Somehow, a part of him is whispering that this would be easier if you just didn't give a fuck. . . If last evening was the end, and he could go back to finding comfort in silence again.

That's how it's always been. Someone leaves, and he copes, and then he files them away with the rest. But here you are, and Mike knows he can't bring himself to put you in with the others.

"Mike, I'm—"

"No, I am," he breathes, reaching forward to pull you into his arms. "I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry that I suck at being a boyfriend, but I don't know what I'm doing and all I can tell you is that I'm trying."

He feels the tension meld away from you, and it's then, before you even open your mouth to reply, that he starts to think everything is how it should be.

"You don't suck at it," you answer lightly. "I know you're trying, and that's genuinely all I could ask for, and I'm sorry about yesterday evening. I was in a bad mood, and I took it out on you, and that wasn't right."

"We both took shit out on each other," he corrects, ready and willing to share the blame.

"True enough," you acknowledge with a weary smile, finally pulling away from his embrace.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "When things go wrong, I. . . I've just learned how to slam on the breaks. If I stop things before they feel like they'll suffocate me, I can avoid them. But I love you, and I know I don't want to avoid that."

"This isn't a one way street," you remind him. "Relationships are hard, and sometimes things happen in a way that they shouldn't, but I'm here for you, and I want to be here for you. . . It's not contractual. One bad night doesn't take away all the times you've made me feel like the happiest person on the face of the planet, Mike."

He sniffles a little, then lets out a relieved sigh.

"Are you hungry?" He asks. "I can make you some pancakes. Chocolate chip."

You raise an eyebrow.

"Chocolate chip? Are you apologizing to Abby for something?"

God, a part of him hates that he's so obvious, but another part loves that you know him so well. It makes him feel even stupider for just assuming that you'd be willing to throw in the towel after one rough night.

"No, not really," he shakes his head. (Not anymore, at least.)

Mike glances toward the kitchen, just to make sure Abby's still preoccupied with her breakfast, then steals a quick kiss from your lips.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

You smile.

"Me too."

"And I love you," he adds.

Your smile widens.

"I love you too. Promise."

With that, he pulls you to the kitchen, and you sit down beside Abby at the table. She tells you that when breakfast is done with, she'd like to show you some new drawings she's done, and you nod, telling her you're excited to see them. And you are.

Mike stands at the stovetop, his back to the both of you, not bothering to bite back his grin. 

He feels his foot ease off the break.

[bitter-me]

Mortals and Fools

Lyney | M. Reader

----------

"Love makes you break all the rules.."

----------

For centuries he live, never had he come across such a bright and joyful human.

He always smiles... as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

The Fae was intrigued by this, how come this human be so lively with all the things going around him? He had lived long enough to knew just how cruel the world truly is.

The world is cruel.

He had fought tooth and nail for his country, with a sword and blood on his hands. He brought his country to victory and glory. Even if it was centuries ago... the memory is still fresh in his mind, like it was just yesterday.

Filled with curiosity and interest...

He stayed.

He stayed and watch as this intriguing human does his shows. Bringing "magic" to life through his tricks and illusions.

.

.

Magic is merely a trick. An illusion. And yet some like to believe it. They see it as an escape, an escape from reality. The moment you stepped into the Opera Epiclese you entered a wonderland where magic truly exist. Where the impossible seems possible.

That is the essence of magic and entertainment.

A simple trick, a blink and you'll miss it, a flick of a wrist

It's so simple yet it's enough to catch everyone's attention and bring wonder and joy to their eyes. The way their eyes shine every time a trick is done. Quite the mesmerizing sight. It's always a joy to be able to see them.

It's the same thing with love.

"Is that what you truly believe?"

"Huh?"

"That love is just as mesmerizing and wonderful as magic?"

Lyney turned his head to the voice and saw none other than the Fae himself, [Name] [L. Name]. Living for hundreds of years, he knew for a fact that love isn't as wonderful as Lyney says it to be.

Love is cruel.

So cruel... it hurts you to your core and there's no cure for it. Therefore.. you'll continue to live with an aching heart. Forever hurting. And nothing can change that. Nothing can cure it.

"I do, yes." Lyney smiles softly as he looks at the Heliotrope on his hand, twirling it between his fingers. "It's a wonderful thing, isn't it?"

"To me it's not. You believe in the spell of this thing that you call "love." It's revolting." The Fae huffed as he crossed his arms, he sat there at the window sill as he watches the human he had learned to call friend tend to the flowers he's going to use for his show.

That's another thing he can't wrap his head around. Why the flowers? And why Heliotrope? Of all flowers? Shouldn't he be using roses?

Either way, he barely cares enough to ask.

"Revolting? Why is that?" Lyney asked, looking up from the Heliotrope to meet [Name]'s gaze. Curious as to why the Fae have such a horrible view of love. He knew that [Name] is immortal and had lived for hundreds of years, so what had he gone through to have such a point of view?

"Try as I will, I just don't understand it. Love is for mortals and fools. It never turns out quite the way that you planned it. So why do you break all the rules just for love?"

.

.

At first, he doesn't get it. Why Heliotrope? He doesn't understand the appeal, especially because Lyney's a magician. Why not roses?

It was later when he learned the meaning of the flower... it was later when the other gave him a bouquet of them... it was later when he gave it.. smiling from ear to ear... saying those sweet words to him as if he truly meant it from the bottom of his heart...

Those oh so sweet words...

Never would he thought he'll have the luxury of ever hearing him say those words and to him, no less.

At that very moment... [Name] finally knew why the magician prefers Heliotrope than roses....

Because they symbolizes devotion and eternal love.

Oh..... OH....

"'Love is for mortals and fools.'" That's what he said and he meant it with every word.

For his heart ach every time he set eyes on him. Love is cruel as it only brought pain and suffering for him. He knew that this wouldn't last and yet....

Why..?

Why must his heart beats for this mere mortal? This mere magician?

Was it the way he smiled at him? The way his eyes seems to glow brightly every time the magician saw a glimpse of him? How he laughed? How he acted? This is all so confusing to him...

"'Try as I will, I just don't understand it.'" Oh how true those words were...

He can't understand it... Love... Loving someone.. is such a foreign thing to him and what he knew... it brings nothing but pain and despair...

This won't last... none of this would last... how could it not?

Loving a mortal has always been a curse to immortals.

He'll die.

One day he'll day and [Name] could no longer see that smile of his, a smile that could brighten a whole room. Such a lovely mortal... such a lovely human... such a lovely magician... such a lovely person... such a lovely...

Lyney.

For the first few years, [Name] would always refuse to call him that... always calling him, "Human" every time. But over the years... as time passes... [Name] had grew fond of that name and therefore, start addressing him as such.

"Lyney.... My dear Lyney.."

"If love is for mortals and fools..."

"Then you can call me a fool."

"I Love You Too, My Dear Lyney."

.

.

.

.

.

"I'm sorry it took me this long to say it to you...."

"Your skin may not be as smooth as before... your hearing may not be as good as before... your memory... may not be as good as before.."

"....Unlike me who remain the same.."

"But similar to my never changing appearance... similar to my eternal youth..."

"My love will still remain the same... My Dear Lyney..."

[mins-fins]

PAREIDOLIA (D.SC)

SUMMARY . . . history just simply always manages to repeat itself, the artist and their tired university student roommate who just can't help but admire them in ways friends don't look at each other..

PAIRING . . . dong sicheng x male!reader

GENRE . . . insanely fluffy

WARNINGS . . . none!

WORD COUNT . . . 1.8k

NOTES . . . why is winwin so majestic tf 🙁 my wayv bias is yangyang i have NO IDEA what you're talking about, im so mortifyingly in love with winwin but not in a "i want to kiss him" way in a "i wanna bake him cookies and run my fingers through his hair" way and that's basically the same thing

sicheng has become long used to coming home and seeing y/n in the middle of another artistic project. it's usually a painting, because that's the easiest thing to do in their small apartment, one the two of them fought tooth and nail to be able to afford. on some days he'll be creating costumes out of construction paper, or he'll be sewing, or he'll just be sketching on the couch. 

it's become somewhat of a staple of comfort to him, maybe it's because of how recognizable it is to come home and see y/n, eyebrows furrowed, head tilted, the slightest smudge of paint on his face as his eyes are completely focused on the canvas before him. there's always a small smile that comes to his face whenever he hears the door open, sicheng only catches it on the most certain of days, though.

and maybe it's weird that sicheng remembers every single detail of what happens after he comes home from exhausting classes where all his professor does is talk about is nonsense, this is kind of like the only silver lining to his day after hours of just nothing but life draining lectures.

and no it's definitely not because y/n is just the best serotonin every single feeling sicheng has for him is completely platonic and platonic only!

it's as he's untying his shoes, that he realizes today something is different. y/n is humming, to a song the two of them hear their neighbors blast through the walls every now and then, he assumes the tune got stuck in his head, and he just can't help but now him it to himself.

sicheng puts his shoes away, he glances up for a moment, and pauses, waiting. he then smiles to himself as he watches y/n smile himself, finally acknowledging his presence. "i didn't even hear you, the door closed so quietly".

y/n's comment makes him snicker, but his eyes still don't leave the canvas, so focused on what he's painting in fact that he doesn't register the paint on his cheek. sicheng, like he does on most days, walks up towards y/n and quickly wipes off the paint with his thumb.

y/n makes a small noise, but he ultimately doesn't shy away from sicheng's hand, almost leaning into the touch if sicheng thinks about it. "how do you never notice when you have paint on your face?" sicheng asks, going over to the sink to wash the paint off his thumb.

"an artist never strays away from their artistic craft" y/n comments mindlessly, and sicheng's eyebrows furrow just for a mere moment before he looks back to his roommate, still focused on the random color he's spreading across the canvas.

"did you just make that up, or..?" at the question, y/n finally turns around after what seemed like hours of standing in the same spot, and he snickers at the way sicheng asks it.

"yep, made it up just now".

the response makes sicheng snort, because he knows that's absolutely true considering the kind of person y/n is. "you.. your something alright" sicheng doesn't know why those words are the ones that come out of his mouth, but they make y/n laugh.

"ah thanks, you make me feel so smart, chengie" y/n looks back to the painting, stepping back just a little bit to admire it. he removes his gloves and tosses them away, yawning lightly. "does it look nice?"

sicheng blinks, glancing over at y/n, who is patiently waiting for his answer. he mindlessly stares at the painting of a snowy mountaintop as he tries to think of a compliment he hasn't said thousands of times already. "it's marvelous" y/n gives him a look of confusion, and sicheng just snickers as he does those jazz hands.

"you couldn't at least be a little bit more creative with your compliment?" y/n's face scrunches a little bet, and sicheng just shrugs, rubbing his eyes.

"i'm tired i don't have time for creativity" sicheng yawns, and y/n gives him another judgmental look. "ask me when i'm more awake" he shouts as he walks towards his room, leaving y/n to admire his painting all alone.

y/n snickers, shaking his head.

what a character you are, dong sicheng..

"do you assume van gogh was a weird guy?"

sicheng barely registers the question, because the only sound he's heard for the past twenty minutes is the horribly loud clicking of y/n's pen as he brainstorms ideas for upcoming projects, assignments, and all that other stuff. he narrows his eyes at his laptop screen before looking up at y/n, who was finally done clicking his pen and began sketching.

"what?" is his immediate response, probably because he didn't have enough time to properly assess or process that question. the other thing that being y/n's roommate comes with is having to hear the most random and weird questions. "i'm sorry?"

"van gogh" y/n says again, smiling innocently. "you know, the painter gu—"

"i know who van gogh is y/n" sicheng clarifies, sighing. "i just— what do you think i know about the personality of a famous artist who died over a hundred years ago?" he raises an eyebrow, momentarily glancing back down at his computer screen as he hears y/n's loud sigh.

"i'm researching about him for this project i'm doing".

"you did a project about van gogh already.." sicheng mutters in confusion, and he hears y/n's pen click once again, then the slam of his sketchbook. "didn't you?"

"oh this isn't for school!" y/n exclaims. "i'm just doing it for fun!"

"what kind of psycho does a project for fun?" at the words, y/n snorts, and sicheng can't help but gaze at him. yeah, it's stupid, but he's just so cute, and sicheng has no idea why he's staring this long at him.

fuck, i probably look crazy. i'm literally zoning out on his face, what kind of moron does that?

at least he's self aware.

"nothing?"

"what?"

"on van gogh?" y/n clarifies, and sicheng blinks like an idiot, because what else would y/n be talking about? he shakes his head, and y/n pouts in an unserious manner.

"at least your here to humor me" y/n says, picking his sketchbook back up as he begins flipping through it, he pauses at a certain page and smiles brightly at what's sketched on it.

sicheng doesn't really know what y/n draws in his sketchbook. y/n is pretty big on privacy, so sicheng never made it his thing to figure out what's in y/n's sketchbook because he doesn't want him to.

though, the way y/n's smiling at his sketchbook gets him curious.

"are the sketches causing you that much joy?"

y/n snaps up, his face going embarrassingly red as he closes his sketchbook once again. he smiles, then awkwardly laughs as he looks away, lightly scratching his arm. "yeah, um.. i just really like the sketches i made".

sicheng laughs, glancing back at his computer screen. it's so hard not to constantly stare at you when your.. well— you.

but they're just friends, nothing more.

"when i was younger i always wanted a garden of strawberries" y/n states as he paints said garden of strawberries on the canvas in front of him.

y/n is always the most busy on weekends with his artistic projects. he'll legitimately spend half of his day painting, another half making a halloween costume even though halloween won't come for the next seven months, and the other half sewing a sweater he's going to wear once every few months. sicheng has seen it all, and he's gotten used to the normalization of y/n just doing another artistic craft everyday, still being able to rest a whole eight hours.

he admires his way of just being such.. what is the phrase, a hard worker, he could say. y/n was just always up, doing something, he was never bored or not doing something, he was very much just an always working person.

"strawberries? out of everything?" sicheng asks, stirring the spoon in his cup of coffee mindlessly, he's too busy staring at y/n to pay attention to his now cooling cup of coffee. y/n gives him one of the most judgmental looks ever.

"what do you mean? out of everything? strawberries are amazing!" y/n counters, and sicheng laughs at his tone of voice. "they're one of the best things mankind has ever actually made".

"okay but why a garden of them?"

"so i can make strawberry flavored things everyday, duh" y/n dismisses the amount of red coloring on his apron, and his gloves, too busy trying to figure out how to finish his painting of his dream garden of strawberries.

y/n narrows his eyes at the painting, studying it for a moment, like he was trying to figure out if the painting was talking to him or not. "is this ugly?"

"what?"

"the painting? is it ugly?"

sicheng furrows his eyebrows, staring at y/n like he just asked the stupidest question in the world. y/n usually doesn't care about his opinion when it comes to paintings, because sicheng isn't an artist like he is, so sicheng has no idea why he would suddenly ask him about what he thought about his painting so suddenly.

"no? your paintings are never ugly.. why would you ask that?"

sicheng's question-answer makes y/n narrow his eyes at him. sicheng assumes he wasn't expecting that answer that then turned into a question, with the way he goes silent, and with the way his face flushes so much more obviously than it usually does.

sicheng doesn't get why he notices that the most, y/n is pretty unpredictable, he gets flustered at some of the most random times, and it's only at certain moments that sicheng notices how red his face is.

it's hot in the room, that's it, that's why, there is absolutely no other reason his face is so red right now.

he's just thinking of excuses.

"thank you" he whispers, turning back to his painting as he removes his paint splattered gloves. "it's a new day, i just wanted your opinion".

"that's strange".

"well if i'm not strange then i'm not interesting" y/n hums as he puts the finishing touches on his painting, and with his back turned, sicheng can admire him fully, without worrying about him getting caught and then having to explain why he was staring for so long.

sicheng is so busy admiring him, he doesn't even notice that he hasn't taken a sip of his coffee yet.

[koishua]

not—𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐔𝐕 [ 𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐘𝐏𝐄𝐍 ]

what they would never, ever tell you!!

fluff. gn!reader. no warnings. like, reblog, feedback!

✧ heeseung has never told you this, but he'd actually tried sixteen times to muster up the courage to ask for your number and a date. it had taken him an entire year, sixteen tries, and five meltdowns to finally approach you and not instantly turn back around in a moment of weakness. he would never tell you that, however, because he thinks that you believe him to be a suave man. what you don't have the heart to tell heeseung is that jay had snitched on him and his various failures. you think it's adorable, so when you first teased him with this information, he'd gone pink as the cotton candies in your hands.

✧ jay will take this secret to his grave and not for reasons you may think. it had been two years into your relationship with him preparing sweet little lunch boxes for you to enjoy during your days of working and it had just occurred to you that he must have payed an honestly concerning amount of money on your groceries. when you had asked him about it, he'd laughed, shaken his head and brushed it off. this was the one thing in life he would want to do without a single payment back. he simply loves you to the moon and back, unconditionally. let him keep at least this to himself.

✧ jake was the person who'd bring stacks of well-taken and organized copies of his notes and put it under your desk back when you were at school. the mysterious, generous note giver had never revealed themselves to you for years. the writings on the papers were the biggest reason why you were so successful those years and it had crushed you not being able to thank the person properly other than stick-it notes you'd past under your desk for them to see whenever they came by. four years later when you'd reunited with jake and started a relationship with him, you realize how awfully familiar the handwriting looks.

✧ sunghoon would rather dive off a cliff than to explain what the clanging sounds in the kitchen for the past two weeks has been all about. you weren't allowed to enter it to help him with whatever he was doing, too. it would be your birthday soon and he'd fought tooth and nail to get every ingredient he'd ever need in order to make you the world's best birthday cake yet. the issue was the fact that he didn't know how to bake— not a single clue under the roof. so, he's taken it upon himself to practice making cakes every day until he could get it right. so far, every attempt has been a total failure. he still has a few days, so until then, he swears you off the kitchen.

✧ sunoo had written a few lengthy love letters to you as a child, not that he would ever tell you. he was eight years old and a hopeless romantic. he would spend hours coming up with rhymes for his poems about you and include them in the letters confessing his love for you. he was utterly smitten and charmed by your cute littles smiles (still is now). he'd never sent them to you, though, in fear of rejection, so he'd hid the notes in a box under his bedroom. ten years later, you were hanging out in the very same childhood bedroom and your feet hit a plastic box in the corner of his room. once sunoo sees the box and remembers about the contents in it, he feels absolutely mortified.

✧ jungwon was popular all throughout his childhood and teen years with many admirers, boys and girls alike. he was, however, thought to be uninterested in any romance, because he would instantly reject anyone that approached him. the small detail that no one knows about is how he'd walk the same route home a few times a day in hopes of one day catching your eyes from behind window as he'd pass by. no matter which clothes he wore or how he'd styled his hair, his subtle attempts would never work. months of hard work and the only thing that had worked was just going up to the counter with a box of juice and a small paper with a series of digits written on it.

✧ riki is a prideful boy and it would destroy his fragile ego if you knew how he'd stayed up a few nights and searched for tips on how to make someone like you on google's incognito mode. he was clueless and desperate to get you to like him as much as he liked you, so he'd scrolled through many wiki hows and blog articles. he even took a compatibility test to see how you matched and he prayed that you wouldn't ask why he was asking for your time of birth and star sign. you didn't ask, thankfully, and you did end up reciprocating his feelings in the end, but only because he'd charmed his way to your heart on his own— not because of wikihow's tips.

[agendabymooner]

mamma mia (again) ! daniel r. x ofc (måneskin member! ofc)

“they ask me why i’m so hot, ‘cause i’m italiano.”

summary: a series of video clips, but it’s only just danny ric being in love with a certain lester alessandro.

content warning: hint or two of suggestive comments (nothing detailed or graphic), use of explicit language, filler blurb or something, danny being a simp for few videos straight (“have my kids” type beat), lester being an etsy and pinterest enthusiast, literally posted this blurb from my phone so they’re crazy about their image limits 😩

note: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE 105 FOLLOWERS?! UHM? seriously, i’ve never been so happy. i honestly only started posting these because i have them ingrained in my brain and won’t let go until i write or make something. just indulging my imagination you know? enjoy xx

masterlist

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐁𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐏

【VIDEO ONE — daniel ricciardo is a gatekeeper】

[1st image: yeah, i dunno. everyone just found out that i made it official with my girlfriend and i’m pretty sure i just saw lando weeping in his room. max was the second to react to it and i’m so sure he recoiled. he did say that he didn't want to know what happened in imola few months ago.]

[2nd: interviewer: what happened in imola few months ago? daniel: *chuckles* wouldn’t you like to know - nah, i’m messing about. nothing happened in imola besides from me retiring to my bed early. i think we were both drunk when i posted that photo and i know it looks lewd but there's no way we could've done anything questionable.]

[3rd: d: but yeah. we didn't really want to catch that much attention until maybe i don't know... when we're married or something *chuckles* i: keep it a secret until the wedding? d: yeah. but charles, the absolute fool, posted videos during the concert with me in the background. It would've been real nice if no one caught onto it until we had a mini ric running and racing, you know? just to wreak havoc.]

【VIDEO TWO — daniel ricciardo talks about lester’s love language in his gq video】

[1st: i got this journal from lori. it has my initials "DR" on it for daniel ricciardo*laughs* it's one of those many first gifts that i’ve gotten from her throughout our first few months of dating. her love language isn't just shitting on my life -she has every single aspect of love language within her and this is one of them.]

[2nd: when she gave this to me, all she said was "you can write out your thoughts if you can't let them out through your mouth. *giggles* "she clearly had her thoughts sorted out that time especially when she showed me a page with an embossed phrase or nickname, "tasso di miele" - it means honey badger. she apparently bought the custom embosser from etsy and almost fought tooth and nail just to get it in time. *laughs even more* i love her so much, i honestly wanted to cry that day.]

[3rd: lori actually has a laptop with *laughs* itunes on it and she still got some playlists from 2010-2014? yeah. she’s put a lot of old taylor swift songs in my ipod during the christmas break. my favourite album right now is speak now. she loves red.]

【VIDEO THREE — lester hates ashy hands confirmed】

[1st: daniel: i think i should just cover my hands with gloves all the time. lando: that literally has nothing to do with anything that we're about to do. d: lori tells me that my hands are rough whenever she holds them.]

[2nd: l: or you know... you can just use a hand lotion all the time because your hands dry up real fast? d: ah that's true. i wonder if that's why lori just casually put a bottle of hand cream on my travel bag. the thing smells nice though. it’s chamomile.]

【VIDEO FOUR — it’s okay to spoil your partner; even if it’s an accent chair from her pinterest board】

[1st: d: lori just sent me a picture of an armchair from ikea. l: why was she randomly in ikea, by the way? I saw the text. d: window shopping. but anyway, she saw this armchair that she had on her pinterest board. she asked "pretty or no?" with the green velvet chair. l: what did you tell her?]

[2nd: word to word? I texted her "LOL you should see the accent chair I've gotten you for our flat in monaco." l: are you serious? *laughs* d: she wouldn't tell me what she wanted for her birthday. I only got a brief idea when she left her phone in my pocket once and gave me a free access to her pinterest boards.]